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SIR  WALTER  SCOTT 


5:r>§€: 


|§|^THE  POETICAL 
WORKS  OF  SIR 
WALTER  SCOTT  .  . 


NEW  YORK  AND  BOSTON 
THOMAS  Y.  CROWELL  AND  l^^fi^ 
COMPANY  jt  jt  jt  j»  jt  jt  l**^'*''^ 


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KaISs 


THE 

COMPLETE  POETICAL  WORKS 

OF 

SIR    WALTER    SCOTT 
.  5^^  it  f>i 


WITH  AN  INTRODUCTION 


■OS" 

CHARLES  ELIOT  NORTON     /'>^H 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH 


NATHAN    HASKELL    DOLE 


NEW  YORK:   46  East  14TH  Strhbt 

THOMAS    Y.    CROWELL   &    CO. 

BOSTON:    100  Purchase  Street 


Copyright  bv 

Thomas  Y.  Crowkll  &  Co. 

1894- 


TVPOGRAPHY    BV   C.   J.    PETERS  &  SON. 


PRESS   WORK    BY    JOHN   WILSON   &  SON. 


INTRODUCTION. 


In  looking  back  over  this  century,  which  is  now  so  near  its  close,  there 
is  none  among  its  conspicuous  figures  of  pleasanter  aspect  than  that  of 
Scott;  and  of  all  the  men  who  have  lived  during  its  course  there  is  not  one 
who  has  contributed  more  largely  to  the  pleasure  of  its  successive  gene- 
rations. This  is  a  high  eulogy;  no  man  could  desire  a  better.  To  amuse 
men  rationally,  to  give  them  wholesome  entertainment,  is  to  do  them  a 
great  service ;  and  to  do  this  through  a  lifetime  more  successfully  than  any 
one  else,  is  to  be  worthy  of  lasting  gratitude.  This  is  what  Scott  did  for 
our  fathers,  and  has  done  for  many  of  us,  and  will  continue  to  do  for  many 
of  our  children.  At  this  moment,  more  than  sixty  years  after  the  last  of 
his  novels  was  written,  two  popular  editions  of  them  are  in  course  of  publi- 
cation ;  while  his  poems,  ninety  years  after  the  "  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel  " 
was  first  published,  are  still  the  delight  of  youthful  readers,  and  still  charm 
readers  of  all  ages  by  the  interest  of  their  animated  narrative,  the  ease  of 
their  versification,  and  the  manliness  of  iheir  spirit. 

"Scott,"  said  Mr.  Emerson,  "is  the  most  lovable  of  men,  and  entitled 
to  the  world's  gratitude  for  the  entertainment  he  has  given  to  solitude,  the 
relief  to  headache  and  heartache.  But,"  he  adds,  "  he  is  not  sufficiently 
alive  to  ideas  to  be  a  great  man." 

"  Into  the  question  whether  Scott  was  a  great  man  or  not,  we  do  not 
propose,"  says  Carlyle,  "to  enter  deeply.  It  is,  as  too  usual,  a  question 
about  words.  There  can  be  no  doubt  that  many  men  have  been  named 
and  printed  great  who  were  vastly  smaller  than  he ;  as  little  doubt,  more- 
over, that  of  the  specially  good,  a  very  large  portion,  according  to  any  genu- 
ine standard  of  man's  worth,  were  worthless  in  comparison  with  him.  .  .  . 
The  truth  is,  our  best  definition  of  Scott  were  perhaps  even  this,  that  he 
was,  if  no  great  man,  then  something  much  pleasanter  to  be, — a  robust, 
thoroughly  healthy,  and  withal  very  prosperous  and  victorious  man.  An 
eminently  well-conditioned  man,  healthy  in  body,  healthy  in  soul ;  we  will 
call  him  one  of  the  healthiest  of  men." 


iv  INTRODUCTION. 

And  it  is  this  sound,  healthy  human  nature,  on  good  terms  with  itself 
and  with  the  world,  with  easy  mastery  of  its  own  faculties,  open,  sympa- 
thetic, cordial,  —  it  is  this  large,  genial  nature  with  which  his  work,  whether 
in  prose  or  poetry,  is  inspired.  Let  us  be  grateful  for  such  a  gift.  There 
is  space  even  on  the  narrow  shelves  of  the  immortals  for  books  sucli  as  his. 
Shakespeare,  Milton,  Wordsworth,  may  rest  on  a  higher  slielf,  but  Scott 
will  be  nearer  at  hand  for  the  multitude  of  readers,  and  his  volumes  will 
require  more  frequent  rebinding. 

He  was  past  thirty  years  old  before  his  poetic  genius  found  its  full  ex- 
pression. He  was  born  in  1771,  and  it  was  in  1805  that  his  first  long  poem, 
"The  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel,"  was  published  and  sprang  into  the  popu- 
larity which  it  has  never  lost.  It  was  largely  a  piece  of  improvisation.  It 
was  no  poem  the  writing  of  which  "  made  him  lean  for  many  years." 
Once  fairly  entered  upon,  it  was  soon  finished,  "  proceeding,"  as  he  tell  us, 
"  at  about  the  rate  of  a  canto  per  week."  In  a  letter  written  within  a  month 
or  two  after  its  publication,  he  wrote,  "  It  is  deficient  in  that  sort  of  contin- 
uity which  a  story  ought  to  have,  and  which,  were  it  to  write  again,  I  would 
endeavor  to  give  it.  .  .  .  The  sixth  canto  is  altogether  redundant."  Com- 
posed as  it  was  at  breakneck  speed,  it  is  not  surprising  that  the  diction  is 
often  careless,  that  the  facile  couplets  are  too  apt  to  drop  heavily  to  a  prosaic 
level,  and  that  there  is  little  depth  in  the  reflections  which  occasionally  in- 
tervene in  the  story.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  the  narrative  flows  with  rapid 
current,  the  story  is  full  of  picturesque  and  lively  scenes,  and  the  verse 
has  what  Wordsworth  well  called  "  an  easy,  glowing  energy."  The  ac- 
count of  William  of  Deloraine's  ride  by  night  quickens  the  blood  till  its 
beat  keeps  time  with  the  gallop  ;  and,  though  the  last  canto  be  redundant, 
it  contains  in  the  Ballad  of  Rosabelle  one  of  those  fine  lyrics  within  the 
limits  of  which  Scott's  improvising  genius  seems  often  to  find  its  best  ex- 
pression. In  his  modest  introduction  to  his  final  edition  of  tlie  Lay  in  1830, 
he  gives  an  interesting  account  of  its  origin  and  composition  ;  but  neither 
he  nor  his  critics  have  done  justice  to  the  chief  distinction  of  the  poem, 
that  its  mode  was  practically  a  new  invention,  reclaiming  poetry  from  the 
tediousness  of  the  then  prevailing  artificial  style,  to  its  place  as  an  art  of 
entertainment  in  the  spirited  romantic  delineation  of  nature  and  of  life. 
There  had  been  nothing  like  it  in  English  literature.  It  was  an  extension 
of  the  delightful  realm  of  poetry,  and  in  its  kind  there  has  been  nothing 
better. 

Scott  was  in  no  hurry  to  take  advantage  of  the  popularity  of  his  first  long 
poem,  and  he  determined  that  his  second  should  be  less  hasty  in  its  conj- 
position.     "  Accordingly,"  to  cite  his  own  words,  "  particular  passages  of  a 


INTRODUCTION.  r 

poem  which  was  finally  called  '  Marmion  '  were  labored  with  a  good  deal  of 
care  by  one  by  whom  much  care  was  seldom  bestowed ; "  and  he  adds  in 
words  which  it  is  pleasant  to  recall,  and  which  in  part  account  for  the  excel- 
lence of  the  poem,  "  The  period  of  its  composition  was  a  very  happy  one  in 
life."  But  "  Marmion"  was  finished  in  haste,  perhaps  in  too  much  haste; 
and  yet  Scott  was  right  in  thinking  well  of  the  last  canto,  of  which  he  wrote 
to  one  of  his  correspondents,  "  I  have  succeeded  better  than  I  ventured 
to  hope."  He  was,  indeed,  in  this  canto  at  his  best;  and  when  "  Scott's 
poetry  is  at  its  best,"  says  Matthew  Arnold,  "  it  is  undoubtedly  very  good 
indeed."  The  description  of  the  Battle  of  Flodden  Field  is  a  splendid 
piece  of  verse.  "  My  heart  is  a  soldiers,  and  always  has  been,"  Scott  once 
wrote  ;  and  his  soldier's  heart  beats  in  tlie  thick  of  the  battle  he  describes. 
After  the  words  I  have  just  cited,  Matthew  Arnold  quotes  these  verses  :  — 

"  Tunstall  lies  dead  upon  the  field, 
His  life-blood  stains  the  spotless  shield: 
Edmund  is  down  :  —  my  life  is  reft ; 
The  Admiral  alone  is  left. 
Let  Stanley  charge  with  spur  of  fire,  — 
With  Chester  charge,  and  Lancashire, 
Full  upon  Scotland's  central  host. 
Or  victory  and  England's  lost." 

And  then  he  adds,  "  That  is,  no  doubt,  as  vigorous  as  possible,  as  spirited 
as  possible ;  it  is  exceedingly  fine  poetry."  And  there  is  much  hardly  less 
good. 

In  thanking  Scott  for  a  copy  of  Marmion,  Wordsworth  wrote  to  him, 
with  characteristic  directness,  "  I  think  your  end  has  been  attained.  That 
it  is  not  the  end  which  I  siiould  wish  you  to  propose  to  yourself,  you  will  be 
well  aware  from  what  you  know  of  my  notions  of  composition,  both  as  to 
matter  and  manner."  In  view  of  their  relative  positions  in  popular  esteem 
at  the  time,  Scott  may  well  have  been  more  amused  than  annoyed  at  his 
brother  poet's  unsympathetic  disapproval,  and  have  asked  him  in  reply, 
"Can  the  Ethiopian  change  his  skin?"  Scott's  poetic  method,  and  his 
view  of  man  and  nature,  were,  indeed,  widely  different  from  Wordsworth's. 
But  "because  thou  art  virtuous  sliall  there  be  no  more  cakes  and  ale?" 
He  was  not  given  to  introspection  or  meditation ;  he  sympathized  with 
men  more  than  he  studied  them,  and  was  more  interested  in  their  actions 
and  their  earthly  fates  than  in  their  spiritual  elements.  He  cared  little  for 
the  order  and  significance  of  nature,  but  delighted  in  its  infinite  variety  of 
aspect ;  and  used  it  in  his  poems  as  a  picturesque  background  for  his  char- 
acters, the  scenery  of  tlie  stage  on  which  they  played  their  parts. 


yi  INTRODUCTION. 

"Marmion"was  published  in  1808;  and  its  success  was  so  great  from 
the  first,  that  Scott  more  than  half  resolved  not  to  write  another  long  poem, 
for  fear  of  hazard  to  his  popularity.  But  this  resolution  did  not  last  long; 
and,  citing  to  himself  the  words  of  the  great  Marquis  of  Montrose,  — 

"  He  either  fears  his  fate  too  much, 
Or  his  deserts  are  small, 
Who  dares  not  put  it  to  the  touch, 
To  win  or  lose  it  all," 

he  began  the  "  Lady  of  the  Lake,"  which  was  to  achieve,  on  its  publication 
in  1810,  as  instant  and  as  great  a  success  as  either  of  its  predecessors,  and 
was  to  maintain  its  popularity  as  firmly  and  as  long.  No  one  of  Scott's 
poems  is  fuller  of  movement,  of  the  health  of  the  open  air  and  the  charm  of 
the  wild  landscape  than  this  ;  and  no  one  of  them  contains  more  verses  which 
have  become  part  of  the  familiar  possessions  of  the  English-speaking  race. 
"  I  like  it  myself,"  wrote  Scott,  "  as  well  as  any  of  my  former  attempts  ;  "  and 
his  judgment  has  been  confirmed  by  the  verdict  of  three  generations.  Fitz- 
James's  horn  still  wakes  a  ready  echo  in  the  adventurous  heart  of  youth, 
and  many  a  maiden,  on  many  a  lake,  wears  the  form  of  Katrine's  lady  in 
her  lover's  eyes, 

It  has,  indeed,  rarely  happened  in  the  history  of  literature,  that  poems 
written  off-hand  like  these,  with  so  little  pains  and  so  little  revision,  have 
gained  more  than  a  brief  lease  of  life.  Scott  himself,  with  his  delightful 
modesty,  did  not  look  for  permanent  fame  as  a  poet.  "  I  have  enjoyed  too 
extensive  popularity  in  this  generation  to  be  entitled  to  draw  long-dated 
bills  on  the  applause  of  the  next,"  he  wrote  in  a  letter,  just  before  the 
"  Lady  of  the  Lake"  was  published.  And  twenty  years  afterward  he  said, 
in  his  preface  to  the  last  edition  which  he  was  to  oversee,  "  I  can,  with 
honest  truth,  exculpate  myself  from  having  been  at  any  time  a  partisan  of 
my  own  poetry,  even  when  it  was  in  the  highest  fashion  with  the  million." 
In  all  that  he  anywhere  says  of  his  poetry  his  words  are  quite  sound,  simple, 
and  unpretending.  He  recognized  the  limits  of  his  power  and  the  sources 
of  his  popularity ;  he  was  pleased,  but  not  elated,  by  success.  Success  could, 
indeed,  do  nothing  but  good  to  so  manly  and  healthy  a  nature.  The  real  and 
abiding  charm  of  his  verse  consists  not  in  its  style,  nor  its  stock  of  ideas,  nor 
in  any  significance  underlying  the  narrative,  but  in  qualities  which  depend 
upon  personal  character.  It  is  the  expression  of  a  generous  nature,  with  a 
lively  interest  in  the  outward  spectacle  of  the  world,  a  quick  sympathy  with 
the  actors  in  the  long  drama  of  life,  and  a  keen  sense  of  relation  to  the 
earth  and  enjoyment  of  it.     It  is  the  expression  of  a  lover  of  his  own  land, 


INTRODUCTION.  vii 

of  its  mountains  and  glens,  and  rivers  and  lakes,  dearer  for  the  sake  of  the 
story  of  its  people,  a  storj'  as  varied  and  picturesque  as  the  scenery  itself. 
The  literary  critic  will  find  a  hundred  faults  in  his  poems ;  but  the  boy, 
entranced  by  the  tale,  does  not  know  they  are  there ;  and  the  man,  jaded 
with  care  and  weary  of  books,  does  not  mind  them,  finding  refreshment  in 
verse  inspired  witli  the  breath  of  the  open  air,  unstudied  in  its  animation, 
unforced  in  its  sentin>ent,  and  making  simple  appeal  to  his  memory  and 
imagination. 

Scott  was  almost  forty  years  old  when  the  ' '  Lady  of  the  Lake "  was 
written.  His  later  poems,  "  Rokeby,"  "  The  Lord  of  the  Isles,"  and  others, 
have  less  of  the  freshness  of  youth,  and  have  never  possessed  the  popualrity 
of  his  earlier  work.  In  his  preface  in  1830  to  "  Rokeby"  he  gives  some  of 
the  reasons  of  their  comparative  lack  of  success.  Fortunately  for  the  last- 
ing pleasure  of  mankind,  he  turned  from  poetry  to  prose,  and  wrote  the 
Waverley  novels. 

Every  year  there  is  jettison  of  part  of  the  cargo  with  which  the  good  ship 
of  literature  is  overladen.  Some  of  Scott's  poetry  lias  already  gone  over- 
board, and  the  time  may  come  when  more  of  it  must  follow ;  but  it  will  not 
all  suffer  this  fate.  Even  if  the  rest  should  go,  some  of  his  lyrics,  at  least, 
aie  sure  to  be  .saved.  What  he  once  called  "  The  only  good  song  I  ever 
wrote,"  the  "  Pibroch  of  Donald  Dhu,"  with  its  spirited  rallying  cry, — 

"  Come  as  the  winds  come,  when 
Forests  are  rended ; 
Come  as  the  waves  come,  when 
Navies  are  stranded," 

this  will  not  be  lost;  nor  will  the  "  Coronach,"  from  the  "Lady  of  the 
Lake."  Some  hearts  would  not  forget  the  ballad  of  "  Alice  Brand  ;  "  and 
some  memories  are  sure  to  hold  Cleveland's  song ;  and  more  will  recall  the 
stately  measure  and  the  pathos  of  "  I  climbed  the  dark  brow  of  the  mighty 
Helvellyn ; "  and  others  still,  the  wild  ballad  of  Elspeth,  in  "The  Anti- 
quary," — 

"  The  herring  loves  the  merry  moonlight, 
The  mackerel  loves  the  wind." 

And  so  long  as  any  of  his  poems  shall  last,  the  memory  of  Scott  himself 
will  be  cherished  in  the  hearts  of  men  whom  he  has  entertained,  and  to 
whom  he  has  not  only  given  pleasure,  but  done  good.  For  to  become 
friends  with  him  in  his  books  is  to  become  friends  with  one  of  the  pleas- 
antest  of  men,  with  whom  we  cannot  keep  up  acquaintance  without,  let 


viii  INTRODUCTION. 

us  hope,  gaining  something  of  his  own  simplicity,  geniality,   kindliness, 
modesty,  and  manliness. 

Among  the  last  verses  which  Tennyson  wrote  there  is  a  stanza  of  singu- 
larly felicitous  simplicity  and  strength,  which  in  its  personal  tribute  expres- 
ses a  common  sentiment,  — 

"  O  great  and  gallant  Scott ! 

True  gentleman,  heart,  blood,  and  bone, 
I  would  it  had  been  my  lot 

To  have  seen  thee,  and  heard  thee,  and  known." 

It  is  fortunate  that  in  the  "  Life  of  Scott,"  by  his  son-in-law,  Lockhart, 
and  in  his  own  Journal  and  Letters,  we  have  such  a  picture  of  him  as  exists 
of  few  other  men,  and  in  all  its  features  consistent  with  the  attractive  image 
that  the  reader  of  his  poems  and  novels  forms  for  himself  of  their  large- 
hearted  and  lovable  author. 

1894.  Charles  Eliot  Norton. 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH. 


"Every  Scottishman,"  wrote  Sir  Walter  Scott  in  his  fragment  of  autobio- 
graphy, "  has  a  pedigree.  It  is  a  national  prerogative  as  inalienable  as  his  pride 
and  his  poverty." 

Scott  was  proud  of  the  fact  that  in  his  veins  flowed  the  mingled  blood  of  two 
hostile  clans,  the  Scotts  and  the  Haliburtons.  He  claimed  no  more  than  "gentle  " 
birth,  but  few  men  in  Scotland  were  connected  with  so  many  "  stocks  of  historical 
distinction." 

On  his  father's  side  he  traced  his  lineage  through  seven  generations  to  Auld 
Watt  of  Harden,  and  "his  fair  dame,  the  Flower  of  Yarrow."  On  his  mother's 
side  were  the  "  Bauld  Rutherfords,  that  were  sae  stout,"  and  the  knightly  family 
of  Swintons,  through  whom  he  claimed  kinship  with  Sir  William  Alexander,  first 
Earl  of  Sterling,  the  Marquess  of  Douglas,  and  Sir  Robert  Sinclair  of  Longformacus. 

Robert  Scott,  his  grandfather,  was  bred  for  the  sea,  but  exchanged  the  tiller 
for  the  plough,  and  engaged  in  stock  farming  with  considerable  success.  He 
married  Barbara  Haliburton,  through  whom  would  have  come  to  him  the  patrimony 
of  Dryburgh,  comprising  the  ruins  of  the  ancient  abbey,  had  not  the  childless  pro- 
prietor, whose  heir  he  was,  fallen  into  pecuniary  difficulties,  and  been  obliged  to 
sell  his  estate. 

His  son  Walter,  the  oldest  of  "  a  numerous  progeny,"  married  Anne,  eldest 
daughter  of  Dr.  John  Rutherford,  Professor  of  Medicine  in  Edinburgh  University.  ^ 

Of  their  twelve  children,  the  first  six  died  in  infancy.  Walter,  the  third  son, 
was  born  in  Edinburgh,  August  15,  I77i-  Till  he  was  eighteen  months  old  he 
"showed  every  sign  of  health  and  strength."  Then  fever  caused  the  lameness 
from  which  he  suffered  all  his  life.  After  trying  various  remedies,  his  parents  sent 
him  to  his  grandfather's  at  Sandy-Knowe,  to  get  the  benefit  of  the  country  air.  He 
distinctly  remembered  being  stript  and  swathed  in  the  warm  skin  of  a  sheep  just 
flayed,  and  his  grandf.'ither,  a  venerable,  white-haired  man,  using  every  incitement 
to  make  him  try  to  crawl  on  the  floor  of  the  little  farm-house  parlor,  while  a  dis- 
tant kinsman.  Sir  Henry  Hay  MacDougal,  drest  in  an  embroidered  scarlet  waist- 
coat and  a  light-colored  coat,  with  milk-white  locks  tied  in  military,  fashion,  knelt 
on  the  floor  before  him,  dragging  his  watch  along  the  carpet  as  a  sort  of  bait. 
Walter  Scott  was  only  four  when  his  grandfather  died,  but  he  continued  to  live 
at  the  farm,  gradually  becoming  rugged,  though  his  leg  was  somewhat  shrunken 
and  waste  A  He  was  a  remarkably  precocious  boy;  and  the  reading  which  he 
heard,  and  the  stories  of  Border  adventure  which  were  related  for  his  amusement, 
and  the  influences  of  the  romantic  neighborhood,  with  its  ruined  towers,  stately 
castles,  purple  mountains,  and  glorious  rivers,  were  a  far  more  important  factor  in 
his  education  than  the  formal  teaching  which  he  received  at  the  hands  of  his  "  kind 
and  affectionate  aunt.  Miss  Janet  Scott,"  or  at  the  day-school  at  Bath,  whither  he 
was  sent  for  a  year  when  he  was  five. 

The  change  from  the  solitude  of  the  Sandy-Knowe  farm  to  his  father's  home  in 
Edinburgh  was  very  great;    but  except  for  the  too  rigid   Presbyterian   strictness   of 


X  BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH. 

his  parents,  which  made  Sundays  especially  irksome,  the  discipline  was  probably 
good  for  him.  He  was  sent  to  the  High  School,  and  also  received  private  lessons; 
but,  as  he  himself  said,  he  glanced  like  a  meteor  from  one  end  of  the  class  to  the 
other,  and  commonly  disgusted  his  kind  master  as  much  by  negligence  and  frivolity, 
as  he  eccasionally  pleased  him  by  flashes  of  intellect  and  talent;  while  he  won 
favor  with  his  companions  not  only  by  his  inexhaustible  fund  of  stories,  but  also 
by  his  address  in  all  sorts  of  out-door  games,  and  in  the  "  bickers  "  which  occurred 
between  the  school  boys  and  the  town  boys. 

Toward  the  end  of  his  course  in  the  High  School,  under  the  direct  tuition  of  the 
Rector,  Dr.  Adam,  he  began  to  grow  sensible  of  the  beauties  of  Latin,  and  even 
distinguished  himself  "  by  some  attempts  at  poetical  versions  "  from  Horace  and 
Vergil.  He  felt  that  the  rector's  judicious  mixture  of  praise  and  blame  went 
far  to  counteract  his  habits  of  indolence  and  inattention. 

His  health  growing  delicate  again,  he  was  not  immediately  sent  to  college,  but 
spent  six  months  with  his  Aunt  Janet  at  Kelso,  on  the  Tweed.  Here  he  had 
excellent  instruction,  and  made  the  acquaintance  of  Dr.  Blacklock,  the  friend  of 
Burns;  and  through  his  recommendation  became  intimate  with  Ossian  and  Spenser. 
Spenser  he  especially  delighted  in,  and  could  repeat  incredible  quantities  of  his 
verse.  A  respectable  subscription  library,  a  circulating  library,  and  several  private 
book-shelves  being  open  to  him,  he  declared  that  he  waded  into  the  stream  like  a 
blind  man  into  a  ford.  His  appetite  for  books  was  as  ample  and  indiscriminating 
as  it  was  indefatigable;  and  he  many  times  afterwards  repeated  that  few  had  ever 
read  so  much,  or  to  so  little  purpose. 

At  the  University,  Scott  entirely  neglected  Greek,  much  to  his  later  regret, 
largely  forgot  his  Latin,  and  made  small  progress  in  mathematics.  In  the  other 
branches  he  was  more  fortunate,  though  in"  ethics,  history,  and  law,  he  always  felt 
that  his  learning  was  flimsy  and  inaccurate,  and  he  would,  even  at  the  height  of  his 
popularity,  have  sacrificed  half  of  his  reputation,  if  by  so  doing  he  could  have 
rested  what  was  left  on  a  solid  foundation  of  learning  and  science. 

Scott's  father  was  a  writer  to  the  Signet,  a  branch  of  the  law  comprising 
the  duties  of  the  solicitor  or  attorney  with  those  of  the  man  of  business.  His 
practice  had  at  one  time  been  extensive,  but  a  rather  too  simple  and  confiding 
nature,  and  over  zeal  for  clients'  interests  to  the  detriment  of  his  own,  had  some- 
what diminished  it.  When  Scott  left  the  University  in  1786,  he  was  indentured  to 
him  for  five  years,  and  at  the  age  of  sixteen  "  entered  upon  the  dry  and  barren 
wilderness  of  forms  and  conveyances." 

Though  he  rebelled  against  the  drudgery  and  confinement,  he  felt  a  rational 
pride  in  rendering  himself  useful  to  his  father;  and  when  actually  at  the  oar,  he 
says  no  one  could  pull  harder  than  he,  sometimes  writing  upwards  of  one  hun- 
dred and  twenty  folio  pages  at  a  sitting,  thereby  earning  at  least  thirty  shillings. 
The  duties  of  his  apprenticeship  often  required  him  to  make  expeditions  to  the 
Highlands  and  elsewhere;  and  many  of  the  most  effective  scenes  of  his  poems 
and  novels  were  inspired  by  his  adventures  in  those  wild  and  unknown  regions. 

For  recreation  he  read  indefatigably;  and  as  his  constitution  hardened,  he  made 
long  trips  both  on  horseback  and  on  foot,  sometimes,  in  spite  of  his  lameness, 
walking  twenty  or  thirty  miles  a  day.  Thus  he  stored  his  mind  with  pictures 
of  romantic  or  historic  interest.  And  as  he  was  unable  to  draw,  he  kept  a  sort  of 
log-lx)ok  of  his  rambles;  wherever  he  went,  he  cut  a  branch  from  a  tree,  and  thus 
fixed  the  scene  in  his  memory. 

He  endeavored  to  educate  his  eye  by  taking  lessons  in  oil  painting,  "  from  a 
little  Jew  animalcule,  a  smouch  called  Burrell,"  but  he  afterwards  regretfully 
wrote  in  his  diary  that  he  made  no  progress  :  "  Nature  denied  me  correctness  of 
eye  and  neatness  of  hand." 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH.  xi 

Still  he  drew  the  Castle  of  Hermitage  at  Liddesdale  so  accurately  that  Clerk  put 
it  into  regular  form,  H.  \V.  Williams  copied  it,  and  his  drawing  was  engraved  for 
the  frontispiece  of  the  first  volume  of  the  Kelso  Edition  of  the  Minstrelsy. 

In  music  he  was  less  talented.  He  wrote  :  "  My  ear  appears  to  me  as  dull 
as  my  voice  is  incapable  of  musical  expression."  It  is  related  of  his  early  Edin- 
burgh days,  that  IxMng  one  time  present  at  a  drinking  bout,  when  the  conviviality 
was  prolonged  till  late,  or  rather  early,  Scott  fell  asleep,  and  on  waking  was  con- 
vinced by  his  friends  that  he  had  sung  a  song  in  the  course  of  the  evening,  and  had 
sung  it  extremely  well.  But  it  is  probable  that  none  of  them  was  a  very  good 
judge  in  the  circumstances. 

In  respect  to  lack  of  musical  ear,  Scott  was  like  Burns  and  Byron  and  many 
of  the  great  poets.  Fortunately,  poetry  depends  rather  upon  a  sense  of  time  than 
of  genuine  musical  feeling,  and  many  of  his  halting  lines  may  te  attributed  to  care- 
lessness and  haste. 

In  later  days  some  of  the  reviews,  while  giving  credit  to  Scott's  abundant 
vivacity  and  verve  of  style,  complained  that  it  seemed  impossible  for  him  to  write 
good  English. 

Scott,  in  his  diary,  under  date  of  April  22,  1826,  thus  comments  on  his  early 
neglect  of   fundamentals :  — 

"  I  write  grammar  as  I  speak,  to  make  my  meaning  known;  and  a  solecism  in  point  of  compo- 
sition, like  a  Scotcli  word  in  speaking,  is  indifferent  to  me.  I  never  learned  grammar;  and  not 
only  Sir  Hugh  Evans,  but  even  Mrs.  Quickly,  might  puzzle  me  about  Giney's  tjenny's]  case,  and 
horum,  harum,  horuni.  1  believe  the  bailiff  in  '  The  Good  Natured  Man  '  is  not  far  wrong  when 
he  says:  'One  man  has  one  way  of  expressing  himself,  and  another  another,  and  that  is  all  the 
difference  between  them.'  " 

The  grave  Presbyterian  father  was  somewhat  scandalized  by  his  son's  erratic 
ways,  though  it  is  said  he  also  read  romances  on  the  sly,  and  was  guilty  of  playing 
on  the  'cello.  One  time  Walter  came  home  after  one  of  his  protracted  absences. 
His  father  impatiently  demanded  how  he  had  managed  to  live  without  any  supply 
of  pocket  money;  and  when  Walter  expressed  his  regret  that  he  had  not  Gold- 
smith's art,  so  as  to  tramp  like  poor  George  Primrose  from  cottage  to  cottage  over 
the  world,  his  father  replied:  — 

"  I  greatly  doubt,  sir,  you  were  born  for  nae  better  than  a  gangrel  scrape  gut !  " 

In  spite  of  the  dangerous  habits  of  young  Scotch  noblemen  and  gentlemen, 
Scott's  character  was  not  permanently  vitiated  by  his  intercourse  with  them. 
Indeed,  he  often  exercised  a  restraining  influence  upon  them.  In  his  later  life  he 
was  more  than  once  heard  to  remark:  "Depend  upon  it,  of  all  vices  drinking  is 
the  most  incompatible  with  greatness."  The  terrible  example  of  his  brother  Daniel's 
fate  was  perhaps  salutary  to  him. 

Scott  had  by  this  time  outgrown  all  trace  of  early  ill-health.  He  was  so  strong 
that  he  could  lift  a  smith's  anvil  by  the  horn  with  one  hand.  He  is  described  as  \l 
about  six  feet  in  stature,  with  a  fresh,  brilliant  complexion,  clear,  open  eyes,  perfect  ^ 
teeth,  and  a  noble  brow,  and  with  great  vivacity  of  expression.  His  upper  lip 
was  long,  and  his  nose  was  far  from  classic,  but  his  head  was  well  set,  and  he  was 
eminently  formed  (with  the  exception  of  the  blemish  in  one  leg)  to  attract  the 
attention  of  the  fair. 

Lockhart  says  that  it  was  the  united  testimony  of  his  associates  that  Scott  was 
remarkably  free  from  the  more  rakish  indiscretions  of  young  manhood;  and  he  par- 
tially explains  it  by  reference  to  a  secret  attachment,  "which  continued  through  all 
the  most  perilous  stage  6f  life  to  act  as  a  romantic  charm  in  safeguard  of  virtue." 

His  earliest  love,  whom  he  himself  compares  to  Byron's  Mary  Duff,  was  "  a 
very  good-natured,  pretty  girl,"  a  Miss  Dalrymple,  daughter  of  Lord  Westhall, 
and  her  daughter  afterwards  became  the  spouse  of  his  colleague,  Robert  Hamilton. 


xil  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH. 

When  he  was  sixty  he  wrote:  — 

"  I  was  a  mere  child,  and  could  feel  none  of  the  passion  which  Byron  alleges,  yet  the  recollec- 
tion of  this  good-humored  companion  of  my  childhood  is  like  that  of  a  morning  dream." 

But  while  he  was  still  serving  his  apprenticeship,  it  happened  that  one  Sunday, 
as  the  congregation  were  dispersing  from  Gray  Friars,  it  began  to  rain,  and  Scott 
offered  his  umbrella  to  Miss  Williamina  Belches,  a  beautiful  girl,  the  daughter  of 
a  gentleman  who  afterwards  became  Sir  John  Stuart  of  Fettercairn.  The  acquaint- 
ance thus  begun  ripened  into  friendship,  and  speedily,  on  Scott's  part,  into  an 
undying  love,  which,  though  ultimately  disappointed,  was  advantageous  in  more 
ways  than  one.  Lockhart  says  it  "had  a  powerful  influence  in  nerving  Scott's 
mind  for  the  sedulous  diligence  with  which  he  pursued  his  proper  legal  studies 
during  the  two  or  three  years  that  preceded  his  call  to  the  bar." 

Scott's  father,  discovering  his  attachment,  felt  it  his  duty  to  warn  the  young 
lady's  father,  since  she  had  "prospects  of  future  far  above  his  son's."  She  finally 
married  Sir  William  Forbes,  who  in  the  time  of  Scott's  adversity  befriended  him  in 
many  ways. 

It  was  evident  that  Scott's  pride  was  piqued,  if  his  heart  was  broken,  ])y  her 
conduct;  but  when  he  had  acquired  name  and  fame  he  renewed  relations  with 
Lady  Jane  Stuart,  the  young  lady's  mother;  and  as  late  as  1827,  on  receiving  an 
affectionate  letter  from  her,  felt  his  heart  stirred  to  its  deepest  depths,  and  he  wrote 
in  his  diary,  "Alas!  alas! — but  why  alas?" 

He  determined  not  to  enter  into  partnership  with  his  father,  but  to  embrace  the 
more  ambitious  profession  of  the  bar;  and  with  that  object  in  view  he  was  eydcnt 
in  his  studies  for  four  years,  and  on  the  nth  of  July,  1792,  he  "assumed  the  gown, 
with  all  its  duties  and  honors."  At  the  dinner  which  he  gave,  as  was  customary 
on  such  occasions,  his  father  was  one  of  the  happiest  of  guests.  "On  a  festival 
occasion,"  says  Scott  in  his  autobiography,  "there  were  few  whom  a  moderate  glass 
of  wine  exhilarated  to  such  a  lively  degree." 

On  the  first  day  of  his  presence  at  Court,  a  friendly  solicitor  g.^ve  him  a  guinea, 
with  which  he  purchased  a  new  night-cap;  but  his  first  important  fee  was  spent  for 
a  silver  candlestick  for  his  mother.  lie  was  afterwards  offered  employment  at  the 
Circuit  Court  at  Jcdl)urgh;  but,  as  he  wrote  his  friend  Clerk,  "  durst  not  venture." 

He  still  kept  up  his  habit  of  making  what  he  called  "  raids  "  into  unexplored 
districts;  and  with  his  friend  Robert  Shortreid  as  guide,  for  seven  successive  years 
explored  every  nook  and  corner  of  Liddesdale,  where,  till  Scott's  appearance,  a 
wheeled  carriage  had  never  been  seen.  To  these  rambles  he  owed  much  of  the 
material  collected  in  "The  Minstrelsy  of  the  Scottish  Border." 

Among  the  lawyers  of  the  Outer  House,  many  of  whom  afterwards  attained 
distinction,  but  who  were  now  light-hearted  loungers  of  "  the  mountain,"  Duns 
Sco/its,  as  they  called  Scott,  was  regarded  as  the  prince  of  story-tellers.  Nearly 
all  of  them  united  to  form  a  class  for  the  study  of  German;  and  to  this  circumstance 
may  be  traced  Scott's  first  entrance  upon  the  field  f)f  literature.  He  had  already 
shown  a  natural  facility  for  rhyming,  and  at  the  age  of  sixteen  is  said  to  have  com- 
posed a  poem  in  four  lx)oks  on  the  Conquest  of  Granada;  but  this  was  immediately 
burnt,  and  not  a  line  is  known  to  have  survived,  unless  in  one  of  the  extemporized 
mottoes  to  the  novels. 

Burger's  "  Lenore  "  first  stimulated  him  to  more  serious  verse.  Having  heard 
about  tiie  poem,  which  was  brought  to  Edinburgh  by  Mrs.  Barbauld  in  1795,  Scott 
obtained  the  original,  and  translated  it  at  a  sitting.  Hi's  friend  Miss  Cranstoun, 
who  was  in  the  secret  of  his  love  for  Miss  Belches,  had  the  ballad  printed  in  "most 
elegant  style,"  and  sent  a  copy  "  richly  bound  and  blazoned  "  to  her  at  the 
country  house  where  she  and  Scott  were  both  visiting.     The  young  lady  had  un- 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH.  xiii 

doubtedly  "high  admiration  of  Scott's  abilities,"  but  not  even  this  new  proof  of 
his  talent  won  her  love. 

Mrs.  Scott  of  Harden,  who  was  of  noble  German  birth,  supplied  him  with  many 
standard  German  books,  and  he  translated  a  number  of  prose  dramas  and  some  of 
Goethe's  lyrics. 

The  "  Lcnore  "  and  "  Wild  Huntsman  "  were  published  in  a  thin  quarto,  with- 
out Scott's  name,  in  1796,  the  year  of  Burns's  death, — and  was  welcomed  as  a 
remarkable  production  by  many  good  critics,  but  proved  pecuniarily  a  dead  loss. 

Meantime,  his  practice  was  slowly  increasing,  —  in  his  first  year  he  made  a  little 
more  than  twenty-four  pounds,  in  his  fifth  he  made  ;^I44  icw., — and  his  spare  time 
was  largely  occupied  by  his  efforts  in  the  formation  of  a  body  of  volunteer  cavalry, 
in  which  he  occupied  at  first  the  triple  functions  of  paymaster,  quartermaster,  and 
secretary.  He  was  the  very  life  of  the  "  Light  Horse,"  and  was  familiarly  known 
as  Earl  Walter. 

During  his  summer  vacation  in  1797  he  made  a  tour  of  the  English  lakes,  where 
he  afterwards  laid  the  scene  of  "Triermain  "  and  "St.  Ronan's  Well;"  and  here 
he  met  Miss  Charlotte  Margaret  Carpenter,  or  Charpentier,  a  young  lady  of  English 
origin,  but  born  in  France.  Her  guardian  was  the  Marquess  of  Downshire,  but  the 
report  that  he  was  her  father  was  disbelieved  by  Lockhart. 

After  a  brief  courtship,  and  some  opposition  on  the  part  of  Scott's  family,  he 
became  engaged  to  her.  He  married  her  on  the  24th  of  December,  1797-  '^^^ 
following  year  their  first-born  son  died  the  day  after  his  birth,  and  Scott  completed 
his  translation  of  Goethe's  "  Goetz  von  Berlichingen,"  which,  when  published  in 
February,  1799,  brought  him  twenty-five  guineas  from  a  London  bookseller.  They 
hired  a  pretty  cottage  at  Lasswade,  which  they  occupied  for  several  summers;  and 
here  amid  the  most  romantic  scenery  of  Scotland  were  thrown  off  those  ballads 
which  Scott  called  "  his  first  serious  attempts  in  verse."  He  was  also  occupied  in 
making  his  collections  for  the  subsequently  published  volumes  of  "  The  Scottish 
Minstrelsy  of  the  Border." 

One  of  the  advantages  of  his  residence  at  Lasswade  was  his  acquaintance  with 
the  houses  of  Melville  and  Buccleuch;  and  when  the  office  of  sheriff-depute  of 
Selkirkshire  became  vacant  in  1799,  Scott,  through  the  Duke  of  Buccleuch,  was 
appointed  to  this  position.  The  duties  were  almost  nominal,  and  the  salary  £yx> 
a  year.  This,  in  addition  to  what  he  had  received  from  his  father's  estate,  his 
wife's  income,  and  his  own  professional  earnings,  placed  him  on  a  secure  footing, 
and  gave  him,  at  least  during  his  vacations,  time  to  cultivate  literature. 

Among  Scott's  schoolmates  at  Lancelot  Whale's  School  in  1783,  was  James 
Ballantyne,  who  had  now  become  a  printer,  and  was  publishing  a  weekly  news- 
paper at  Kelso.  Scott  then  proposed  to  him  to  print  off  a  dozen  or  so  copies  of 
his  ballads.  This  was  done,  and  the  pamphlet  containing  "William  and  Ellen," 
"The  Fire  King,"  "The  Chase,"  and  a  few  others,  was  published  under  the  title, 
"  Apology  for  Tales  of  Terror."  At  the  same  time  the  scheme  of  a  collection  of 
Old  Border  Ballads  was  broached. 

In  April,  1800,  he  wrote  to  Ballantyne,  asking  him  to  Edinburgh,  to  engage 
in  a  general  printing  business,  to  include  a  newspaper,  a  monthly  journal,  an 
annual  register,  the  execution  of  session  papers,  and,  lastly,  the  publication  of 
books. 

It  was  two  years,  however,  before  Ballantyne  emigrated ;  but  in  the  meantime 
he  had  won  golden  opinions  by  the  beautiful  style  in  which  he  had  brought  out  the 
first  two  volumes  of  "  The  Border  Minstrelsy."  Scott's  share  of  the  profits  of  these 
was  ;^7S  loj.  He  had  already  begun  that  pecuniary  assistance  to  Ballantyne 
which,  in  1S05,  resulted  in  a  secret  partnership,  and  his  ultimate  ruin.  The  third 
volume  of  the  "  Minstrelsy"  wus  well  received.     The   London  publisher,  Long- 


xiv  BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH. 

man,  issued  one  thousand  copies  of  the  first  two,  and  fifteen  hundred  of  the  third. 
Scott's  entire  profits  were  ;[^6oo. 

His  first  contributions  to  the  Edinburgh  Kevietv  were  printed  in  1S03,  in  which 
year  he  was  mainly  engaged  in  editing  the  ancient  manuscript  of  "  Sir  Tristrem,  by 
Thomas  the  Rhymer."  This  was  published  in  May,  1804,  in  an  edition  of  only 
one  hundred  and  fifty  copies,  at  the  high  price  of  two  guineas  each. 

The  same  month  he  took  a  lease  of  the  house  and  farm  of  Ashestiel,  on  the 
south  bank  of  the  Tweed,  and  about  a  month  later  his  uncle.  Captain  Robert  Scott, 
died,  leaving  him  his  beautiful  little  villa  and  thirty  acres  of  land,  besides  ;^6oo  in 
cash.  He  sold  Rosebank  for  ;/^5,ooo,  and  was  now  assured  of  an  annual  income 
of  ;^I,000,  besides  his  practice  at  the  Bar  (which,  for  instance,  in  1803  brought 
him  over  _;^22S)  and  his  literary  profits. 

He  had  been  scarcely  more  than  a  week  in  possession  of  his  beautiful  new  resi- 
dence when  he  was  called  upon  to  try  a  poacher.  The  man's  pitiful  story  and 
clever  humor  moved  the  sheriff;  he  not  only  let  him  off,  but  took  him  into  his 
service  2ls,  grieve,  or  bailiff.  From  that  time  forth  Tom  Purdie  was  his  faithful 
henchman  and  trusted  friend  till  he  died.  It  was  he  who,  when  Scott  received  his 
baronetcy,  proceeded  to  add  an  S  to  every  sheep  on  the  estate;  and  this  mark, 
S.  W.  S.,  so  delighted  Scott,  that  he  frequently  used  it  as  a  signature. 

The  romantic  and  retired  situation  of  Ashestiel  offered  Scott  abundant  inspira- 
tion and  leisure  for  writing;  and  here  he  finished  "The  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel," 
begun  some  time  before  in  an  attempt  to  write  a  ballad  to  be  called  "  The  Goblin 
Page."  It  was  published  in  January,  1805,  seven  hundred  and  fifty  copies  in 
quarto,  at  £1  55.  a  copy.  Nearly  forty-four  thousand  copies  were  disposed  of 
before  he  superintended  the  edition  of  1830,  not  counting  various  pirated  editions 
in  America  and  elsewhere.  Scott's  profits  on  the  first  edition  were  £i()()  6s.  The 
publishers,  Longman  &  Co.,  of  London,  offered  him  ;^500  for  the  copyright,  and 
afterwards  added  ;^ioo. 

It  was  shortly  after  this  that  the  poet,  instead  of  buying  the  estate  of  Long- 
meadows,  on  the  Yarrow,  as  he  was  tempted  to  do,  invested  all  his  capital  in  Bal' 
lantyne's  concern,  whereby  he  acquired  a  third  interest. 

The  success  of  the  "  Lay"  determined  Scott  to  quit  the  Bar  and  devote  himself 
to  literature.  His  first  great  scheme  was  a  complete  edition  of  British  poets,  an- 
cient and  modern;  but  finding  that  Thomas  Campbell  was  engaged  upon  a  similar 
work,  he  took  upon  himself  only  the  new  edition  and  biography  of  Dryden.  Thus 
he  combined,  to  use  Lockhart's  words,  "  the  conscientious  magistrate,  the  marti- 
net quartermaster,  the  speculative  printer,  and  the  ardent  lover  of  literature  for  its 
own  sake."     He  might  have  added  also  laird  and  forester  and  farmer. 

This  same  year  he  began  the  story  of  Waverley,  but  laid  it  aside  till  a  later 
day.  In  1806  he  was  appointed  clerk  of  sessions,  in  place  of  George  Home,  who 
had  held  the  office  for  upwards  of  thirty  years.  By  special  arrangement,  which 
Scott  considered  a  hard  bargain,  he  undertook  the  duties,  but  waived  the  salary 
during  Home's  life.  The  duties  required  his  attendance  at  court  from  four  to  six 
hours  a  day  five  or  six  days  a  week  during  about  six  months  in  the  year,  and  the 
salary  was  ;^I,300.  This  position  Scott  filled  for  twenty-five  years,  not  slighting 
any  of  the  "really  base  drudgery"  of  the  work,  or  giving  to  its  more  exacting 
claims  any  but  his  best  talents  and  skill. 

During  the  whole  of  1 806  and  1807  he  gave  most  of  his  spare  moments  to  his 
editorial  work  on  Dryden,  but  he  was  also  enlisted  in  several  contributions  to  the 
Edinburgh  Revie^v,  and  finished  "  Marmion."  Constable  offered  one  thousand 
guineas  for  it  before  he  had  seen  a  single  line  of  it.  It  was  published  in  February, 
1808,  in  "  a  splendid  quarto,  price  one  guinea  and  a  half,"  and  the  legitimate  sale 
of  the  work  in  England  alone  reached  fifty  thousand  copies  by  1836. 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH.  xv 

"Marmion"  was  followed  in  April  by  the  edition  of  Dryden  on  which  Scott 
had  been  working  so  long.     It  was  in  eighteen  volumes,  and  the  editor's  fee  was 
;^756.     The  work,  in  spite  of  many  prognostications  of  failure,  was  a  distinguished' 
success. 

Scott's  industry  at  this  period  of  his  life  was  scarcely  less  remarkable  than  it 
was  when  he  was  struggling  to  pay  off  his  debts.  He  edited  Strutt's  "  Queenhoo 
Hall,"  adding  the  concluding  chapters.  The  State  papers  of  Ralph  Sadler,  which 
ultimately  extended  to  thirteen  ponderous  quarto  volumes,  and  were  not  completed 
till  i8i2;  a  new  edition  of  "Captain  Carleton's  Memoirs;"  a  similar  one  of  the 
"Memoirs  of  Robert  Gary,  Earl  of  Monmouth;"  and  a  complete  edition  of  the 
works  of  Swift,  for  which  he  was  promised  ^^1,500,  were  among  his  labors. 

lie  afterwards  confessed  that  this  "  tumult  of  engagements  "  was  enough  to 
tear  him  to  pieces,  but  that  he  was  saved  by  "  the  wonderful  exhilaration  about  it 
all,"  which  kept  his  blood  at  a  fever-pitch,  and  made  him  feel  as  though  he  could 
grapple  with  anything  and  everything. 

In  a  letter  to  his  friend  Morritt,  he  gives  a  lively  picture  of  his  occupations:  — • 

"  I  have  been  Secretary  to  the  Judicature  Commission,  which  sat  daily  during  all  the  Christmas 
Vacation.  I  have  been  editing  Swift,  and  correcting  the  press  at  the  rate  of  six  sheets  [qo  pages] 
a  week.  I  have  been  editing  Somers  at  the  rate  of  four  ditto  ditto;  I  have  written  reviews,  I  have 
written  songs,  I  have  made  selections,  I  have  superintended  rehearsals,  and  all  this  independent  of 
visiting  and  of  my  official  duty  ....  and  independent  of  a  new  poem  with  which  I  am  threatening 
the  world.  This  last  employment  is  not  the  most  prudent,  but  I  really  cannot  well  help  myself. 
My  office,  though  a  very  good  one  for  Scotland,  is  only  held  in  reversion ;  nor  do  I  at  present  derive 
a  shilling  from  it.  I  must  expect  that  a  fresh  favorite  of  the  public  will  supersede  me,  and  my 
philosophy  being  very  great  on  the  point  of  poetical  fame,  I  would  fain,  at  the  risk  of  hastening 
my  own  downfall,  avail  myself  of  the  favorable  moment,  to  make  some  further  provision  for  my 
little  people." 

His  "  little  people"  were  four  in  number:  Charlotte  Sophia,  afterwards  Mrs. 
Lockhart,  born  1799;  Walter,  1801;  Anne,  1803;  and  Charles,  1805.  Lockhart 
gives  a  delightful  picture  of  Scott's  treatment  of  his  children.  He  himself  con- 
fessed in  his  diary  that  he  did  not  like  babies,  yet  to  use  the  words  of  his  son-in- 
law  :  — 

"  No  father  ever  devoted  more  time  and  tender  care  to  his  offspring,  than  he  did  to  each  of  his, 
as  they  successively  reached  the  age  when  they  could  listen  to  him  and  understand  his  talk.  Like 
their  mute  playmates.  Camp  and  the  greyhounds,  they  had  at  all  times  free  access  to  his  study ;  he 
never  considered  their  tattle  as  any  disturbance  ;  they  went  and  came  as  pleased  their  fancy  ;  he  was 
always  ready  to  answer  their  questions  ;  and  when  they,  unconscious  how  he  was  engaged,  en- 
treated him  to  lay  down  his  pen  and  tell  them  a  story,  he  would  take  them  on  his  knee,  repeat  a 
ballad  or  a  legend,  kiss  them,  and  set  them  down  again  to  their  marbles  or  ninepins,  and  resume  his 
labor,  as  if  refreshed  by  the  interruption." 

His  accomplishment  of  so  much  was  due  to  his  habit  of  early  rising,  and,  as 
he  expressed  it,  "breaking  the  neck  of  the  day's  work"  before  breakfast.  This 
left  him  time  for  his  visits  and  his  visitors,  for  his  various  out-door  avocations, 
and  the  manifold  duties  and  pleasures  that  filled  his  day.  Moreover  he  was  able 
to  compose  while  walking  or  riding. 

In  this  incessant  round  of  occupations  the  years  passed  rapidly.  Unfortunately, 
his  zeal  was  enlisted  in  furthering  the  interests  of  numberless  mediocrities  who 
appealed  to  him;  and  when,  on  account  of  political  differences,  he  quarrelled  with 
the  shrewd  and  enterprising  Constable,  and  entered  with  the  Ballantyne  brothers 
into  a  rival  publishing  business,  he  sowed  the  seeds  of  disaster.  Lockhart  says 
that,  though  they  would  have  shed  their  heart's  blood  in  his  service,  yet,  as  men  of 
affairs,  they  deeply  injured  him,  and  he  adds:  — 

"The  day  that  brought  John  into  pecuniary  connection  with  him  was  the  blackest  in  his 
calendar." 


xvi  BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH. 

The  two  brothers  whom  Scott  called  respectively  Akliborontiphoscophornio  and 
,  Rigdumfunnidos,  entered  rashly  upon  all  sorts  of  engagements,  and  Scott  the  silent, 
secret  partner,  who  furnished  the  most  of  the  capital,  was  even  more  ready  to  sug- 
gest the  pul)lication  of  works  which  were  foredoomed  to  failure. 

The  bond  of  copartnership  dated  from  1809,  if  not  earlier,  and  in  May  of  the  fol- 
lowing year,  the  "  Lady  of  the  Lake  "  was  published  also,  in  a  majestic  quarto  at 
two  guineas,  and  had  a  phenomenal  success.  Within  a  few  months  twenty  thou- 
sand copies  of  different  editions  had  been  sold,  and  the  legitimate  sale  by  July, 
1836,  was  reckoned  as  exceeding  fifty  thousand  copies. 

A  curious  effect  followed  the  publication  of  this  poem;  attention  was  drawn  to 
the  l)eauties  of  the  Scottish  Lake  region,  and  the  cost  of  post-horse  service  rose  in 
an  extraordinary  degree. 

Scott  himself  increased  his  acquaintance  with  the  Highlands  during  the  sum- 
mer of  1810.  At  first  he  had  thought  of  going  to  the  peninsula,  where  the  British 
army  then  was,  but  an  invitation  from  the  Laird  of  Staffa  changed  his  mind,  and 
he  betook  himself  to  the  Hebrides  with  his  dog  Wallace,  his  wife,  his  eldest 
daughter,  and  several  friends.  This  locality  he  afterwards  chose  as  the  scene  of 
his  last  important  poem.  On  his  return  he  resumed  the  composition  of  "Wa- 
verley;"  but  at  the  desire  of  Ballantync  it  was  laid  .iside  once  more.  It  is  inter- 
esting to  know  that  while  the  publishing  affairs  of  Scott's  firm  were  going  from  bad 
to  worse,  owing  to  his  imprudent  enterprises,  he  was  tempted  "  to  pitch  the  Court 
of  Session  and  the  booksellers  to  the  Devil,"  and  go  out  to  Lidia.  Had  Mr. 
Dundas  (afterward  I^ord  Melville),  been  appointed  Governor-General  of  India, 
there  is  little  doubt  that  he  would  have  accepted  a  situation  as  Indian  Secretary  or 
Judge. 

The  year  1811  was  distinguished  by  the  publication  of  the  "Vision  of  Don 
Roderick;"  the  proceeds  of  this  he  applied  as  his  subscription  for  the  relief  of  the 
Portuguese,  who  had  suffered  so  bitterly  in  Massena's  campaign.  Far  more  im- 
portant was  his  first  purchase  of  land.  He  was  about  to  come  into  a  salary  of 
£,\yyo  as  Clerk  of  Sessions,  and  liis  lease  of  Ashestiel  had  run  out.  He 
therefore  bought  for  ^^4000  a  little  farm  stretching  half  a  mile  along  the  "  Tweed's 
Fair  River."     The  land  comprised  the  scene  of  the  last  clan  Battle  of  the  Borders, 

"  Where  gallant  Cessford's  life-blood  dear 
Reeked  on  dark  Elliot's  border  spear." 

It  consisted  of  a  rich  meadow  or  intervale,  and  a  hundred  acres  of  undulating 
land,  "  a  bank  and  haugh  as  poor  and  bare  as  Sir  John  Falstaff's  regiment,"  un- 
drained  and  unplanted  except  with  heath,  while  in  front  of  the  wretched  little 
farm-house  was  a  stagnant  pond  called  Clarty  Hole.  He  gives  in  his  diary 
a  comic  picture  of  the  hegira  from  Ashestiel  to  his  new  domain,  a  whole  troupe 
carrying  old  swords,  lances,  targets,  bows,  a  family  of  turkeys  in  a  helmet,  and 
dozens  of  peasant  children  bringing  up  the  rear.. 

The  whole  region  had  originally  belonged  to  the  Abbey  of  Melrose,  the  ruins 
of  which  were  visible  from  the  hillocks  near  the  house.  He  immediately  chris- 
tened the  estate  Abbotsford,  and  felt  no  little  pride  in  being  greeted  as  the  Laird ! 
He  immediately  began  to  plant  trees,  an  occupation  most  fascinating  to  him. 
He  also,  like  Gladstone,  took  pleasure  in  wielding  the  axe.  His  passion  for  ac- 
quiring land  was  ultimately  gratified.  His  hundred  acres  grew  into  a  domain  of 
over  a  thousand,  and  the  cottage  which  he  jilanned  became  twelve  years  later  a 
baronial  castle.  The  estate  was  acquired  by  means  of  borrowed  mone^,  half  of 
the  amount  being  advanced  on  the  security  of  the  poem  "  Rokeby,"  which  indeed 
was  not  written,  but  as  yet  only  planned. 

The  following  summer  was  among  the  busiest  of  Scott's  life.     As  he  wrote  Mr. 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH.  xvii 

Morritt,  a  dozen  masons  were  hammcrinc;  at  his  new  house,  and  his  "poor 
noddle"  at  the  poem.  Indeed,  he  was  also  at  work  at  "Triermain,"  which  he 
hoped  to  bring  out  anonymously  at  the  same  time  as  "  Rokeby." 

"  Rokeby  "  was  issued  early  in  January,  1813.  Nearly  thirty-two  hundred  copies 
at  two  guineas  were  sold  in  two  days,  and  ten  thousand  of  the  later  editions  in  three 
months,  but  its  popularity  was  much  inferior  to  his  two  preceding  poems.  Two 
months  later  "  Triermain  "  appeared,  but  its  anonymity  did  not  play  the  expected 
deception  on  Jeffrey,  for  whom  the  trap  was  chiefly  laid;  he  had  gone  to  America. 
The  Quarterly  Rczncw,  however,  was  completely  deceived. 

Amid  dark  anxieties,  and  most  humiliating  demands  upon  him  by  his  partners 
for  meeting  notes  and  claims  against  the  publishing-house,  which  seemed  to  be  los- 
ing at  the  rate  of  £100  a  month,  and  was  indeed  reported  to  be  on  the  verge  of 
bankruptcy,  Scott  received  from  the  Prince  Regent  the  offer  of  the  Laureateship. 
This  he  declined. 

In  July,  1814,  Scott's  "Life  and  Works  of  Swift,"  in  nineteen  octavo  volumes, 
were  published  in  an  edition  of  twelve  hundred  and  fifty  copies,  which  took  just  ten 
years  to  sell:  and  on  the  very  day  of  their  issue  he  finished  "  Waverley,"  having 
spent  less  than  a  month  on  the  last  two  volumes.  Constable,  with  whom,  now 
that  he  and  the  Ballantynes  had  forsworn  publishing,  he  was  again  on  friendly 
terms,  .it  first  offered  him  ;^7oo  for  the  copyright,  but  afterwards  decided  on  an 
equal  division  of  profits. 

"  Waverley  "  was  published  anonymously,  and  was  the  first  of  that  long  series 
which  procured  for  its  author  the  title  of  "  The  Cireat  Unknown,"  and  "The  Wizard 
of  the  North."  Though  thirty  persons  were  in  the  secret,  it  w.as  kept  tolerably 
well,  and  not  even  the  personal  efforts  of  the  Prince  Regent  induced  Scott  to  drop 
the  mask.  The  failure  of  the  Ballantynes  revealed  the  real  state  of  things,  and 
at  a  dinner  of  the  Theatrical  Fund  in  1827  Scott  made  his  memorable  con- 
fession . 

Without  waiting  to  see  how  his  anonymous  venture  should  succeed,  Scott  almost 
immediately  proceeded  on  what  in  his  diary  he  calls  a  "  voyage  in  the  Lighthouse 
Yacht  to  Nova  Zembla  and  the  lord  knows  where."  This  voyage  gave  the  finish- 
ing touches  to  "  The  Lord  of  the  Isles,"  and  furnished  abundant  material  for  the 
scenery  of  "The  Pirate."  On  his  return,  early  in  September,  he  arranged  with 
Const.ible  for  the  publication  of  "The  Lord  of  the  Isles."  He  received  fifteen  hun- 
dred guineas  for  one  half  of  the  copyright.  The  death  of  the  Duchess  of  Buccleuch, 
"  a  beautiful,  affectionate,  and  generous  friend,"  to  whom  he  was  sincerely  attached, 
dashed  his  enthusiasm  for  this  poem,  which  was  accordingly  finished  rather  as  a 
task  than  as  a  labor  of  love,  which  it  would  otherwise  have  been.  It  was  composed 
with  the  utmost  speed  —  the  last  three  cantos  occupying  less  than  a  month.  It 
was  published  on  January  18,  1815;  and  only  a  month  later  came  the  second  of 
the  Waverley  Novels,  "  Ciuy  Mannering,"  which  Scott  said  was  "  the  work  of  six 
weeks  at  Christmas."  And  this  in  addition  to  a  most  voluminous  correspondence 
and  other  literary  work,  besides  his  anxious  superintendence  of  the  affairs  of  the 
Ballantynes,  whose  erratic  business  man.ager  was  constantly  keeping  them  on 
a  dangerous  lee-shore. 

The  sum  received  for  "  Guy  Mannering  "  served  for  a  time  to  keep  the  sinking 
ship  from  the  reefs  of  disaster.  The  first  edition  of  two  thousand  copies  at  a 
guinea  each  was  sold  in  two  days,  and  ten  thousand  were  distributed  before  a 
collected  edition  of  the  novels  was  made. 

With  the  publication  of  "  The  Lord  of  the  Isles  "  Scott's  poetical  career  practi- 
■  cally  ended;  for  "The  Field  of  Waterloo  "  and  the  few  lyrics  which  he  wrote  dur- 
ing a  visit  to  the  Continent  in  1S15,  or  "  Harold  the  Dauntless,"  and  the  poems  that 
occur  in  the  novels  are  of  small  consequence  compared  with  his  previous  master- 


xviii  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH. 

pieces.      Scott  wrote  his  friend  Morritt  in  1817,  announcing  "Harold  the  Daunt- 
less," and  "  a  doggrel  tale  called  the  '  Search  after  Happiness  '  ":  — 

"  I  begin  to  get  too  old  and  stupid,  I  think,  for  poetry,  and  will  certainly  never  again  adventure 
on  a  grand  scale. 

Indeed,  Scott's  gift  as  a  poet  lay  in  the  province  of  improvisation,  and  had  all 
the  shortcomings,  as  well  as  the  excellencies,  characteristic  of  such  verse. 

Scott  made  one  attempt  to  be  promoted  as  Baron  of  Exchequer,  but  it  fell 
through.  While  it  was  still  pending,  he  had  a  terrible  attack  of  cramps  in  the 
stomach,  which  caused  his  friends  much  anxiety.  They  were  due  to  gallstones; 
and  their  effect  was  such  that  at  the  end  of  a  year  they  left  him  looking  twenty 
years  older,  with  scanty  hair  pure  white,  and  with  the  fire  of  his  eyes  dimmed. 
He  came  out  of  it;  but,  as  he  wrote  one  of  his  friends,  he  could  for  some  time 
"neither  stir  for  weakness  and  giddiness,  nor  read  for  dazzling  in  his  eyes,  nor 
listen  for  a  whizzing  sound  in  his  ears,  nor  even  think  for  lack  of  the  power  of 
arranging  his  ideas." 

The  attacks  kept  increasing  in  violence,  and  they  were  so  agonizing  that  his 
screams  were  heard  beyond  the  house.  Nevertheless,  in  their  intervals  he  wrote 
"Rob  Roy,"  ■^  "Old  Mortality,"  and  in  June,  1818,  he  finished  "The  Heart  of 
Mid  Lothian,"  and  began  "The  Bride  of  Lammermoor."  He  was  informed  that 
his  friend,  the  Prince  Regent,  was  going  to  grant  him  a  baronetcy;  but  just  as  he 
was  about  to  start  for  London  to  receive  it,  a  still  worse  attack  of  his  disorder 
occurred,  and  he  thought  that  he  was  dying.  He  gave  his  children  his  parting 
blessing,  and  turned  his  face  to  the  wall.  Instead  of  dying,  he  fell  into  a  deep 
sleep,  and  when  he  woke  the  crisis  had  p.ast. 

The  publication  of  "  Ivanhoe  "  in  December,  1819,  marked  the  acme  of  Scott's 
popularity.  Twelve  thousand  copies  at  ten  shillings  were  almost  instantly  sold. 
Unfortunately,  his  publishers  refrained  from  telling  him  of  the  falling  off  in  popu- 
larity of  the  succeeding  novels.  And  Scott,  whose  literary  income  had  l)een  foi 
some  time  upwards  of  ^^10,000  a  year,  believing  that  the  golden  stream  was  in- 
exhaustible, entered  deeper  and  deeper  into  the  expenditures  caused  by  the  building 
of  Abbotsford,  and  the  constant  acquisition  of  land  at  exorbitant  prices. 

During  his  visit  to  I^ondon,  in  1820,  Sir  Thomas  Lawrence  painted  his  portrait 
for  the  King's  Gallery,  and  Mr.  Chantrey  made  the  bust,  which,  according  to  Lock- 
hart,  "alone  preserves  for  posterity  the  cast  of  expression  most  fondly  rememliered 
by  all  who  ever  mingled  in  his  domestic  circle." 

Scott  was  then  gazetted  as  a  baronet;  and  the  king  remarked  to  him  at  the  levee, 
"  I  shall  alw.ays  reflect  with  pleasure  on  Sir  Walter  Scott's  having  been  the  first 
creation  of  my  reign." 

Scott,  whose  Tory  proclivities  were  always  shown,  and  who,  in  the  reform  meas- 
ures of  a  few  years  later,  saw  nothing  but  destruction,  was  naturally  much  pleased 
by  this  doubtful  distinction.  The  same  year  both  the  English  universities  conferred 
upon  him  the  honorary  degree  of  Doctor  in  Civil  Law. 

All  the  time  that  he  was  pouring  out  his  romances  at  the  rate  of  twelve  volumes 
a  year,  his  hospitality  was  burdened  with  an  unending  multitude  of  visitors  who 
made  his  castle  a  hotel.  Lockhart  says  that  the  most  princely  nobleman  of  his  age 
did  not  exceed  him  in  the  number  of  his  distinguished  visitors. 

The  next  year  John  Ballantyne  died,  much  to  the  regret  of  Scott,  to  whom  he 
left  two  thousand  pounds  by  will.     Unfortunately,  instead  of  being  possessed  of 

*  He  sent  the  final  sheets  with  this  doggrel  rhyme  :  — 
"  With  great  joy 
I  send  you  Roy. 
'Twas  a  tough  job. 
But  we're  done  with  Rob." 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH.  xix 

property,  the  reckless  fellow  was  deep  in  debt.  Scott  was  still  blinded  to  the  real 
state  of  affairs.  So  assured  was  he  of  possessing  unlimited  means  and  unlimited 
resources,  that  he  "  exchanged  instruments,  and  received  his  booksellers'  bills  for  no 
less  than  four  'works  of  fiction,'  not  one  of  them  otherwise  described  in  the  deeds 
of  agreement,  to  be  produced  in  unbroken  succession." 

Nor  did  his  genius  or  fortune  fail  him.  "The  Fortunes  of  Nigel"  were  fol- 
lowed by  "  Peveril  of  the  Peak,"  "  Quentin  Durward,"  "St.  Ronan's  Well,"  and 
"  Red  Gauntlet,"  and  Ablxjtsford  was  complete! 

He  was  happy  in  his  family;  his  eldest  son  independent  in  fortune;  his  second 
talented  and  on  the  road  to  promotion  in  the  army;  his  daughter  married  to  Lock- 
hart,  who  was  a  rising  young  man  with  fine  prospects  as  editor  of  Murray'' s  Quar- 
terly.    This  was  the  grand  climax  ! 

In  Dec.  i8,  1825,  occurs  this  entry  in  Scott's  diary:  — 

"  My  extremity  has  come.  Cadell  has  received  letters  from  London  which  all  but  positively 
announce  the  failure  of  Hurst  and  Robinson,  so  that  Constable  and  Co.  must  follow,  and  I  must  go 
with  poor  James  Ballantyne  for  company.  I  suppose  it  will  involve  my  all.  But  if  they  leave  me 
^500,  I  can  still  make  it  ^1000 or  I^\2.oo  a  year. 

At  the  thought  of  his  dogs  and  tenants  and  trees  his  heart  was  crushed  within 
him.  Lady  Scott,  pleasure-loving,  easy-going,  extravagant,  was  incredulous  and 
critical.  For  a  time  it  seemed  as  though  the  blow  might  be  avoided,  and  possibly 
it  might  if  Constable  had  hastened  to  London;  but  he  delayed,  and  the  crash  came. 
The  total  liabilities  of  the  three  allied  firms  was  about  half  a  million  pounds,  of 
which  Scott's  share  wasj^i30,ooo.     He  wrote  in  his  diary:  — 

"  I  have  walked  the  last  on  the  domains  I  have  planted  —  sate  the  last  time  in  the  halls  I  have 
built.  ...  I  find  my  eyes  moistening,  and  that  will  not  do.  I  will  not  yield  without  a  fight  for  it 
...  In  prosperous  times  I  have  sometimes  felt  my  fancy  and  powers  of  language  flag,  but  adver- 
sity is  to  me,  at  least,  a  toiiic  and  bracer ;  the  fountain  is  awakened  from  its  inmost  recesses,  as  if  the 
spirit  of  affliction  had  troubled  it  in  his  passiige." 

As  soon  as  his  misfortune  was  known,  friends  and  strangers  sprang  with  one 
impulse  to  his  aid.  One  anonymous  correspondent  was  anxious  to  send  him 
;i^30,ooo,  and  he  was  greatly  touched  by  the  offer  of  his  daughter's  harp-teacher  to 
contribute  ;^500  or  £,(300,  "probably  his  all." 

A  woman  of  rank  offered  to  marry  him,  and  some  "  unutterable  idiot  of  a  privy 
counsellor  "  tried  to  bring  about  a  match  with  a  dowager  duchess. 

But  Scott  declined  all  aid.  He  buckled  down  to  the  colossal  work  of  paying 
this  indebtedness  by  his  own  exertions.  His  creditors,  with  the  exception  of  one 
grasping  Jew,  who  demanded  his  pound  of  flesh,  were  willing  to  grant  him  every 
facility. 

He  had  once  written,  "  I  cannot  pull  well  when  the  draught  is  too  far  behind 
me.  I  love  to  have  the  press  thumping,  clattering,  banging  in  my  rear;  it  creates 
the  necessity  which  almost  always  makes  me  work  best."  And  to  his  factor,  Laid- 
law,  he  wrote,  "  For  myself  I  feel  like  the  Eildon  Hills  —  quite  firm,  though  a  little 
cloudy.  ...  I  do  not  dislike  the  path  that  lies  before  me.  I  have  seen  all  that 
society  can  show,  and  enjoyed  all  that  wealth  can  give  me,  and  I  am  satisfied  nnicli 
is  vanity,  if  not  vexation  of  spirit." 

Also  in  his  diary  he  made  the  best  of  the  matter,  "  I  think,  now  the  shock  of 
Ihe  discovery  is  past  and  over,  I  am  much  better  off  on  the  whole;  I  am  as  if  I  had 
shaken  off  from  my  shoulders  a  great  mass  of  garments,  rich  indeed,  but  cumbrous, 
and  always  more  a  burden  than  a  comfort." 

By  "Woodstock,"  the  fruit  of  less  than  three  months  later,  he  won  what  he 
calls  "  the  matchless  sum  "  of  ;i^8,228. 

Amid  these  terrible  labors  other  misfortunes  came  upon  him;  ill-health  and 
failure  of  eyesight,  the  fatal  illness  of  his  grandson,  Johnnie  Lockhart,  for  whom 


XX  BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH. 

he  ielt  a  peculiar  tenderness,  as  the  little  fellow  had  a  lameness  similar  to  his 
own;  it  was  for  him  that  he  wrote  the  "Tales  of  a  Grandfather."  Lady  Scott 
also  fell  into  ill-health  and  died  while  her  husljand  was  in  Edinburgh.  He  entered 
into  his  diary  his  conviction  that  she  was  still  "sentient  and  conscious  of  his  emo- 
tions—  somewhere  —  somehow  —  where  we  cannot  tell,  how  we  cannot  tell"  — 
and  he  spoke  with  warmth  of  "  the  mysterious  yet  certain  hope  that  he  should  see 
her  in  a  better  world." 

"Grief,"  he  wrote,  "makes  me  a  housekeeper,  and  to  labor  is  my  only  re- 
source." Yet  he  had  written  a  year  or  two  earlier  in  his  diary  that  "  never  did  a 
being  hate  task  work  as  he  had  hated  it  from  his  infancy  up."  "It  is  not  that  I 
am  idle  in  my  nature  either.  But  propose  to  me  to  do  one  thing,  and  it  is  incon- 
ceivable the  desire  I  have  to  do  something  else  —  not  that  it  is  more  easy  or  more 
pleasant,  but  just  because  it  is  escaping  from  an  imposed  task." 

The  Bank  of  Scotland  threatened  to  push  him,  and  then  for  the  first  time  he 
turned  and  declared  that  if  they  used  the  swor^  of  the  Law  he  would  grasp  the 
shield.  He  rightly  felt  that  he  ought  to  be  left  free  to  write  under  fitting 
conditions. 

During  the  two  years  preceding  January,  1828,  he  earned  by  his  pen  nearly 
;,^40,ooo! 

How  pathetic  is  this  entry  in  his  diary:  ■ — • 

"  What  a  life  mine  lias  been  !  — half-educated,  ahnost  wholly  neglected  or  left  to  myself,  stuffing 
my  head  with  most  nonsensical  trash,  and  undervalued  in  society  for  a  time  by  most  of  my  com- 
panions, getting  forward  and  held  a  bold  and  clever  fellow  contrary  to  the  opinion  of  all  who  thought 
me  a  mere  dreamer,  broken-hearted  for  two  years,  my  heart  handsomely  pieced  again,  but  the  crack 
will  remain  till  my  dying  day.  Rich  and  poor  four  or  five  times,  once  on  the  verge  of  ruin,  yet 
opened  new  sources  of  wealth  almost  overflowing.  Now  taken  in  my  pitch  of  pride  and  nearly 
winged." 

The  gallant  struggle  which  he  made  is  almost  unique  in  the  history  of  literature. 
It  became  a  passion  with  him  to  be  at  his  desk  "  feaguing  it  away,"  to  use  his  own 
expression.  But  like  Carlyle,  he  had  little  respect  for  that  "  dear /«^/zV«;«  "  whom 
he  was  doomed  to  amuse. 

When  the  debt  was  reduced  to  ;^6o,000,  the  creditors  signified  their  sense  of 
his  labors  by  surrendering  his  books,  furniture,  plate,  and  curiosities.  Some  of  his 
friends  thought  it  was  not  very  handsomely  done,  but  Scott  was  extremely  gratified. 

In  five  years  his  debt  was  reduced  to  ;[{^54,ooo,  and  if  he  had  lived  till  1833  it 
would  have  been  entirely  cleared.  But  his  health  was  yielding  under  the  strain. 
In  November,  1830,  he  resigned  from  the  Court  of  Sessions  on  a  pension  of  ^840. 
The  following  May  he  often  wished  he  might  lie  down  and  sleep  without  waking. 
His  bodily  strength  was  greatly  weakened;  fear  that  his  mental  faculties  were  fail- 
ing haunted  him.  To  linger  on  like  Swift,  "a  driveller  and  a  show,"  seemed  a 
terrible  fate. 

It  had  lieen  decided  that  he  should  try  the  effect  of  a  winter  in  Italy;  and  in 
September,  just  before  he  started,  "  the  old  splendor  of  Aljbotsford"  was  revived  for 
the  last  time.  Captain  Glencairn  Burns,  the  son  of  the  poet,  came  to  see  him. 
The  neighbors  were  assembled,  and  Sir  Walter  did  the  honors  of  the  table.  Two 
days  later  Wordsworth  came  to  bid  him  farewell.  On  the  29th  of  October  he  sailed 
for  Malta  on  a  government  frigate.  He  was  conscious  that  his  days  were  num- 
bered;   he  wrote  in  his  diary,  "  I  am  perhaps  setting." 

At  Malta  he  made  a  round  of  visits  with  old  friends,  and  was  greatly  gratified 
at  a  grand  ball  given  in  his  honor.  Four  hundred  gentlemen,  mostly  English  offi- 
cers, were  present. 

At  Naples  his  son  Charles  was  awaiting  him;  and  there  was  a  fine  eruption 
of  Vesuvius,  which  Scott  thought,  if  it  portended  his  death,  did  him  too  much 
honor.     He  went  to  the  Palazzo  on  the  king's  birthday  dressed  like  a  brigadier- 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH.  xA 

general  of  Archers'  Guards;  he  wore  "  a  decent  green  uniform,  laced  at  the  cuffs," 
and  was  "  sworded  and  feathered." 

Here  he  refused  to  listen  to  the  remonstrances  of  his  friends  and  the  warning  of 
his  physicians,  but  began  a  new  novel,  and  planned  to  close  the  series  of  Waverley 
with  a  poem  in  the  style  of  "  the  Lay  "  or  "the  Lady  of  the  Lake:"  the  subject, 
a  curious  tale  of  chivalry  Ijelonging  to  Rhodes.  In  order  to  carry  out  this  dream. 
Sir  Frederick  Adams  offered  him  a  steamlxiat  that  should  carry  him  to  Greece. 
Rut  this  plan  was  abandoned. 

Accordingly  Sir  Walter  bought  a  small  closing  carriage,  and  on  the  i6th  of  April 
started  for  Rome. 

He  grew  more  and  more  impatient  to  get  home.  He  had  looked  forward  to 
meeting  Goethe  in  Germany.  This  hope  also  was  disappointed.  "  He  at  least  died 
at  home,"  he  said —  "  let  us  to  Ablx)tsford." 

He  seemed  to  enjoy  the  steamboat  trip  down  the  Rhine;  but  on  the  9th  of  June 
he  was  attacked  by  apoplexy,  combined  with  paralysis.  He  was  brought  to  London 
a  week  later,  and  it  was  not  until  the  middle  of  July  that  he  was  allowed  to  return 
to  Ablx)tsford,  which  he  so  longed  to  see. 

He  lingered  until  the  21st  of  September,  when  he  peacefully  died  in  the  presence 
of  all  his  children. 

His  two  sons  died  childless.  Lockhart's  daughter  Charlotte  married  James 
Hope,  whose  daughter,  Mary  Monica,  became  the  wife  of  the  Honorable  Joseph 
Maxwell,  the  present  possessor  of  Abbotsford.      They  have  six  children. 

Lockhart's  biography  of  Scott  is  justly  regarded  as  a  model  of  fairness  and  abil- 
ity. It  has  been  since  supplemented  by  the  publication  of  Scott's  letters,  and  of 
the  diary  from  which  Lockhart  made  limited  extracts.  The  result  is  that  Scott's 
life  lies  lx.'fore  us  with  the  utmost  distinctness:  his  generosity,  his  modesty,  his  lofty 
principle  and  piety,  modified,  as  in  the  case  of  all  human  beings,  by  his  individual- 
ity, his  toryism,  his  outspoken  frankness,  his  occasional  narrowness.  He  had  his 
faults,  but  few  men  could  better  afford  to  allow  the  world  to  balance  them  with  his 
noble  qualities. 

We  have  the  vividest  pen-pictures  of  Scott's  daily  life;  we  know  his  methods 
of  composition,  his  disjjosition  of  time,   his  ideas  of  hospitality. 

Few  men  were  ever  more  honored.  In  1827  he  was  appointed  Professor  of 
Antiquities  at  the  Royal  Academy,  and,  writing  of  his  honorary  titles,  he  re- 
marked jocosely :  — 

"  What  a  tail  of  the  alphabet  I  should  draw  after  me  were  I  to  sign  with  the  indications  of  the 
different  societies  I  belong  to,  beginning  with  President  of  the  Royal  Society  of  Edinburgh  and 
ending  with  umpire  of  the  Six-foot-high  Club!  " 

There  oftentimes  arises  discussion  as  to  the  immortality  of  Scott;  but  while  we 
may  readily  acknowledge  his  faults  as  a  man,  as  a  novelist,  and  as  a  poet,  still  we 
may  be  justified  in  asserting  that  it  will  be  a  sad  day,  should  it  ever  come,  when 
the  young  do  not  feel  their  hearts  glow  with  enthusiasm  alike  for  Scott's  honorable 
life  and  for  his  varied  and  splendid  works. 

Nathan    Haskell  Dole. 


CONTENTS. 


r 


Introduction     by    Charles    Eliot 

Norton iii 

Biographical  Sketch  by  Nathan 

Haskell  Dole ix 

The  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel — • 

Preface  to  First  Edition      ...  i 

Introduction  to  Edition  1830  .     .  2 

Introduction 9 

Canto     1 10 

Canto   II 15 

Canto  III 20 

Canto  IV 26 

Canto    V 34 

Canto  VI 40 

Marmion  — 

Advertisement  to  First  Edition      .  48 
Introduction  to  Edition  1830  .     .  49 
Introduction  to  Canto  I.  (To  Wil- 
liam Stuart  Rose) 51 

Canto  I.,  "  The  Castle  "     ...  54 
Introduction  to  Canto   II.      (To 

the  Rev.  John  Marriott)       .      .  61 

Canto  II.,  "The  Convent"    .     .  63 
Introduction  to   Canto   III.    (To 

William  Erskine) 70 

Canto  III.,  "  The  Hostel  or  Inn  "  73 
Introduction  to   Canto    IV.    (To 

James  Skene) 80 

Canto  IV.,  "  The  Camp  "  .     .     .  82 
Introduction    to    Canto  V.     (To 

George  Ellis) 90 

Canto  v.,  "The  Court"    ...  92 

Lochinvar 96 


Marmion  — 

Introduction   to   Canto   VI.    (To 

Richard  Heber) 104 

Canto  VI.,  "The  Battle".     .     .   106 
L'Envoy 119 

The  Lady  of  the  Lake  — 
Introduction  to  Edition  1830  . 
Canto  I.,  "  The  Chase  " 
Canto  IL,  "The  Island"  . 
Canto  HI.,  "The  Gathering  " 
Canto  IV.,  "The  Prophecy" 
Canto  v.,  "  The  Combat  "  . 
Canto  VI.,  "The  Guard-Room 


120 
124 
132 
142 

151 
160 
170 


The  Vision  of  Don  Roderick  — 

Preface 180 

Introduction 181 

Part  1 183 

Conclusion 195 

ROKEBY  — 

Advertisement  to  First  Edition     .  199 

Introduction  to  Edition  1830  .      .  200 

Canto      1 203 

Canto    II 211 

Canto  III 219 

Canto  IV 228 

Canto    V 236 

Canto  VI 247 

The  Bridal  of  Triermain;    or, 
THE  Vale  of  St.  John  — 
Preface  to  First  Edition      .     .     .258 

Introduction 261 

Canto  1 263 


CONTENTS. 


The  Bridal  of  Tkiermain  — 

Lyulph's  Tale 264 

Canto  II. ,  Lyulph's  Tale,  contin- 
ued      267 

Introduction  to  Canto  III. .     .     .276 

Canto  III 277 

Conclusion 287 

The  Lord  of  the  Isi.es  — 

Advertisement  to  First  Edition     .   288 
Introduction  to  Edition  1830  .     .  288 

Canto      1 290 

Canto    II 297 

Canto  III 305 

Canto  IV 313 

Canto    V 321 

Canto  VI 330 

The  Field  of  Waterloo  .     .     .  342 
Harold  the  Daijntless  — 

Introduction 350 

Canto     1 351 

Canto  II 356 

Canto  III 361 

Canto  IV 365 

Canto    V 370 

Canto  VI 374 

Contributions  to  Minstrelsy  of 
the  Scottish  Border  — 
Thomas  the  Rhymer: 

Part     I.    Ancient 381 

Part  II.  Altered  from  Ancient 

Prophecies 383 

Part  III.    Modern 385 

Glenfinlas;     or,     Lord    Ronald's 

Coronach 38S 

The  Eve  of  St.  John       ....  392 

Cadyow  Castle 395 

The  Gray  Brother 399 

Ballads,    Translated,    or    Imi- 
tated, FROM   the   German, 
etc. — 
William  and  Helen 403 


.vers  from 


:h  Li 


Ballads  from  the  German  — 
The  Wild  Huntsman 
The  F"ire-King 
Frederick  and  Alice  . 
The  Battle  of  Sempach 
The  Noble  Moringer 
The  Erl-King  . 
Miscellaneous  Poems  — 
Juvenile  Lines 
On  a  Thunder-storm 
On  the  Setting  Sun 
The  Violet       .     . 
To  a  Lady.     (With  Flo 

a  Roman  Wall) 
War-song  of  theEdinl)i 

Dragoons 
The  Bard's  Incantation 
Helvellyn   .... 
The  Dying  Bard   . 
The  Norman  Horse-shoe 
The  Maid  of  Toro     . 
The  Palmer 
The  Maid  of  Neidpath 
Wandering  Willie 
Hunting  Song 
Health  to  Lord  Melville 
Epitaph  designed  for  a  Monum 

in  Lichfield  Cathedral 
The  Resolve  .... 
Prologue  to  Miss  Baillie's  Play  o 

the  Family  Legend 
The  Poacher    . 

Song,  "  Oh,  say  not,  my  love  ' 
The  Bold  Dragoon;   or,  the  Plain 

of  Badajoz 

On  the  Massacre  of  Glencoe    . 

For  a'  that  an'  a'  that    . 

Song  for  the  Anniversary   Meet 

ing  of  the  Pitt  Club  of  .Scotland 
Lines  addressed  to  Ranald  Mac 

donald,  Esq.,  of  Staffa    .     . 
Pharos  Loquitur 


CONTENTS. 


Miscellaneous  Poems  — 

Letter   in   verse   to   the   Duke  of 

Buccleuch 441 

Postscriptum 443 

Farewell    to     Mackenzie,     High 

Chief  of  Kiiitail 448 

War-Song     of     Lachlan,     High 

Chief  of  Maclean 449 

Saint  Cloud 450 

The  Dance  of  Death       ....   450 

Romance  of  Dunois 452 

The  Troubadour 452 

Song  from  the  French  ....  453 
Song  on  the  Lifting  of  the  Banner 

of  the  House  of  Buccleuch  .  .  453 
Lullaby  of  an  Infant  Chief  .  .  454 
The  Return  to  Ulster     ....  455 

Jock  of  Hazeldean 455 

Pibroch  of  Donald  Dhu       .     .     .  456 

Nora's  Vow 456 

Macgregorfe  Gathering  .  .  .  -457 
Verses  to  the  Tsar  Alexander  .  .  458 
The  Search  after  Happiness;   or, 

the  Quest  of  Sultaun  Solimaun  462 
The  Sun  upon  the  Weirdlaw  Hill  468 
The  Monks  of  Bangor's  March  .  46S 
Mr.  Kemble's  Farewell  Address  .  468 
Lines  written  for  Miss  Smith  .  .  469 
Letter  to  his  Grace,  the  Duke  of 

Buccleuch 470 

Epilogue  to  the  Appeal  .  .  .  472 
Mackrimmon's  Lament  .  .  .  472 
Donald  Caird's  come  again  .  .  473 
Epitaph  on  Mrs.  Erskine  .  .  .  476 
On  Ettrick  Forest's  Mountains  Dun  504 
Farewell  to  the  Muse     ....  505 

The  Maid  of  Isla 505 

Carle,  now  the  King's  Come  .  .  505 
The  Bannatyne  Club  .  .  .  .512 
Epilogue  to   the  Drama  founded 

on  «•  St.  Ronan's  Well  "  .  .518 
To  J.  G.  Lockhart,  Esq.     .     .     .519 


Miscellaneous  Poems  — 

Lines  addressed  to  Monsieur  Alex- 
andre        520 

Life  of  Napoleon 521 

Verses  from  Scott's  Journal,  1826  529 
Verses  from  Scott's  Journal,  1827  530 
The  Death  of  Keeldar  .  .  .  .530 
Verse  from  Scott's  Journal,  1828  533 
Glengarry's  Death-Song  »  .  .  533 
Verses  from  Scott's  Journal,  1829  535 
Inscription  for  the  Monument  of 

the  Rev.  George  Scott    .     .     -535 
The  Foray 536 

Songs  and  Mottoes  from   the 
Waverley  Novels  — 

FROM    "WAVKKLEY." 

Bridal  Song 444 

Lines  by  Edward  Waverley     .     .  444 
Davie  Gellatley's  Songs      .     .      .  445 
"  False  love,  and  hast  thou  play'd  me 

this  ?  " 
"The  Knight's  to  the  mountain." 
"  Hie  Away." 

"  Young  men  will  love  thee  more  fair 
and  more  fast." 

St.  Swithin's  Chair 445 

Flora  Maclvor's  Song    ....  446 
"  There  is  mist  on  the  mountain. " 

To  an  Oak  Tree 447 

Follow,  follow  me 448 

FROM    "guy   MANNERING." 

"  Twist  ye.  Twine  ye "  .  .  .  454 
The  Dying  Gypsy's  Dirge  .      .     .  454 

FROM    "  THE   ANTIQUARY." 

Time 458 

Elspeth's  Ballad 45S 

Mottoes 459 

FROM    THE   "  BLACK   DWARF." 

Motto 461 

FROM    "old   MORTALITY." 

Major  Bellenden's  Song      .     .     .461 
Verses  found  in  Both  well's  Poc- 
ket-book        461 

Mottoes 462 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Songs  and  Mottoes    from    tiie 
Waverley  Novels  — 

FROM    "  KOB    ROY." 

To   the    Memory  of    Edward    the 

Black  Prince 470 

Translation  from  Ariosto     .      .     .471 
Mottoes 471 

FROM    "the    heart    OK    MIU-LO THIAN." 

EfFie  Dean's  Songs 474 

"  The  elfin  Knight  sat  on  the  brae." 
"  Thro'  the  kirkyard." 
Madge  Wildfire's  Songs      .     .     .  475 
Mottoes 475 

FROM    "the    bride   OF    LAMMERMOOR." 

Lucy  Ashton's  Song      ....  476 
"  Look  thou  not  on  beauty's  charming." 

Norman  the  Forester's  Song    .     .  476 
"  The  monk  must  arise  when  the  mat- 
ins ring." 

Mottoes 476 

FROM    "the    LEGEND   OF   MONTROSE." 

Annot  Lyle's  Songs 477 

"  Birds  of  omen  dark  and  foul." 

"  Gaze  not  upon  the  stars,  fond  sage." 

The  Orphan  Maid 477 

"  Wert  Thou  like  me  "  .     .     .     .478 

FROM    "  IVANHOE." 

The  Crusader's  Return  ....  478 
The  Barefooted  Friar     ....  478 

Saxon  War-Song 479 

Rebecca's  Hymn 480 

A  Virelai 480 

Duet  between   the  Black  Knight 

and  Wamba 481 

Funeral  Hymn 481 

Mottoes 481 

FROM    "  THE   MONASTERY." 

Songs  of  the  White  Lady  of  Av- 
enel: 
(l.)  On  Tweed  River     .     .      .  482 
(2.)  To  the  Sub- Prior    .      .     .  483 

Halbert's  Incantation 484 

The  White  Lady's  Answer     .     .     .  484 


PAGE 

Songs  and   Mottoes    from    the 
Waverley  Novels  — 

FROM    "  THE    MONASTERY." 

Songs  in  Halbert's  Second   Inter- 
view with  the  White  Lady  of 

Avenel 485 

The  White  Lady  to  Mary  Avenel  486 
The    White     Lady    to    Edward 

Glendenning 487 

The  White  Lady's  Farewell      .  487 

Border  Ballad 487 

Paraphrase  of  Horace    ....  487 
Mottoes 488 

FROM    "  THE    ABBOT." 

Mottoes 490 

FROM    "  KENILWORTH." 

Goldthred's  Song 482 

"  Of  all  the  birds  on  bush  or  tree." 

Speech  of  the  Porter      ....  492 

Mottoes 492 

FROM    "  THE    PIRA-?E." 

The  Song  of  the  Tempest  .     .     .  494 
Claud  Halcro's  Song:    "Mary"  495 
The  Song  of  Harold  Harfager      .  495 
Song  of  the  Mermaids  and  Mer- 
men     495 

Noma's  Song 496 

Noma  and  Trold 496 

Claud  Halcro  and  Noma    .      .      .  497 

Song  of  the  Zetland  Fishermen    .  498 

Cleveland's  Serenade     ....  499 

Claud  Halcro's  Verses  ....  499 

Claud  Halcro's  Invocation       .      .  499 

Noma's  Runic  Rhyme  ....  500 

Noma's  Spells 500 

Bryce  Snailfoot's  Sign  ....  502 

Fragment  of  a  Sea-Ditty     .     .     .  502 

Dick  Fletcher's  Ditty     ....  502 

Mottoes 502 

FROM    "the    FORTUNES   OF   NIGEL." 

Rhymes  of  Alsatia 508 

Mottoes 509 


CONTENTS. 


PACK 

Songs  and  Mottoes    from    the 
Waverley  Novels  — 

FROM    "  PKVERIL  OF   THE    PEAK." 

Mottoes 513 

FROM    "qUENTIN    DURWARD." 

Song  —  County  Guy      .     .     .     .515 
Paraphrase  from  "  Orlando  Furi- 

oso  " 515 

Mottoes 515 

FROM    "  ST.    RONAn's   WEl.t.." 

Mottoes 517 

FROM    "  REDGAUNTLET." 

Cowley's  Catch  Amplified  .      .     .519 
Consolation 519 

FROM    "the    betrothed." 

Song —Soldier,  Wake  ....  521 

Song — The  Truth  of  Woman      .  521 

A  Welsh  Lay 522 

Mottoes 522 

FROM    "the   TALISMAN." 

Ahriman 5^3 

To  the  Arch-Duke  of  Austria  .     .   523 
Song   of    Blondel — The    Bloody 

Vest 524 

Mottoes 526 

FROM    "  WOODSTOCK." 

Obey  the  Doom 5^7 

Glee  for  King  Charles    ....  527 

One  Hour  with  Thee      ....  527 

Wildrake'b  Toast 52S 

Mottoes 528 

FROM    "  THE    HIGHLAND    WirOW." 

Motto 530 

FROM    THE   "two   DROVERS." 

Motto 530 


Songs  and  Mottoes    from    the 
Waverley  Novels  — 

FROM    "  MV   AUNT   MARGAREt's  MIRROR." 

Motto 531 

FROM    "  THE    FAIR    MAID   OF   PERTH." 

Mottoes 531 

The  Lay  of  Poor  Louise      .      .     .531 
Oliver  Proudfute's  Glee       .     .     .   532 
Chant  over  the  Dead      .     ,     .      .   532 
A    Dirge.       "Yes,    thou     mayst 
sigh  " 532 

FROM    "  ANNS  OF  GEIERSTKIN." 

The  Secret  Tribunal       ....  533 
Mottoes 534 

FROM    "count    ROBERT  OF    PARIS." 

Mottoes 536 

FROM    "  CASTLE   DANGEROUS." 

Mottoes 537 

Fragments,  of  very  early  date  — 

Bothwell  Castle 539 

The  Shepherd's  Tale      ....   539 

Cheviot 542 

The  Reiver's  Wedding  ....   542 

Dramatic  Pieces  — 

Halidon     Hill:      A    Dramatic 
Sketch  from  Scottish  History    .   544 


Macduff's  Cro.ss  .  .  . 
The  Doom  of  Devorgoil 
Auchindrane;   or,  the  Ayrshire 

Tragedy 

The  House  of  Aspen 


Appendix  —  Notes 
Index  of  First  Lines 


567 
573 

615 
653 
681 

765 


THE 

LAY  OF  THE  LAST  MINSTREL 


A   POEM    IN    SIX  CANTOS. 


Dum  relego,  scripsisse  pudet ;  quia  plurima  cerno, 
Me  quoque,  qui  feci,  judice,  digna  lini. 


TO   THE    RIGHT    HONORABLE 

CHARLES,    EARL    OF    DALKEITH, 


THIS    POEM    IS   INSCRIBED    BY 


THE   AUTHOR. 


PREFACE  TO  THE   FIRST  EDITION. 

The  Poetn,  now  offered  la  the  Public,  is  intended  to  illustrate  the  customs  and  manners 
which  anciently  prevailed  on  the  Borders  of  Etigland  and  Scotland.  The  inhabitants 
living  in  a  state  partly  pastoral  and  partly  warlike,  and  combining  habits  of  constant 
depredation  with  the  influence  of  a  rude  spirit  of  chivalry,  were  often  engaged  in  scenes 
highly  susceptible  of  poetical  ornament.  As  the  description  of  scenery  and  manners  was 
more  the  object  of  the  Author  than  a  combined  and  regular  narrative,  the  plan  of  the 
ancient  Metrical  Kotnance  was  adopted,  which  allows  greater  latitude,  in  this  respect,  than 
would  be  consistent  with  the  dignity  of  a  regular  Poem.  The  same  model  offered  other 
facilities,  as  it  permits  an  occasional  alteration  of  measure,  which,  in  some  degree,  author- 
izes the  change  of  rhythm  in  the  text.  The  machinery,  also  adopted  from  popular  belief, 
wo ti Id  have  seemed  puerile  in  a  Poem  which  did  not  partake  of  the  rudettess  of  the  old 
Ballad,  or  Metrical  Romance. 

For  these  reasons,  the  Poem  was  put  into  the  mouth  of  an  ancient  Minstrel,  the  last  of 
the  race,  who,  as  he  is  supposed  to  have  survived  the  Revolution,  might  have  caught  some- 
what of  the  refinement  of  modern  poetry,  without  losing  the  simplicity  of  his  original 
model.  The  date  of  the  Tale  itself  is  about  the  middle  of  the  sixteenth  century,  when  most 
of  the  personages  actually  flourished.  The  time  occupied  by  the  action  is  Three  Nights 
and  Thrte  Days. 


THE  LAY   OF   THE  LAST  MLNSTREL. 


INTRODUCTION    TO    EDITION     1830. 

A  Poem  of  nearly  thirty  years'  standing  may  be  supposed  hardly  to  need  an  Introduc- 
tion, since,  without  one,  it  has  been  able  to  keep  itself  afloat  through  the  best  part  of  a 
generation.  Nevertheless,  as,  in  the  edition  of  the  Waverley  Novels  now  in  course  of  pub- 
lication [1830],  I  have  imposed  on  myself  the  task  of  saying  something  concerning  the 
purpose  and  history  of  each,  in  their  turn,  I  am  desirous  that  the  Poems  for  which  1  first 
received  some  marks  of  the  public  favor,  should  also  be  accompanied  with  such  scraps  of 
their  literary  history  as  may  be  supposed  to  carry  interest  along  with  them.  Even  if  I  should 
be  mistaken  in  thinking  that  the  secret  history  of  what  was  once  so  popular,  may  still  attract 
public  attention  and  curiosity,  it  seems  to  me  not  without  its  use  to  record  the  manner  and 
circumstances  under  which  the  present,  and  other  Poems  on  the  same  plan,  attained  for  a 
season  an  extensive  reputation. 

I  must  resume  the  story  of  my  literary  labors  at  the  period  at  which  I  broke  off  in  the 
Essay  on  the  Imitation  of  Popular  Poetry,  when  I  had  enjoyed  the  first  gleam  of  public 
favor,  by  the  success  of  the  first  edition  of  the  Minstrelsy  of  the  Scottish  Border.  Tlie 
second  edition  of  that  work,  published  in  1803,  proved,  in  the  language  of  the  trade,  rather 
a  heavy  concern.  The  demand  in  Scotland  had  been  supplied  by  the  first  edition,  and  the 
curiosity  of  the  English  was  not  much  awakened  by  poems  in  the  rude  garb  of  antiquity, 
accompanied  with  notes  referring  to  the  obscure  feuds  of  barbarous  clans,  of  whose  very 
names  civilized  history  was  ignorant.  It  was,  on  the  whole,  one  of  those  books  which  are 
more  praised  than  they  are  read. 

At  this  time  I  stood  personally  in  a  different  position  from  that  which  I  occupied  when  I 
first  dipt  my  desperate  j)en  in  ink  for  other  purposes  than  those  of  my  profession.  In  1 796, 
when  I  first  published  the  Translations  from  Biirger,  I  was  an  insulated  individual,  with 
only  my  own  wants  to  provide  for,  and  having,  in  a  great  measure,  my  own  inclinations 
alone  to  consult.  In  1803,  when  the  second  edition  of  the  Minstrelsy  appeared,  I  had 
arrived  at  a  period  of  life  when  men,  however  thoughtless,  encounter  duties  and  circum- 
stances which  press  consideration  and  plans  of  life  upon  the  most  careless  minds.  I  had 
been  for  some  time  married  —  was  the  father  of  a  rising  family  —  and,  though  fully  enabled 
to  meet  the  consequent  demands  upon  me,  it  was  my  duty  and  desire  to  place  myself  in  a 
situation  which  would  enable  me  to  make  honorable  provision  against  the  various  contin- 
gencies of  life. 

It  may  be  readily  supposed  that  the  attempts  which  I  had  made  in  literature  had  been 
unfavorable  to  my  success  at  the  Bar.  The  goddess  Themis  is  at  Edinburgh,  and  I  suppose 
every  where  else,  of  a  peculiarly  jealous  disposition.  She  will  not  readily  consent  to  share 
her  authority,  and  sternly  demands  from  her  votaries,  not  only  that  real  duty  be  carefully 
attended  to  and  discharged,  but  that  a  certain  air  of  business  shall  be  observed  even  in  the 
midst  of  total  idleness.  It  is  prudent,  if  not  absolutely  necessary,  in  a  young  barrister,  to 
appear  completely  engrossed  by  his  profession  ;  however  destitute  of  employment  he  may  in 
reality  be,  he  ought  to  preserve,  if  possible,  the  appearance  of  full  occupation.  He  should, 
therefore,  seem  perpetually  engaged  among  his  law  papers,  dusting  them,  as  it  were  ;  and, 
as  Ovid  advises  the  fair, 

'■'■Si  nullus  erit pulvis,  tamen  excute  nullum."  1 

Perhaps  such  extremity  of  attention  is  more  especially  required,  considering  the  great 
number  of  counsellors  who  are  called  to  the  Bar,  and  how  very  small  a  proportion  of  them 
are  finally  disposed,  or  find  encouragement,  to  follow  the  law  as  a  profession.  Hence  the 
number  of  deserters  is  so  great,  that  the  least  Ungering  look  behind  occasions  a  yoimg 
novice  to  be  set  down  as  one  of  the  intending  fugitives.  Certain  it  is,  that  the  Scottish 
Themis  was  at  this  time  peculiarly  jealous  of  any  flirtation  with  the  Muses,  on  the  part  of 
those  who  had  ranged  themselves  under  her  banners.  This  was  probably  owing  to  her 
consciousness  of  the  superior  attractions  of  her  rivals.  Of  late,  however,  she  has  relaxed 
in  some  instances  in  this  particular  —  an  eminent  example  of  which  has  bee  shewn  in  the 
case  of  my  friend,  Mr.  Jeffrey,  who,  after  long  conducting  one  of  the  most  influential  literary 
periodicals  of  the  age  with  unquestionable  ability,  has  been,  by  the  general  consent  of  his 

1  "  If  dust  be  none,  yet  brush  that  none  away." 


INTRODUCTION.  3 

brethren,  recently  elected  to  be  their  Dean  of  Faculty,  or  President  —  being  the  highest 
acknowledgment  of  his  professional  talents  which  they  had  it  in  their  power  to  offer.  But 
this  is  an  incident  much  beyond  the  ideas  of  a  period  of  thirty  years'  distance,  when  a  bar- 
rister who  really  possessed  any  turn  for  lighter  literature,  was  at  as  much  pains  to  conceal 
it  as  if  it  had  in  reality  been  something  to  be  ashamed  of ;  and  1  could  mention  more  than 
one  instance  in  which  literature  and  society  have  suffered  much  loss,  that  jurisprudence 
might  be  enriched. 

Such,  however,  was  not  my  case ;  for  the  reader  will  not  wonder  that  my  ojDen  interfer- 
ence with  matters  of  ligiit  literature  diminished  ray  employment  in  the  weightier  matters 
of  the  law.  Nor  did  the  solicitors,  upon  whose  choice  the  counsel  takes  rank  in  his  profes- 
sion, do  me  less  than  justice,  by  regarding  otliers  among  my  contemporaries  as  fitter  to 
discharge  the  duty  due  to  their  clients,  than  a  young  man  who  was  taken  up  with  run- 
ning after  ballads,  whether  Teutonic  or  National.  My  profession  and  I,  therefore,  came  to 
stand  nearly  upon  the  footing  whicli  honest  Slender  consoled  himself  on  having  established 
with  Mistress  Anne  Page  :  '•  There  was  no  great  love  between  us  at  the  beginning,  and  it 
pleased  Heaven  to  decrease  it  on  farther  acquaintance."  I  became  sensible  that  the  time 
was  come  when  1  must  eitlier  buckle  myself  resolutely  to  the  ''  toil  by  day,  the  lamp  by 
night,"  renouncing  all  the  Delilahs  of  my  imagination,  or  bid  adieu  to  the  profession  of  the 
law,  and  liold  another  course. 

I  confess  my  own  inclination  revolted  from  the  more  severe  choice,  which  might  have 
been  deemed  Ijy  many  the  wiser  alternative.  Asniy  transgressions  had  been  numerous,  my 
repentance  must  have  \yss,\\  signali/.od  by  unusual  sacrifices.  I  ought  to  have  mentioned, 
that  since  my  fourteenth  or  fifteenth  year,  my  health,  originally  delicate,  had  become  ex- 
tremely robust.  P'rom  infancy  I  had  labored  under  the  infirmity  of  a  severe  lameness,  but. 
as  I  lielieve  is  usually  the  case  with  men  of  spirit  who  suffer  under  personal  inconveniences 
of  this  nature,  I  had,  since  the  improvement  of  ray  health,  in  defianceof  this  incapacitating 
circurastance  distinguished  myself  by  the  endurance  of  toil  on  foot  or  horseback,  having  often 
walked  thirty  miles  a  day,  and  rode  upwards  of  a  hundred,  without  resting.  In  this  manner 
I  made  many  pleasant  journeys  through  parts  of  the  country  then  not  very  accessible,  gain- 
ing more  amusement  and  instruction  than  I  have  been  able  to  acquire  since  I  have  travelled 
in  a  more  commodious  manner.  I  practised  most  sylvan  sports  also,  with  some  success,  and 
with  great  deliglit.  I3ut  these  pleasures  must  have  been  all  resigned,  or  used  with  great 
moderation,  had  I  determined  to  regain  my  station  at  the  Bar.  It  was  even  doubtful  whether 
I  could,  with  perfect  character  as  a  jurisconsult,  retain  a  situation  in  a  volunteer  corps  of 
cavalry,  which  I  then  held.  The  threats  of  invasion  were  at  this  time  instant  and  menacing  ; 
the  call  by  Britain  on  her  children  was  universal,  and  was  answered  by  some,  who,  like  my- 
self, consulted  rather  their  desire  than  their  ability  to  bear  arms.  My  services,  however,  were 
found  useful  in  assisting  to  maintain  the  discipline  of  the  corps,  being  the  point  on  which 
their  constitution  rendered  them  most  amenable  to  military  criticism.  In  other  respects,  the 
squadron  was  a  fine  one,  consisting  chiefly  of  handsome  men,  well  mounted  and  armed  at 
their  own  expense.  My  attention  to  the  corps  took  up  a  good  deal  of  time;  and  while  it 
occupied  many  of  the  happiest  hours  of  my  life,  it  furnished  an  additional  reason  for  my 
reluctance  again  to  encounter  the  severe  course  of  study  indispensable  to  success  in  the 
juridical  profession. 

On  the  other  hand,  my  father,  whose  feelings  might  have  been  hurt  by  my  quitting  the 
Bar,  had  been  for  two  or  three  years  dead,  so  that  I  had  no  control  to  thwart  my  own  incli- 
nation ;  and  my  income  being  equal  to  all  the  comforts,  and  some  of  the  elegancies,  of  life, 
I  was  not  pressed  to  an  irksome  lalxir  by  necessity,  that  most  powerful  of  motives ;  conse- 
quently, I  was  the  more  easily  seduced  to  choose  the  employment  which  was  most  agreeable 
to  me.  This  was  yet  the  easier,  that  in  1800  I  had  obtained  the  preferment  of  Sheriff  of 
Selkirkshire,  about  ;^30o  a  year  in  value,  and  which  was  the  more  agreeable  to  me,  as  in  that 
country,  I  had  several  friends  and  relations.  But  I  did  not  abandon  the  profession  to  which 
I  had  been  educated  without  certain  prudential  resolutions,  which,  at  the  risk  of  some  ego- 
tism, I  will  here  mention  ;  not  without  the  hope  that  they  may  be  useful  to  young  persons 
who  may  stand  in  circumstances  similar  to  those  in  which  I  then  stood. 

In  the  first  place,  upon  considering  the  lives  and  fortunes  of  persons  who  had  given  them- 
selves up  to  literature,  or  to  the  task  of  pleasing  the  public, it  seemed  to  me,  that  the  circunv 
stances  which  chiefly  affected  their  happiness  and  character,  were  those  from  which  Horace 
has  bestowed  upon  authors  the  epithet  of  the  Irritable  Race.  It  requires  no  depth  of  philo- 
sophic reflection  to  perceive,  that  the  petty  warfare  of  Pope  with  the  Dunces  of  his  period 


4  THE   LAY   OF   THE  LAST  MINSTREL. 

could  not  have  been  carried  on  without  his  suffering  tlic  most  acute  torture,  such  as  a  man 
must  endure  from  mosquitoes,  by  whose  stings  he  suffers  agony,  although  he  can  crush  them 
in  his  grasp  by  mjrriads.  Nor  is  it  necessary  to  call  to  memory  the  many  humiliating 
instances  in  which  men  of  the  greatest  genius  have,  to  avenge  some  pitiful  quarrel,  made 
themselves  ridiculous  during  their  lives,  to  become  the  still  more  degraded  objects  of  pity 
to  future  times. 

Upon  the  whole,  as  I  had  no  pretension  to  the  genius  of  the  distinguished  persons  who 
had  fallen  into  such  errors,  I  concluded  there  could  be  no  occasion  for  imitating  tliem  in 
their  mistakes,  or  what  I  considered  as  such  ;  and,  in  adopting  literary  pursuits  as  the  prin- 
cipal occupation  of  my  future  life,  I  resolved,  if  possible,  to  avoid  those  weaknesses  of  tem 
per  which  seemed  to  have  most  easily  beset  my  more  celebrated  predecessors. 

With  tliis  view,  it  was  my  first  resolution  to  keep  as  far  as  was  in  my  power  abreast  of 
society,  continuing  to  maintain  my  place  in  general  company,  without  yielding  to  the  very 
natural  temptation  of  narrowing  myself  to  what  is  called  literary  society.  l>y  doing  so,  1 
imagined  I  should  escape  the  besetting  sin  of  listening  to  language,  which,  from  one  motive 
or  other,  is  apt  to  ascribe  a  very  undue  degree  of  consequence  to  literary  pursuits,  as  if  they 
were,  indeed,  the  business,  rather  than  the  amusement,  of  life.  'J"he  opposite  course  can  only 
Ixj  compared  to  the  injudicious  conduct  of  one  who  pampers  himself  with  cordial  and  lus- 
cious draughts,  until  lie  is  unable  to  endure  wholesome  bitters.  I,ike  Gil  Bias,  therefore.  I 
resolved  to  stick  by  the  society  of  my  commis,  instead  of  seeking  that  of  a  more  literary  cast, 
and  to  maintain  my  general  interest  in  what  was  going  on  around  me,  reserving  the  man  of 
letters  for  the  desk  and  the  library. 

My  second  resolution  was  a  corollary  from  the  first.  I  determined  that,  without  shutting 
my  ears  to  the  voice  of  true  criticism,  I  would  pay  no  regard  to  that  which  assumes  the  form  of 
satire.  I  therefore  resolved  to  arm  myself  with  that  triple  brass  of  11  orace,  of  which  those  of  my 
profession  are  seldom  held  deficient,  against  all  the  roving  warfare  of  satire,  parody,  and  sar- 
casm ;  to  laugh  if  the  jest  was  a  good  one,  or,  if  otherwise,  to  let  it  hum  and  buzz  itself  to  sleep. 

It  Ls  to  the  observance  of  these  rules  (according  to  my  test  telicf)  that,  after  a  life  of 
thirty  years  engaged  in  literary  lators  of  various  kinds,  I  attribute  my  never  having  \ytxn 
entangled  in  any  literary  quarrel  or  controversy  ;  and,  which  is  a  still  more  pleasing  result, 
that  1  have  been  distinguished  by  the  jiersonal  friendship  of  my  most  approved  contempo- 
raries of  all  parties. 

1  adopted  at  the  same  time  another  resolution,  on  which  it  may  doubtless  lie  remarked, 
that  it  was  well  for  me  that  1  had  it  in  my  power  to  do  so,  and  that,  therefore,  it  is  a  line  of 
conduct  which,  depending  upon  accident,  can  be  less  generally  applicable  in  other  cases. 
Yet  I  fail  not  to  record  this  part  of  my  plan,  convinced  tliat,  though  it  may  not  te  in  every 
one's  power  to  adopt  exactly  tlie  same  resolution,  he  may  nevertheless,  by  his  own  exertions, 
in  some  shape  or  other,  attain  the  object  on  which  it  was  founded,  namely,  to  secure  the 
means  of  subsistence  without  relying  exclusively  on  literary  talents.  In  this  respect  I  deter- 
mined that  literature  should  Ix;  my  staff,  but  not  my  crutch,  and  that  the  profits  of  my  lit- 
erary lalxir,  however  convenient  otherwise,  should  not,  if  I  could  help  it,  become  necessary 
to  my  ordinary  expenses.  With  this  purpose  I  resolved,  if  the  interest  of  my  friends  could 
so  far  favor  me,  to  retire  upon  any  of  the  respectal^le  offices  of  the  law,  in  which  persons  of 
that  profession  are  glad  to  take  refuge  when  they  feel  themselves,  or  are  judged  by  others, 
incompetent  to  aspire  to  its  higher  honors.  Upon  such  a  post  an  author  might  hope  to 
retreat,  without  any  perceptible  alteration  of  circumstances,  whenever  the  time  should  arrive 
that  the  public  grew  weary  of  his  endeavors  to  please,  or  he  himself  should  tire  of  the  pen. 
At  this  jx^riod  of  my  life,  I  possessed  so  many  friends  capable  of  assisting  me  in  this  object 
of  ambition,  that  I  could  hardly  overrate  my  own  prospects  of  obtaining  the  preferment  to 
which  I  limited  my  wishes  ;  and.  in  fact,  I  obtained  in  no  long  period  the  reversion  of  a  situ- 
ation which  completely  met  them. 

Thus  far  all  was  well,  and  the  author  had  been  guilty,  perhaps,  of  no  great  imprudence 
when  he  relinquished  his  forensic  practice  with  the  hope  of  making  some  figure  in  the  field 
of  literature.  But  an  established  character  with  the  public,  in  my  new  capacity,  still  re- 
mained to  Ix!  acquired.  I  have  noticed  that  the  translations  from  Biirger  had  been  unsuc- 
cessful, nor  had  the  original  poetry  which  appeared  under  the  auspices  of  Mr.  I^wis,  in 
the  '•  Tales  of  Wonder,"  in  any  great  degree  raised  my  reputation.  It  is  true,  I  had  private 
friends  disposed  to  second  me  in  my  efforts  to  obtain  popularity.  But  I  was  sportsman 
enough  to  know,  that  if  the  greyhound  does  not  run  well,  the  halloos  of  his  patrons  will 
obtain  nothing  for  him. 


INTRODUCTION.  5 

Neither  was  1  ignorant  tliat  the  practice  of  ballad-writing  was  for  the  present  out  of 
fashion,  and  that  any  attempt  to  revive  it,  or  to  found  a  pxjetical  character  upon  it,  would 
certainly  fail  of  success.  The  ballad  measure  itself,  which  was  once  listened  to  as  to  an 
enchanting  melody,  had  become  hackneyed  and  sickening,  from  its  being  the  accompani- 
ment of  every  grinding  hand-organ ;  and  besides,  a  long  work  in  quatrains,  whether  those 
of  the  common  ballad,  or  such  as  are  termed  elegiac,  has  an  effect  upon  the  mind  like  that 
of  the  bed  of  Procrustes  upon  the  human  body ;  for,  as  it  must  be  both  awkward  and  diffi- 
cult to  carry  on  a  long  sentence  from  one  stanza  to  another,  it  follows  that  the  meaning  of 
each  period  must  be  comprehended  within  four  lines,  and  equally  so  that  it  must  be 
extended  so  as  to  fill  that  space.  The  alternate  dilation  and  contraction  thus  rendered 
necessary  is  singularly  unfavorable  to  narrative  composition  ;  and  the  "  Gondibert "  of 
Sir  William  D'Avenant,  though  containing  many  striking  passages,  has  never  become  ptof)- 
ular  owing  chiefly  to  its  teing  told  in  this  species  of  elegiac  verse. 

In  the  dilemma  occasioned  by  this  objection,  the  idea  occurred  to  the  author  of  using 
the  measured  short  line,  which  forms  the  structure  of  so  much  minstrel  poetry,  that  it 
may  be  properly  termed  the  Romantic  stanza  by  way  of  distinction,  and  which  appears  so 
natural  to  our  language,  that  the  very  best  of  our  poets  have  not  been  able  to  protract  it 
into  the  verse  properly  called  Heroic,  without  the  use  of  epithets  which  are,  to  say  the 
least,  unnecessary.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  the  extreme  facility  of  the  short  couplet,  which 
seems  congenial  to  our  language,  and  was,  doubtless,  for  that  reason  so  popular  with  our 
old  minstrels,  is,  for  the  same  reason,  apt  to  prove  a  snare  to  the  composer  who  uses  it  in 
more  modern  days,  by  encouraging  him  in  d  habit  of  slovenly  composition.  The  neces- 
sity of  occasional  pauses  often  forces  the  young  poet  to  pay  more  attention  to  sense,  as 
the  boy's  kite  rises  highest  when  the  train  is  loaded  by  a  due  counterpoise.  The  author 
was,  therefore,  intimidated  by  what  Byron  calls  the  "  fatal  facility "  of  the  octo-syllabic 
verse,  which  was  otherwise  better  adapted  to  his  purpose  of  imitating  the  more  ancient 
poetry. 

I  was  not  less  at  a  loss  for  a  subject  which  might  admit  of  being  treated  with  the  sim- 
plicity and  wildness  of  the  ancient  ballad.  But  accident  dictated  both  a  theme  and  meas- 
ure, which  decided  the  subject,  as  well  as  the  structure  of  the  poem. 

The  lovely  young  Countess  of  Dalkeith,  afterwards  Harriet,  Duchess  of  Buccleuch,  had 
come  to  the  land  of  her  husband  with  the  desire  of  making  herself  acquainted  with  its  tra- 
ditions and  customs,  as  well  as  its  manners  and  history.  All  who  remember  this  lady 
will  agree  that  the  intellectual  character  of  her  extreme  beauty,  the  amenity  and  courtesy 
of  her  manners,  the  soundness  of  her  understanding,  and  her  unbounded  benevolence, 
gave  more  the  idea  of  an  angelic  visitant  than  "of  a  being  belonging  to  this  nether  world  ; 
and  such  a  thought  was  but  too  consistent  with  the  short  space  she  was  permitted  to 
tarry  among  us.  Of  course,  where  all  made  it  a  pride  and  pleasure  to  gratify  her  wishes, 
she  soon  heard  enough  of  Border  lore ;  among  others,  an  aged  gentleman  of  property,! 
near  Langholm,  communicated  to  her  ladyship  the  story  of  Gilpin  Horner,  a  tradition  in 
which  the  narrator,  and  many  more  of  that  country,  were  firm  believers.  The  young  Coun- 
tess, much  delighted  with  the  legend,  and  the  gravity  and  full  confidence  with  which  it  was 
told,  enjoined  on  me  as  a  task  to  compose  a  ballad  on  the  subject.  Of  course,  to  hear  was 
to  obey  ;  and  thus  the  goblin  story,  objected  to  by  several  critics  as  an  excrescence  upon 
the  poem,  was,  in  fact,  the  occasion  of  its  being  written. 

A  chance  similar  to  that  which  dictated  the  subject,  gave  me  also  the  hint  of  a  new 
mode  of  treating  it.  We  had  at  that  time  the  lease  of  a  pleasant  cottage,  near  Lasswade, 
on  the  romantic  banks  of  the  Esk,  to  which  we  escaped  when  the  vacations  of  the  Court 
permitted  me  so  much  leisure.  Here  I  had  the  pleasure  to  receive  a  visit  from  Mr.  Stod- 
dart  (now  Sir  John  Stoddart,  Judge- Advocate  at  Malta),  who  was  at  that  time  collecting 
the  particulars  which  he  afterwards  embodied  in  his  Remarks  on  Local  Scenery  in  Scot- 

•  This  was  Mr.  Beattie  of  Mickledale,  a  man  then  considerably  upwards  of  eighty,  of  a  shrewd 
and  sarcastic  temper,  whicli  he  did  not  at  all  times  suppress,  as  the  following  anecdote  will  show  : 
A  vyorthy  clergyman,  now  deceased,  with  better  good-will  than  tact,  was  endeavoring  to  push  the 
senior  forward  in  his  recollection  of  Border  ballads  and  legends,  by  expressing  reiterated  surprise  at 
his  wonderful  memor>'.  "  No,  sir,"  said  old  Mickledale;  "my  memory  is  good  for  little,  for  it 
cannot  retain  what  ought  to  be  preserved.  I  can  remember  all  these  stories  about  the  auld  riding 
days,  which  are  of  no  earthly  importance;  but  were  you,  reverend  sir,  to  repeat  your  best  sermon 
in  this  drawing-room,  I  could  not  tell  you  half  an  hour  afterwards  what  you  had  been  speaking 
about." 


6  THE  LAY  OF  THE  LAST  MLNSTREL. 

land.  I  was  of  some  use  to  him  in  procuring  the  information  which  he  desired,  and  guid- 
ing him  to  the  scenes  which  he  wislied  to  see.  In  return,  he  made  me  better  acquainted 
than  I  had  hitherto  been  with  the  poetic  effusions  which  have  since  made  the  lakes  of 
Westmoreland,  and  the  authors  by  whom  they  have  been  sung,  so  famous  wherever  the 
English  tongue  is  spoken. 

1  was  already  acquainted  with  the  "Joan  of  Arc,"  the  "  Thalaba,"  and  the  "Metrical 
Ballads"  of  Mr.  Soutiiey,  which  had  found  their  way  to  Scotland,  and  were  generally 
admired.  But  Mr.  Stoddart,  who  had  the  advantage  of  personal  friendship  with  the 
authors,  and  who  possessed  a  strong  memory,  with  an  excellent  taste,  was  able  to  repeat  to 
me  many  long  specimens  of  their  poetry,  which  had  not  yet  appeared  in  print.  Amongst 
others,  was  the  striking  fragment  called  '•  Christabel,"  by  Mr.  Coleridge,  which,  from  tlie 
singularly  irregular  structure  of  the  stanzas,  and  tlie  liberty  which  it  allowed  the  author  to 
adapt  the  sound  to  the  sense,  seemed  to  be  e.xactly  suited  to  such  an  extravaganza  as  1  med- 
itated on  the  subject  of  Gilpin  Horner.  As  applied  to  comic  and  humorous  poetry,  this 
inescolanza  of  measures  had  been  already  used  by  Anthony  Hall,  Anstey,  Dr.  Wolcott,  and 
others;  but  it  was  in  "Christabel"  that  I  first  found  it  used  in  serious  poetry,  and  it  is  to 
Mr.  Coleridge  that  I  am  bound  to  make  the  acknowledgment  due  from  the  pupil  to  his 
master.  1  observe  that  Lord  Byron,  in  noticing  my  obligations  to  Mr.  Coleridge,  which  1 
have  been  always  most  ready  to  acknowledge,  expressed,  or  was  understood  to  express,  a 
hope  that  I  did  not  write  an  unfriendly  review  on  Mr.  Coleridge's  productions.  On  this 
subject  I  have  only  to  say,  that  I  do  not  even  know  the  review  which  is  alluded  to ;  and 
were  1  ever  to  take  the  unbecoming  freedom  of  censuring  a  man  of  Mr.  Coleridge's  extraor- 
dinary talents,  it  would  be  on  account  of  the  caprice  and  indolence  with  which  he  has 
thrown  from  him,  as  if  in  mere  wantonness,  those  unfinished  scraps  of  poetry,  which,  like 
the  Torso  of  antiquity,  defy  the  skill  of  his  poetical  brethren  to  complete  tliem.  The 
charming  fragments  which  the  author  abandons  to  their  fate  are  surely  too  valuable  to  be 
treated  like  the  proofs  of  careless  engravers,  the  sweepings  of  whose  studios  often  make 
the  fortune  of  some  painstaking  collector. 

I  did  not  immediately  proceed  upon  my  projected  labor,  though  I  was  now  furnished 
with  a  subject,  and  with  a  structure  of  verse  which  might  have  the  effect  of  novelty  to  the 
public  ear,  and  afford  the  author  an  opportunity  of  varying  his  measure  with  the  variations 
of  a  romantic  theme.  On  the  contrary,  it  was,  to  the  best  of  my  recollection,  more  than  a 
year  after  Mr.  Stoddart's  visit,  that,  by  way  of  exjieriment,  I  composed  the  first  two  or 
three  stanzas  of  "  The  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel."  I  was  shortly  afterwards  visited  by  two 
intimate  friends,  one  of  whom  still  survives.  They  were  men  whose  talents  might  have 
raised  them  to  the  highest  station  in  literature,  had  they  not  preferred  exerting  them  in 
their  own  profession  of  the  law,  in  which  they  attained  equal  preferment.  I  was  in  the 
habit  of  consulting  them  on  my  attempts  at  composition,  having  equal  confidence  in  their 
sound  taste  and  friendly  sincerity. i  In  this  specimen  I  had,  in  the  phrase  of  the  Highland 
servant,  packed  all  that  was  my  own  at  least,  for  1  had  also  included  a  line  of  invocation, 
a  little  softened,  from  Coleridge  — 

"  Mary,  mother,  shield  us  well." 

As  neither  of  my  friends  said  much  to  me  on  the  subject  of  the  stanzas  I  showed  them 
before  their  departure,  I  had  no  doubt  that  their  disgust  had  been  greater  than  their  good 
nature  chose  to  express.  Looking  upon  them,  therefore,  as  a  failure,  1  threw  the  manu- 
script into  the  fire,  and  thought  as  little  more  as  1  could  of  the  matter.  Some  time  after- 
wards 1  met  one  of  my  two  counsellors,  who  inquired,  with  considerable  appearance  of 
interest,  about  the  progress  of  the  romance  I  had  commenced,  and  was  greatly  surprised  at 
learning  its  fate.  He  confessed  that  neither  he  nor  our  nmtual  friend  had  Iseen  at  first 
able  to  give  a  precise  opinion  on  a  poem  so  much  out  of  the  common  road  ;  but  that  as 
they  walked  home  together  to  the  city,  they  had  talked  much  on  the  subject,  and  the  result 
was  an  earnest  desire  that  I  would  proceed  with  the  composition.  He  also  added,  that 
some  sort  of  prologue  might  be  necessary,  to  place  the  mind  of  the  hearers  in  the  situation 

'  One  of  these,  William  Erskine,  Esq.  (Lord  Kinnedder),  I  have  often  h.id  occasion  to  mention, 
and  thou)»h  1  may  hardly  be  thanked  for  disclosing  the  name  of  the  other,  yet  I  cannot  but  stale 
that  the  second  is  George  Cranstoun,  Esq.,  now  a  Senator  of  the  College  of  Justice,  by  the  title  of 
Lord  Corehouse.     183 1. 


I.VTR  OD  UC  TIOM.  7 

to  understand  and  enjoy  the  poem,  and  recommended  the  adoption  of  such  quaint  mottoes 
as  Spenser  has  used  to  announce  the  contents  of  the  chapters  of  the  Faery  Queen,  such 
as  — 

"  Babe's  bloody  hands  may  not  be  cleansed. 
The  face  of  golden  Mean  : 
Her  sisters  two.  Extremities, 
Strive  her  to  banish  clean." 

(  entirely  agreed  with  my  friendly  critic  in  the  necessity  of  having  some  sort  of  pitch-pipe 
which  might  make  readers  aware  of  the  object,  or  rather  the  tone,  of  the  publication.  But 
1  doubted  whether,  in  assuming  the  oracular  style  of  Spenser's  mottoes,  the  interpreter 
might  not  be  censured  as  the  harder  to  be  understood  of  the  two.  I  therefore  introduced 
ihe  Old  Minstrel,  as  an  appropriate  prolocutor,  by  whom  the  Lay  might  be  sung  or  spoken, 
and  the  introduction  of  whom  betwixt  the  cantos  might  remind  the  reader,  at  intervals,  of 
the  time,  place,  and  circumstances  of  the  recitation.  This  species  of  cadre  or  frame, 
afterwards  afforded  the  poem  its  name  of  "  The  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel." 

The  work  was  subsequently  shown  to  other  friends  during  its  progress,  and  received  the 
Imfrimatur  of  Mr.  Francis  Jeffrey,  who  had  been  already  for  some  time  distinguished  by 
his  critical  talent. 

The  poem,  being  once  licensed  by  the  critics  as  fit  for  the  market,  was  soon  finished, 
proceeding  at  about  the  rate  of  a  canto  per  week.  There  was,  indeed,  little  occasion  for 
pause  or  hesitation,  when  a  troublesome  rhyme  might  l)e  accommodated  by  an  alteration  of 
the  stanza,  or  where  an  incorrect  measure  might  be  remedied  by  a  variation  of  the  rhyn:e. 
It  was  finally  published  in  1805,  and  may  be  regarded  as  the  first  work  in  which  the  writer, 
who  has  been  since  so  voluminous,  laid  his  claim  to  be  considertxl  as  an  original  author. 

The  book  was  published  by  Longman  and  Company,  and  Archibald  Constable  and 
Company.  The  principal  of  the  latter  firm  was  then  commencing  that  course  of  bold  and 
liberal  industry  which  was  of  so  nuich  advantage  to  his  country,  and  might  have  been  so  to 
himself,  but  for  causes  which  it  is  needless  to  enter  into  here.  The  work,  brought  out  on 
the  usual  terms  of  division  of  profits  between  the  author  and  publishers,  was  not  long  af'er 
purchased  by  them  for  ;^5oo,  to  which  Messrs.  Longman  and  Company  afterwards  added 
;f  100,  in  their  own  unsoUcited  kindness,  in  consequence  of  the  uncommon  success  of  the 
work.  It  was  handsomely  given  to  supply  the  loss  of  a  fine  horse,  which  broke  down 
suddenly  while  the  author  was  riding  with  one  of  the  worthy  publishers. 

It  would  be  great  affectation  not  to  own  frankly,  that  the  author  expected  some  success 
from  "  The  Lay  of  the  last  Minstrel.''  The  attempt  to  return  to  a  more  simple  and  natural 
style  of  poetry  was  Ukely  to  be  welcomed  at  a  time  when  the  public  had  become  tired  of 
heroic  hexameters,  with  all  the  buckram  and  binding  which  belong  to  them  of  later  days. 
Hut  whatever  might  have  been  his  expectations,  whether  moderate  or  unreasonable,  the 
result  left  them  far  behind,  for  among  those  who  smiled  on  the  adventurous  Minstrel  were 
numbered  the  great  names  of  William  Pitt  and  Charles  Fox.  Neither  was  the  extent  of 
the  sale  inferior  to  the  character  of  the  judges  who  received  the  poem  with  approbation. 
Upwards  of  thirty  thousand  copies  of  the  Lay  were  disposed  of  by  the  trade  ;  and  the 
author  had  to  perfom  a  task  difficult  to  human  vanity,  when  called  upon  to  make  the  neces- 
sary deductions  from  his  own  merits,  in  a  calm  attempt  to  account  for  his  popularity. 

A  few  additional  remarks  on  the  author's  literary  attempts  after  this  period  will  be 
found  in  the  introduction  to  the  Poem  of  Marmion. 

Ablotsford,  Afril,  1830. 


THE  LAY  OF  THE  LAST  MINSTREL 


INTRODUCTION. 


The  way  was  long,  the  wind  was  cold, 
The  Minstrel  was  infirm  and  old; 
His  withered  cheek,  and  tresses  gray, 
Seem'd  to  have  known  a  better  day; 
The  harp,  his  sole  remaining  joy, 
Was  carried  by  an  orphan  boy. 
The  last  of  all  the  Bards  was  he. 
Who  sung  of  Border  chivalry; 
For,  welladay  !  their  date  was  fled. 
His  tuneful  brethren  all  were  dead; 
And  he,  neglected  and  oppress'd, 
Wish'd  to  be  with  them,  and  at  rest. 
No  more  on  prancing  palfrey  borne, 
He  caroU'd,  light  as  lark  at  morn; 
No  longer  courted  and  caress'd. 
High  placed  in  hall,  a  welcome  guest. 
He  pour'd,  to  lord  and  lady  gay, 
The  unpremeditated  lay: 
Old   times  were   changed,   old   manners 

gone; 
A  stranger  filled  the  Stuarts'  throne; 
The  bigots  of  the  iron  time 
Had  call'd  his  harmless  art  a  crime. 
A  wandering  Harper,  scorn'd  and  poor, 
He  begg'd  his  bread  from  door  to  door. 
And  tuned,  to  please  a  peasant's  ear. 
The  harp  a  king  had  loved  to  hear. 

He   pass'd  where   Newark's  *  stately 
tower 
Looks  out  from  Yarrow's  birchen  bower: 
The  Minstrel  gazed  with  wishful  eye  — 
No  humbler  resting-place  was  nigh. 
With  hesitating  step  at  last. 
The  embattled  portal  arch  he  pass'd, 

*  Newark's  stately  tower.  A  large  square 
tower  now  in  ruins;  situated  three  miles  from 
Selkirk,  on  the  right  bank  of  the  Yarrow. 


Whose  ponderous  grate  and  massy  bar 
Had  oft  roH'd  back  the  tide  of  war, 
But  never  closed  the  iron  door 
Against  the  desolate  and  poor. 
The  Duchess  t  mark'd  his  weary  pace, 
His  timid  mien,  and  reverend  face. 
And  bade  her  page  the  menials  tell. 
That  they  should  tend  the  old  man  well : 
For  she  had  known  adversity, 
Though  born  in  such  a  high  degree; 
In  pride  of  power,  in  beauty's  bloom. 
Had  wept  o'er  Monmouth's  bloody  tomb ! 

When  kindness  had  his  wants  supplied. 
And  the  old  man  was  gratified. 
Began  to  rise  his  minstrel  pride : 
And  he  began  to  talk  anon, 
Of  good  Earl  Francis, t  dead  and  gone, 
And  of  Earl  Walter, §  rest  him,  God ! 
A  braver  ne'er  to  battle  rode; 
And  how  full  many  a  tale  he  knew. 
Of  the  old  warriors  of  Buccleuch : 
And,  would  the  noble  Duchess  deign 
To  listen  to  an  old  man's  strain. 
Though  stiff  his  hand,  his  voice  though 

weak. 
He  thought  even  yet,  the  sooth  to  speak. 
That,  if  she  loved  the  harp  to  hear. 
He  could  make  music  to  her  ear. 

The  humble  boon  was  soon  obtain'd; 
The  aged  Minstrel  audience  gain'd. 

t  The  Duchess.  Anne,  the  heiress  of  Buc- 
cleuch, who  had  been  married  to  the  unhappy 
Duke  of  Monmouth,  son  of  Charles  II.  He  was 
beheaded  for  rebellion  against  James  II.,  1685. 

t  Karl  Francis.     The  Duchess's  late  father. 

§  Walter,  Earl  of  Buccleuch,  grandfather  of 
the  Duchess,  and  a  celebrated  warrior. 


THE  LAY   OF   THE  LAST  MLNSTREL 


Canto  I. 


But,  when  he  reach'd  the  room  of  state, 
Where  she,  with  all  her  ladies,  sate, 
Perchance  he  wished  his  boon  denied : 
For,  when  to  tune  his  harp  he  tried. 
His  trembling  hand  had  lost  the  ease. 
Which  marks  security  to  please ; 
And  scenes,  long  past,  of  joy  and  pain. 
Came  wildering  o'er  his  aged  brain  — 
He  tried  to  tune  his  harp  in  vain  ! 
The  pitying  Duchess  praised  its  chime. 
And  gave  him  heart,  and  gave  him  time. 
Till  every  string's  according  glee 
Was  blended  into  harmony. 
And  then,  he  said,  he  would  full  fain 
He  could  recall  an  ancient  strain, 
He  never  thought  to  sing  again. 
It  was  not  framed  for  village  churls, 
But  for  high  dames  and  mighty  earls; 
He  had  play'd  it  to  King  Charles  the  Good, 
When  he  kept  court  in  Holyrood; 
And  much  he  wish'd,  yet  fear'd  to  try 
The  long-forgotten  melody. 
Amid  the  strings  his  fingers  stray'd, 
And  an  uncertain  warbling  made, 
And  oft  he  shook  his  hoary  head. 
But  when  he  caught  the  measure  wild. 
The  old  man  raised  his  face,  and  smiled; 
And  lighten'd  up  his  faded  eye, 
With  all  a  poet's  ecstasy ! 
In  varying  cadence,  soft  or  strong. 
He  swept  the  sounding  chords  along; 
The  present  scene,  the  future  lot. 
His  toils,  his  wants,  were  all  forgot : 
Cold  diffidence,  and  age's  frost, 
In  the  full  tide  of  song  were  lost; 
Each  blank  in  faithless  memory  void, 
Tile  poet's  glowing  thought  supplied; 
And,  while  his  harp  responsive  rung, 
'Twas  thus  the  Latest  Minstrel  sung. 


CANTO  FIRST. 


The  feast  was  over  in  Branksome  tower, ^ 
And  the  Ladye  had  gone  to  her  secret 

bower ; 
Her  bower  that  was  guarded  by  word  and 

by  spell, 
Deadly  to  hear,  and  deadly  to  tell  — 
Jesu  Maria,  shield  us  well ' 


No  living  wight,  save  the  Ladye  alone, 
Had  dared  to  cross  the  threshold  stone. 


The  taV)les  were  drawn,  it  was  idlesse  all; 

Knight,  and  page,  and  household  squire, 
Loiter'd  through  the  lofty  hall, 

Of  crowded  round  the  ample  fire : 
The  staghounds,  weary  with  the  chase, 

Lay  stretch'd  upon  the  rushy  floor, 
And  urged,  in  dreams,  the  ft)rest  race, 

From  Teviot-stone  to  Eskdale-moor, 


Nine-and-twenty  knights  of  fame 

Hung  their  shields  in  Branksome  Hall,^ 
Ninc-and-twenty  squires  of  name 

Brought   them    their  steeds   to   bower 
from  stall; 
Nine-and-twenty  yeomen  tall 
Waited,  duteous,  on  them  all; 
They  were  all  knights  of  mettle  true, 
Kinsmen  to  the  bold  Buccleuch. 


Ten  of  them  were  sheathed  in  steel. 
With  belted  sword,  and  spur  on  heel : 
They  quitted  not  their  harness  bright. 
Neither  by  day,  nor  yet  by  night; 

They  lay  down  to  rest, 

With  corselet  laced, 
Pillow'd  on  buckler  cold  and  hard; 

They  carved  at  the  meal 

W^ith  gloves  of  steel, 
And  they  drank  the  red  wine  through  the 
helmet  barr'd. 


Ten  squires,  ten  yeomen,  mail-clad  men. 
Waited  the  beck  of  the  warders  ten; 
Thirty  steeds,  both  fleet  and  wight, 
Stood  saddled  in  stable  day  and  night, 
Barl)ed  with  frontlet  of  steel,  I  trow. 
And  with  Jedwood-axe  at  saddlebow;-^ 
A  hundred  more  fed  free  in  stall :  • — 
Such  was  the  custom  of  Branksome  Hall. 


Why  do  these  steeds  stand  ready  dight  ? 
Why  watch    these  warriors,   arm'd,    by 
night  ?  — 


^ANTO    I. 


THE   LAY   OF   THE   LAST  MLNSTREL. 


fhey   watch,   to    hear    the    blood-hound 

baying; 
fhey  watch  to  hear  the  war-horn  braying ; 
To  see  St.  George's  red  cross  streaming, 
To  see  the  midnight  beacon  gleaming: 
fhey  watch,  against  Southern  force  and 

guile, 
Lest  Scroop,   or  Howard,   or  Percy's 

powers. 
Threaten  Branksome's  lordly  towers. 
From  Warkworth,  or  Naworth,  or  merry 

Carlisle.* 

VII. 

Such  is  the  custom  of  Branksome  Hall  — 

Many  a  valiant  knight  is  here; 
But  he,  the  chieftain  of  them  all. 
His  sword  hangs  rusting  on  the  wall. 
Beside  his  broken  spear. 
Bards  long  shall  tell 
How  Lord  Walter  fell !  '" 
When  startled  burghers  fled,  afar, 
The  furies  of  the  Border  war; 
When  the  streets  of  high  Dunedin  * 
Saw  lances  gleam  and  falchions  redden, 
And  heard  the  slogan's^  deadly  yell  — 
Then  the  Chief  of  Branksome  fell. 


Can  piety  the  discord  heal. 

Or  stanch  the  death-feud's  enmity? 
Can  Christian  lore,  can  patriot  zeal. 

Can  love  of  V)lessed  charity? 
No !  vainly  to  each  holy  shrine, 

In  mutual  pilgrimage  they  drew; 
Implored,  in  vain,  the  grace  divine 

For  chiefs, their  own  red  falchions  slew  : 
While  Cessford  owns  the  rule  of  Carr, 

While  Ettrick  boasts  the  line  of  Scott, 
The  slaughfer'd  chiefs,  the  mortal  jar, 
The  havoc  of  the  feudal  war, 

Shall  never,  never  be  forgot !  ^' 


In  sorrow  o'er  Lord  Walter's  bier 
The  warlike  foresters  had  bent; 

And  many  a  flower,  and  many  a  tear, 
Old  Teviot's  maids  and  matrons  lent : 

But  o'er  her  warrior's  bloody  bier 

The  Ladye  dropp'd  nor  flower  nor  tear ! 

*  Edinburgh. 

t  The  war-cry,  or  gathering  word,  of  a  Border 
clan. 


Vengeance,  deep-brooding  o'er  the  slain. 

Had  lock'd  the  source  of  softer  woe; 
And  burning  pride,  and  high  disdain, 

Forbade  the  rising  tear  to  flow; 
Until,  amid  his  sorrowing  clan. 

Her  son  lisp'd  from  the  nurse's  knee  — ■ 
"  And  if   I  live  to  be  a  man. 

My  father's  death  revenged  shall  be  !  " 
Then  fast  the  mother's  tears  did  seek 
To  dew  the  infant's  kindling  cheek. 


All  loose  her  negligent  attire, 

All  loose  her  golden  hair. 
Hung  Margaret  o'er  her  slaughter'd  sire. 

And  wept  in  wild  despair : 
But  not  alone  the  bitter  tear 

Had  filial  grief  supplied; 
For  hopeless  love,  and  anxious  fear, 

Had  lent  their  mingled  tide; 
Nor  in  her  mother's  alter'd  eye 
Dared  she  to  look  for  sympathy. 
Her  lover,  'gainst  her  father's  clan, 

With  Carr  in  arms  had  stood,'' 
When  Mathouse-burn  to  Melrose  ran. 

All  purple  with  their  blood; 
And  well  she  knew,  her  mother  dread. 
Before  Lord  Cranstoun  ^  she  should  wed. 
Would  see  her  on  her  dying  bed. 


Of  noble  race  the  Ladye  came, 
Her  father  was  a  clerk  of  fame. 

Of  Bethune's  line  of  Picardie  :  ® 
He  learn'd  the  art  that  none  may  name, 

In  Padua,  far  beyond  the  sea.'" 
Men  said,  he  changed  his  mortal  frame 

By  feat  of  magic  mystery; 
For  when,  in  studious  mode,  he  paced 

St.  Andrew's  cloister'd  hall. 
His  form  no  darkening  shadow  traced 

Upon  the  sunny  wall !  ii 


And  of  his  skill,  as  bards  avow. 

He  taught  that  Ladye  fair. 
Till  to  her  bidding  she  could  bow 

The  viewless  forms  of  air. 
And  now  she  sits  in  secret  bower. 
In  old  Lord  David's  western  tower. 
And  listens  to  a  heavy  sound, 
That  moans  the  mossy  turrets  round. 


THE  LAY   OF   THE  LAST  MINSTREL. 


Canto  I. 


Is  it  the  roar  of  Teviot's  tide, 
Tliat  chafes  against  the  scaur's*  red  side? 
Is  it  the  wind  that  swings  the  oaks? 
Is  it  the  echo  from  the  rocks? 
What  may  it  be,  the  heavy  sound, 
That    moans    old    Branksome's    turrets 
round? 


At  the  sullen,  moaning  sound. 

The  ban-dogs  bay  and  howl ; 
And,  from  the  turrets  round, 

Loud  whoops  the  startled  owl. 
In  the  hall,  both  squire  and  knight 

Swore  that  a  storm  was  near. 
And  looked  forth  to  view  the  night; 

But  the  night  was  still  and  clear  ! 


From  the  sound  of  Teviot's  tide. 
Chafing  with  the  mountain's  side, 
From  the  groan  of  the  wind-swung  oak, 
From  the  sullen  echo  of  the  rock. 
From  the  voice  of  the  coming  storm, 

The  Ladye  knew  it  well ! 
It  was  the  Spirit  of  the  Flood  that  spoke. 

And  he  call'd  on  the  Spirit  of  the  Fell. 

XV. 
RIVER    SPIRIT. 

•'  Sleep'st  thou,  brother?  " 

MOUNTAIN    SPIRIT. 

—  *'  Brother,  nay  — 
On  my  hills  the  moon-beams  play. 
From  Craik-cross  to  Skelfhill-pen, 
By  every  rill,  in  every  glen. 

Merry  elves  their  morris  pacing. 

To  aerial  minstrelsy. 
Emerald  rings  on  brown  heath  tracing, 

Trip  it  deft  and  merrily. 
Up,  and  mark  their  nimble  feet ! 
Up,  and  list  their  music  sweet !  "  — 

XVI. 
RIVER    SPIRIT. 

"Tears  of  an  imprison'd  maiden 
Mix  with  my  polluted  stream; 

Margaret  of  Branksome,  sorrow-laden, 
Mourns  beneath  the  moon's  pale  beam. 

*  A  steep  bank. 


Tell  me,  thou,  who  view'st  the  stars. 
When  shall  cease  these  feudal  jars? 
What  shall  be  the  maiden's  fate? 
Who  shall  be  the  maiden's  mate?  " 


MOUNTAIN    SPIRIT. 

"  Arthur's  slow  wain  his  course  doth  roll, 
In  utter  darkness  round  the  pole; 
The  Northern  Bear  lowers  black  and  grim; 
Orion's  studded  belt  is  dim; 
Twinkling  faint,  and  distant  far, 
Shimmers  through  mist  each  planet  star; 

111  may  I  read  their  high  decree  ! 
But  no  kind  influence  deign  they  shower 
On  Teviot's  tide,  and  Branksome's  tower. 

Till  pride  be  quell'd,  and  love  be  free. " 


The  unearthly  voices  ceast, 

And  the  heavy  sound  was  still; 
It  died  on  the  river's  breast, 

It  died  on  the  side  of  the  hill. 
But  round  Lord  David's  tower 

The  sound  still  floated  near; 
For  it  rung  in  the  Ladye's  lx)wer. 

And  it  rung  in  the  Ladye's  ear. 
She  raised  her  stately  head. 

And   her   heart    throbb'd    high    with 
pride :  — 
"  Your  mountains  shall  bend. 

And  your  streams  ascend, 
Ere  Margaret  be  our  foeman's  bride  !  " 


The  Ladye  sought  the  lofty  hall. 

Where  many  a  bold  retainer  lay. 
And,  with  jocund  din,  among  them  all. 

Her  son  pursued  his  infant  play. 
A  fancied  moss-trooper, t  the  boy 

The  truncheon  of  a  spear  bestrode, 
And  round  the  hall,  right  merrily, 

In  mimic  foray  rode. 
Even  bearded  knights,  in  arms  grown  old. 

Share  in  his  frolic  gambols  bore. 
Albeit  their  hearts,  of  rugged  mould. 

Were  stubborn  as  the  steel  they  wore. 

t  Moss-trooper,  a  borderer,  whose  profession 
was  pillage  of  the  English.  These  marauders 
were  called  mnss-troof'ers  because  they  dwelt 
in  the  mosses,  and  rode,  on  their  incursions,  in 
troops. 


Canto  I. 


THE  LAY  OF   THE  LAST  MLNSTREL. 


13 


For  the  gray  warriors  prophesied 
How  the  brave  boy,  in  future  war, 

Should  tame  the  Unicorn's  pride,* 
Exalt  the  Crescent  and  the  Star.t 


The  Ladye  forgot  her  purpose  high, 

One  moment,  and  no  more; 
One  moment  gazed  with  a  mother's  eye, 

As  she  paused  at  the  arched  door; 
Then  from  amid  the  armed  train 
She  call'd  to  her  William  of  Deloraine. 


A  stark  moss-trooping  Scott  was  he, 
As  e'er  couch'd  Border  lance  by  knee; 
Through  Solway  sands,  through  Tarras 

moss. 
Blindfold,  he  knew  the  paths  to  cross; 
By  wily  turns,  by  desperate  bounds. 
Had  baffled  Percy's  best  blood-hounds; '^ 
In  Eske  or  Liddel,  fords  were  none, 
But  he  would  ride  them,  one  by  one; 
Alike  to  him  was  time  or  tide, 
December's  snow,  or  July's  pride; 
Alike  to  him  was  tide  or  time, 
Moonless  midnight,  or  matin  prime; 
Steady  of  heart,  and  stout  of  hand. 
As  ever  drove  prey  from  Cumberland; 
Five  times  outlaw'd  had  he  been. 
By     England's     King,    and    Scotland's 

Queen. 

XXII. 

"  Sir  William  of  Deloraine,  good  at  need. 
Mount  thee  on  the  wightest  steed; 
Spare  not  to  spur,  nor  stint  to  ride. 
Until  thou  come  to  fair  Tweedside; 
And  in  Melrose's  holy  pile 
Seek  thou  the  monk  of  St.  Mary's  aisle. 
Greet  the  Father  well  from  me; 

Say  that  the  fated  hour  is  come. 
And  to-night  he  shall  watch  with  thee. 
To  win  the  treasure  of  the  tomb; 
For  this  will  be  St.  Michael's  night, 
And,  though  stars  be  dim,  the  moon  is 
bright; 

*  The  Unicom  Head  was  the  crest  of  the 
Carrs,  or  Kerrs,  of  Cessford,  the  enemies  of 
the  child's  late  father. 

tThe  Crescent  and  the  Star  were  armorial 
bearings  of  the  Scott«  of  Buccleuch. 


And  the  cross,  of  bloody  red. 
Will    point  to  the  grave  of  the  mighty 
dead. 


"  What  he  gives  thee,  see  thou  keep; 

Stay  not  thou  for  food  or  sleep; 

Be  it  scroll,  or  be  it  book. 

Into  it,  Knight,  thou  must  not  look; 

If  thou  readest,  thou  art  lorn ! 

Better  hadst  thou  ne'er  been  born."  — 


"  O   swiftly  can  speed  my  dapple-gray 
steed. 

Which  drinks  of  the  Teviot  clear; 
Ere  break  of  day,"  the  Warrior  'gan  say, 

"  Again  will  I  be  here: 
And  safer   by  none  may  thy  errand  be 
done. 

Than,  noble  dame,  by  me; 
Letter  nor  line  know  I  never  a  one, 

Wer't  my  neck-verse  at  Hairibee."  t 


Soon  in  his  saddle  sate  he  fast. 
And  soon  the  steep  descent  he  past. 
Soon  cross'd  the  sounding  barbican,§ 
And  soon  the  Teviot  side  he  won. 
Eastward  the  wooded  path  he  rode. 
Green  hazels  o'er  his  basnet  nod; 
He  pass'd  the  Peel  of  Goldiland,H 
And    cross'd    old    Borthwick's    roaring 

strand ; 
Dimly  he  view'd  the  Moat-hill's  mound. 
Where  Druid  shades  still  flitted  round; 
In  Hawick  twinkled  many  a  light; 
Behind  him  soon  they  set  in  night; 
And  soon  he  spurr'd  his  courser  keen 
Beneath  the  tower  of  Hazeldean. 

t  Hairibee,  the  place  on  Carlisle  wall  where 
the  moss-troopers,  if  caught,  were  hung.  The 
neck-verse  was  the  first  verse  of  Psalm  51.  If 
a  criminal  claimed  on  the  scaffold  "  benefit  of 
his  clergy,"  a  priest  instantly  presented  him 
with  a  Psalter,  and  he  read  his  neck-verse. 
The  power  of  reading  it  entitled  him  to  his  life, 
which  was  spared ;  but  he  was  banished  the 
kingdom.  See  Palgrave's  "  Merchant  and 
Friar." 

§  Barbican,  the  defence  of  the  outer  gate  of 
a  feudal  castle. 

II  Peel,  a  Border  tower. 


14 


THE  LAY  OF   THE  LAST  MINSTREL. 


Canto  i. 


The     clattering     hoofs     the     watchmen 

mark ;  — 
"Stand,     ho!"     thou     courier    of    the 

dark."  — 
"For    Branksome,    ho!  "     the    knight 

rejoin'd. 
And  left  the  friendly  tower  behind. 
He  turn'd  him  now  from  Teviotside, 

And,  guided  by  the  tinkling  rill, 
Northward  the  dark  ascent  did  ride, 

And  gain'd  the  moor  at  Horsliehill; 
Broad  on  the  left  before  him  lay, 
For  many  a  mile,  the  Roman  way.* 


A  moment  now  he  slack'd  his  speed, 
A  moment  breathed  his  panting  steed; 
Drew  saddle-girth  and  corslet  band, 
And  loosen'd  in  the  sheath  his  brand. 
On  Minto-crags  the  moonbeams  glint, 
Where  Barnhill  hew'd  his  bed  of  flint; 
Who  flung  his  outlaw'd  limlis  to  rest. 
Where  falcons  hang  their  giddy  nest. 
Mid  cliffs,  from  whence  his  eagle  eye 
For  many  a  league  his  prey  could  spy; 
Cliffs,  doubling,  on  their  echoes  borne, 
The  terrors  of  the  robber's  horn; 
Cliffs,  which,  for  many  a  later  year. 
The  warbling  Doric  reed  shall  hear, 
When  some   sad  swain    shall    teach   the 

grove, 
Ambition  is  no  cure  for  love ! 


Unchallenged,  thence  pass'd  Deloraine, 
To  ancient  Riddel's  fair  domain. 

Where  Aill,  from  mountains  freed, 
Down  from  the  lakes  did  raving  come; 
Each  wave  was  crested  with  tawny  foam. 

Like  the  mane  of  a  chestnut  steed. 
In  vain  !   no  torrent,  deep  or  broad. 
Might  bar  the  bold  moss-trooper's  road. 


At  the  first  plunge  the  horse  sunk  low. 
And  the  water  broke  o'er  the  saddlebow; 
Above  the  foaming  tide,  I  ween, 
Scarce  half  the  charger's  neck  was  seen; 

*  An  ancient   Roman   road,  crossing  through 
part  of  Roxburghshire. 


For  he  was  barded  t  from  counter  to  tail. 
And  the  rider  was  armed  complete  in  mail ; 
Never  heavier  man  and  horse 
Stemm'd  a  midnight  torrent's  force. 
The  warrior's  very  plume,  I  say. 
Was  liaggled  by  the  dashing  spray: 
Yet,  through  good  heart,  and  Our  Ladye's 

grace. 
At  length  he  gain'd  the  landing-place. 


Now  Bowden  Moor  the  march-man  won. 

And  sternly  shook  his  plumed  head. 
As  glanced  his  eyes  o'er  Halidon;t 
For  on  his  soul  the  slaughter  red 
Of  that  unhallow'd  morn  arose. 
When  first  the  Scott  and  Carr  were  foes; 
When  royal  James  beheld  the  fray. 
Prize  to  the  victor  of  the  day; 
When  Home  and  Douglas,  in  the  van, 
Bore  down  Buccleuch's  retiring  clan, 
Till  gallant  Cessford's  heart-blood  dear 
Reek'd  on  dark  Elliot's  Border  spear. 


In  bitter  mood  he  spurred  fast. 
And  soon  the  hated  heath  was  past; 
And  far  beneath,  in  lustre  wan, 
Old  Melros'  rose,  and  fair  Tweed  ran : 
Like  some  tall  rock  with  lichens  gray, 
Seem'd  dimly  huge,  the  dark  Abbaye. 
When  Hawick  he  pass'd,  had  curfew  rung, 
Now  midnight  lauds  §  were  in   Melrose 

sung. 
The  sound,  upon  the  fitful  gale. 
In  solemn  wise  did  rise  and  fail. 
Like  that  wild  harp,  whose  magic  tone 
Is  waken'd  by  the  winds  alone. 
But  iWhen  Melrose  he  reach'd,  'twas  si- 
lence all ; 
He  meetly  stabled  his  steed  in  stall. 
And  sought  the  convent's  lonely  wall.^'^ 


Here  paused  the  harp;  and  with  its  swell 
The  Master's  fire  and  courage  fell; 

t  Barded,  or  barbed,  applied  to  a  horse  ac- 
coutred with  defensive  armor. 

X  HaUdon  was  an  ancient  seat  of  the  Kerrs 
of  Cessford,  now  demolislicd. 

§  Lauds,  the  midnight  service  of  the  Catholic 
Church. 


Canto  II. 


THE   LAY   OF   THE   LAST  MLVSTREL. 


•5 


Dejectedly,  and  low,  he  bow'd. 
And,  gazing  timid  on  the  crowd, 
He  seeni'd  to  seek,  in  every  eye. 
If  they  approved  his  minstrelsy; 
And,  diffident  of  present  praise, 
Somewhat  he  spoke  of  former  days. 
And  how  old  age,  and  wand'ring  long, 
Had  done  his  hand  and  harp  some  wrong. 
The  Duchess,  and  her  daughters  fair, 
And  every  gentle  lady  there, 
Each  after  each,  in  due  degree, 
Gave  praises  to  his  melody; 
His  hand  was  true,  his  voice  was  clear. 
And  much  they  long'd  the  rest  to  hear. 
Encouraged  thus,  the  Aged  Man, 
After  meet  rest,  again  began. 


CANTO   SECOND. 
I. 

If  thou  would'st  view  fair  Melrose  aright. 
Go  visit  it  by  the  pale  moonlight; 
For  the  gay  Ixrams  of  lightsome  day 
Gild,  but  to  flout,  the  ruins  gray. 
When  the  broken  arches  are  black  in  night. 
And  each  shafted  oriel  glimmers  while; 
Wlien  the  cold  light's  uncertain  shower 
Streams  on  the  ruin'd  central  tower; 
When  buttress  and  buttress,  alternately. 
Seem  framed  of  ebon  and  ivory; 
When  silver  edges  the  imagery. 
And  the  scrolls  that  teach  thee  to  live  and 

die;" 
When  distant  Tweed  is  heard  to  rave, 
And  the  owlet  to  hoot  o'er  the  dead  man's 

grave, 
Then  go  —  but  go  alone  the  while  — 
Then  view  St.  David's  ruin'd  pile; 
And,  home  returning,  soothly  swear. 
Was  never  scene  so  sad  and  fair ! 


Short  halt  did  Deloraine  make  there; 
Little  reck'd  he  of  the  scene  so  fair; 
With  dagger's  hilt,  on  the  wicket  strong, 
He  struck  full  loud,  and  struck  full  long. 
The  porter  hurried  to  the  gate :  — 
"  \Vho  knocks  so   loud,  and  knocks  so 

late?  " 
"  From  Branksome  I,"  the  warrior  cried; 
And  straight  the  wicket  open'd  wide: 


For  Branksome 's  Chiefs  had  in  battle  stood 
To  fence  the  rights  of  fair  Melrose; 

And  lands  and  livings,  many  a  rood, 
Had  gifted  the  shrine  for  their  souls' 
repose. 


Bold  Deloraine  his  errand  said; 
The  porter  bent  his  humble  head; 
With  torch  in  hand,  and  feet  unshod. 
And  noiseless  step,  the  path  he  trod. 
The  arched  cloister,  far  and  -wide. 
Rang  to  the  warrior's  clanking  stride, 
Till,  stooping  low  his  lofty  crest, 
He  enter'd  the  cell  of  the  ancient  priest, 
And  lifted  his  barred  aventayle,* 
To  hail  the  Monk  of  St.  Mary's  aisle. 


"The  Ladye  of  Branksome  greets  thee  by 
me, 

Says,  that  the  fated  hour  is  come. 
And  that  to-night  I  shall  watch  with  thee. 

To  win  the  treasure  of  the  tomb." 
From  sackcloth  couch  the  Monk  arose. 

With  toil  his  stiffen'd  limbs  he  rear'd; 
A  hundred  years  had  flung  their  snows 

On  his  thin  locks  and  floating  beard. 


And  strangely  on  the  Knight  look'd  he. 

And  his  blue  eyes  gleam'd  wild  and 

wide :  — 

"  And  darest  thou.  Warrior  !  seek  to  see 

What  heaven  and  hell  alike  would  hide  ? 

My  breast,  in  belt  of  iron  pent. 

With    shirt    of    hair    and    scourge    of 
thorn; 
For  threescore  years,  in  penance  spent, 
My  knees  those  flinty  stones  have  worn : 
Yet  all  too  little  to  atone 
For  knowing  what  should  ne'er  be  known. 
Would'st  thou  thy  every  future  year 

In  ceaseless  prayer  and  penance  drie, 
Yet  wait  thy  latter  end  with  fear  — 
Then,  daring  Warrior,  follow  me  ! '" 


"  Penance,  father,  will  I  none; 
Prayer  know  I  hardly  one; 

•  Aventayle,  visor  of  the  helmet. 


i6 


THE   LAY   OF   THE   LAST  MINSTREL. 


Canto  II. 


P'or  mass  or  prayer  can  I  rarely  tarry 
Save  to  patter  an  Ave  Mary, 
When  I  ride  on  a  Border  foray. 
Other  prayer  can  I  none; 
So  speed  nie  my  errand,  and  let  me  be 
gone."  — 


Again  on  the  Knight  looked  the  Church- 
man old, 
And  again  he  sighed  heavily; 

For  he  had  himself  been  a  warrior  bold, 
And  fought  in  Spain  and  Italy. 

And  he  thought  on  the  days  that  were  long 
since  by, 

When  his  limbs  were  strong,  and  his  cour- 
age was  high :  — 

Now,  slow  and  faint,  he  led  the  way, 

Where,  cloister'd  round,  the  garden  lay; 

The  pillar'd  arches  were  over  their  head. 

And  beneath  their  feet  were  the  bones  of 
the  dead. 


Spreading  herbs,  and  flowerets  bright, 
Glisten'd  with  the  dew  of  night; 
Nor  herl),  nor  floweret,  glisten'd  there, 
But  was  carved  in  the  cloister-arches  as 
fair. 
The  Monk  gazed   long  on  the  lovely 
moon. 
Then  into  the  night  he  looked  forth ; 
And  red  and  bright  the  streamers  light 
Were  dancing  in  the  glowing  north. 
So  had  he  seen,  in  fair  Castile, 

"fhe  youth   in    glittering    squadrons 
start; 
Sudtien  the  flying  jennet  wheel. 
And  hurl  the  vinexpccted  dart, 
lie  knew,  by  the  streamers  that  shot  so 

bright. 
That  spirits  weie  riding  the  northern  light. 


By  a  steel-clenched  postern  door, 

They  enter'd  now  the  chancel  tall; 
The  darken'd  roof  rose  high  alo(jf 

On  pillars  lofty,  and  light,  and  small : 
The  key-stone,  that  lock'd  each  ribbed 

aisle, 
Was  a  fleur-de-lys,  or  a  quatre-feuille; 
The  corbels  were  carved  grotesque  and 
grim; 


I  And  the  pillars,  with  cluster'd  shafts  so 

trim. 
With    base    and  with    capital    flourish'd 

around, 
Seem'd  bundles  of  lances  which  garlands 

had  bound. 


Full  many  a  scutcheon  and  banner  riven. 
Shook  to  the  cold  night-wind  of  heaven. 

Around  the  screened  altar's  pale; 
And  there  the  dying  lamps  did  burn. 
Before  thy  low  and  lonely  urn, 
O  gallant  Chief  of  Otterburne  !  i^ 

And    thine,    dark    Knight   of    Liddes- 
dale !  16 
O  fading  honors  of  the  dead  ! 
C)  high  ambition,  lowly  laid ! 


The  moon  on  the  east  oriel  shone 
Through  slender  shafts  of  shapely  stone, 

By  foliaged  tracery  combined; 
Thou  would'st  have  thought  some  fairy's 

hand 
'Twixt  poplars  straight  the  osier  wand. 

In  many  a  freakish  knot,  had  twined; 
Then  framed  a  spell,  when  the  work  was 

done. 
And  changed  the  willow-wreaths  to  stone. 
The  silver  light,  so  pale  and  faint, 
Show'd  many  a  prophet,  and  many  a  saint. 

Whose  image  on  the  glass  was  dyed; 
Full  in  the  midst,  his  Cross  of  Red 
Triumphant  Michael  brandished, 

And  trampled  the  Apostate's  pride. 
The  moon-1>eam  kiss'd  the  holy  pane. 
And   threw  on   the  pavement   a  bloody 
stain. 


They  sate  them  down  on  a  marble  stone, 

(A  Scottish  monarch  slept  below;  )  * 
Thus  spoke  the  Monk,  in  solemn  tone :  — 

"  I  was  not  always  a  man  of  woe; 
For  Paynim  countries  I  have  trod. 
And  fought  beneath  the  Cross  of  God : 
Now,  strange  to  my  eyes  thine  arms  ap- 
pear. 
And  their  iron  clang  sounds  strange  to  my 
ear. 

*  Alexander  II, 


Canto  II. 


THE  LAY  OF   THE   LAST  MLA'STREL. 


17 


"  In  these  far  climes  it  was  my  lot 
To  meet  the  wondrous  Michael  Scott,'" 

A  wizard,  of  such  dreaded  fame, 
That  when,  in  Salamanca's  cave. 
Him  listed  his  magic  wand  to  wave. 

The  bells  would  ring  in  Notre  Dame  ! 
Some  of  his  skill  he  taught  to  me; 
And,  Warrior,  I  could  say  to  thee 
The  words  lhat_clef  t  Eildon  hills  in  three,'* 

And  bridled  the  Tweed  with  a  curb  of 
stone : 
But  to  speak  them  were  a  deadly  sin; 
And  for  having  but  thought  them  my  heart 
within, 

A  treble  penance  must  be  done. 


'•  When  Michael  lay  on  his  dying  bed. 
His  conscience  was  awakened: 
He  bethought  him  of  his  sinful  deed, 
And  he  gave  me  a  sign  to  come  with  speed ; 
I  was  in  Spain  when  the  morning  rose. 
But  I  stood  by  his  bed  ere  evening  close. 
The  words  may  not  again  be  said. 
That  he  spoke  to  me,  on  death-bed  laid; 
They   would  rend   this   Abbaye's   massy 

nave. 
And  pile  it  in  heaps  above  his  grave. 


"  I  swore  to  bury  his  Mighty  Book, 
That  never  mortal  might  therein  look; 
And  never  to  tell  where  it  was  hid. 
Save  at  his  Chief  of  Branksome's  need: 
And  when  that  need  was  past  and  o'er. 
Again  the  volume  to  restore. 
I  buried  him  on  St.  Michael's  night. 
When  the  bell  toU'd  one,  and  the  moon 

was  bright. 
And  I  dug  his  chamljer  among  the  dead. 
When  the  floor  of  the  chancel  was  stained 

red, 
That  his  patron's  cross  might  over  him 

wave. 
And  scare  the  fiends  from  the  Wizard's 

grave. 

XVI. 

"  It  was  a  night  of  woe  and  dread. 
When  Michael  in  the  tomb  I  laid  ! 
Strange  sounds  along  the  chancel  pass'd, 
The  banners  waved  without  a  blast;  "  — 


—  Still  spoke  the  Monk,  when  the  bell 

toU'd  one  !  — 
I  tell  you,  that  a  braver  man 
Than  William  of  Deloraine,  good  at  need. 
Against  a  foe  ne'er  spurr'd  a  steed; 
Yet  somewhat  was  he  chill'd  with  dread, 
And  his  hair  did  bristle  upon  his  head. 


"  Lo,  Warrior  !  now,  the  Cross  of  Red 
Points  to  the  grave  of  the  mighty  dead; 
Within  it  burns  a  wondrous  light. 
To  chase  the  spirits  that  love  the  night : 
That  lamp  shall  burn  unquenchably, 
Until  the  eternal  doom  shall  be."*  — 
Slow  moved  the  Monk  to  the  broad  flag- 
stone. 
Which  the  bloody  Cross  was  traced  upon  : 
He  pointed  to  a  secret  nook; 
An  iron  bar  the  Warrior  took; 
And  the   Monk   made    a   sign  with    his 

wither'd  hand» 
The  grave's  huge  portal  to  expand. 


With  l>eating  heart  to  the  task  he  went; 
His  sinewy  frame   o'er  the  grave-stone 

bent; 
With  bar  of  iron  heaved  amain. 
Till  the  toil-drops  fell  from  his  brows,  like 

rain. 
It  was  by  dint  of  passing  strength. 
That  he  moved  the  massy  stone  at  length. 
I  would  you  had  been  there,  to  see 
How  the  light  broke  forth  so  gloriously. 
Stream 'd  upward  to  the  chancel  roof, 
And  through  the  galleries  far  aloof ! 
No  earthly  flame  blazed  e'er  so  bright : 
It  shone  like  heaven's  own  blessed  light, 

And,  issuing  from  the  tomb, 
Show'd  the  Monk's  cowl,  and  visage  pale, 
Danced   on    the    dark-brow'd  Warrior's 
mail. 

And  kiss'd  his  waving  plume. 


Before  their  eyes  the  Wizard  lay. 
As  if  he  had  not  been  dead  a  day. 
His  hoary  beard  in  silver  roll'd. 
He  seem'd  some  seventy  winters  old; 

*  It  was  a  belief  of  the  Middle  Ages,  that 
eternal  lamps  were  to  be  found  burning  in 
ancient  sepulchres. 


i8 


THE  LAY  OF   THE  LAST  MLNSTREL. 


Canio  II. 


A  palmer's  amice  wrapp'd  him  round, 

With  a  wrought  Spanish  baldric  Ixjund, 
Like  a  pilgrim  from  beyond  the  sea; 

His  left  hand  held  his  Book  of  Might; 

A  silver  cross  was  in  his  right; 

The  lamp  was  placed  teside his  knee; 
High  and  majestic  was  his  look, 
At  which  the  fellest  fiends  had  shook, 
And  all  unrufilled  was  his  face : 
They  trusted  his  soul  had  gotten  grace. 


Often  had  William  of  Deloraine 

Rode  through  the  battle's  bloody  plain, 

And  trampled  down  the  warriors  slain. 

And  neither  known  remorse  nor  awe; 
Yet  now  remorse  and  awe  he  own'd; 
His  breath  came  thick,  his  head  swam 
round. 

When  this  strange  scene  of  death  he 
saw, 
Bewilder'd  and  unnerved  he  stood. 
And  the  priest  pray'd  fervently  and  loud: 
With  eyes  averted  prayed  he; 
He  might  nrtt  endure  the  sight  to  see, 
Of  the  man  he  had  loved  so  brotherly. 


And  when  the  priest  his  death-prayer  had 

pray'd, 
Thus  unto  Deloraine  he  said :  — 
"  Now,  speed  thee  what  thou  hast  to  do, 
Or,  Warrior,  we  may  dearly  rue; 
For  those,  thou  may'st  not  look  upon. 
Are    gathering    fast   round   the  yawning 

stone !  "  — 
Then  Deloraine,  in  terror,  took 
From  the  cold  hand  the  Mighty  Rook, 
With  iron  clasp'd,  and  with  iron  bound: 
He  thought,  as  he  took  it,  the  dead  man 

frown'd; 
But  the  glare  of  the  sepulchral  light, 
Perchance, had  dazzled  the  warrior'ssight. 


When  the  huge  stone  sunk  o'er  the  tomb. 
The  night  return'd  in  double  gloom; 
For  the  moon  had  gone  down,  and  the 

stars  were  few ; 
And,  as  the  Knight  and  Priest  withdrew, 
With  wavering  steps  and  dizzy  brain, 
They  hardly  might  the  postern  gain. 


'Tis  said,  as  through  the  aisles  they  pass'd. 
They  heard  strange  noises  on  the  blast; 
And  through  the  cloister-galleries  small. 
Which  at  mid-height  thread  the  chancel 

wall. 
Loud  sobs,  and  laughter  louder,  ran, 
And  voices  unlike  the  voice  of  man; 
As  if  the  fiends  kept  holiday, 
Because  these  spells  were  brought  to  day 
I  cannot  tell  how  the  truth  may  be; 
I  say  the  tale  as  'twas  said  to  me. 


"  Now,  hie  thee  hence,"  the  Father  said, 
"  And  when  we  are  on  death-bed  laid, 
O  may  our  dear  Ladye,  and  sweet  St. 

John, 
Forgive  our  souls  for  the  deed  we  have 
done !  " 
The  Monk  return'd  him  to  his  cell. 
And   many  a    prayer  and    penance 
sped ; 
When  the  convent  met  at  the  noontide 
bell  — 
The  Monk  of  St.  Mary's  aisle  wns 
dead ! 
Before  the  cross  was  the  botly  laid. 
With   hands  clasp'd  fast,   as   if   still    he 
pray'd. 

XXIV. 

The  Knight  breathed  free  in  the  morning 

wind, 
And  strove  his  hardihood  to  find. 
He  was  glad  when  he  pass'd  the  tomb- 
stones gray, 
Which  girdle  round  the  fair  Abbaye; 
For  the  mystic  Book,  to  his  bosom  prest. 
Felt  like  a  load  upon  his  breast, 
And  his  joints,  with  nerves  of  iron  twined, 
Shook,  like  the  aspen  leaves  in  wind. 
P'ull  fain  was  he  when  the  dawn  of  day 
Began  to  brighten  Cheviot  gray; 
He  joy'd  to  see  the  cheerful  light. 
And  he  said  Ave   Mary  as  well  as   he 
might. 

XXV. 

The  sun  had  brighten'd  Cheviot  gray, 
The  sun  had  brighten'd  the  Carter's  * 
side ; 

*  A  mountain    on   the    Border   of    England, 
above  Jedburgh. 


Canto  li. 


THE  LAY   OF   THE   LAST  MLNSTREL. 


19 


And  soon  beneath  the  rising  day 

Smiled  Branksome  Towers  and  Teviot's 
tide. 
The  wild  birds  told  their  warbling  tale, 

And  waken'd  every  flower  that  blows; 
And  peeped  forth  the  violet  pale, 

And  spread   her  breast  the   movintain 
rose. 
And  lovelier  than  the  rose  so  red. 

Yet  ]ialer  than  the  violet  pale, 
Slie  early  left  her  sleepless  bed, 

The  fairest  maid  of  Teviotdale. 


Why  does  fair  Margaret  so  early  awake? 

And  don  her  kirtle  so  hastilie; 
And  the  silken  knots,  which  in  hurry  she 
would  make, 

Why  tremble  her  slender  fingers  to  tie; 
Why  does  she  stop,  and  look  often  around. 

As  she  glides  down  the  secret  stair; 
And  why  does  she  pat  the  shaggy  blood- 
hound, 

As  he  rouses  him  up  from  his  lair; 
And,  though  she  passes  the  postern  alone. 
Why  is  not  the  watchman's  bugle  blown? 


The  Ladye  steps  in  doubt  and  dread, 

Lest  her  watchful  mother  hear  her  tread; 

The  Ladye  caresses  the  rough  blood- 
hound, 

Lest  his  voice  should  waken  the  castle 
round. 

The  watchman's  bugle  is  not  blown. 

For  he  was  her  foster-father's  son; 

And  she  glides  through  the  greenwood  at 
dawn  of  light 

To  meet  Baron  Henry,  her  own  true 
knight. 

XXVIII. 

The  Knight  and  Ladye  fair  are  met. 
And  under  the  hawthorn's  boughs  are  set. 
A  fairer  pair  were  never  seen 
To  meet  beneath  the  hawthorn  green. 
He  was  stately,  and  young,  and  tall; 
Dreaded  in  battle,  and  loved  in  hall; 
And  she,  when  love,  scarce  told,  scarce 

hid. 
Lent  to  her  cheek  a  livelier  red; 
When  the  half  sigh  her  swelling  breast 
Against  the  silken  ribbon  prest; 


When  her  blue  eyes  their  secret  told, 
Though  shaded  by  her  locks  of  gold  — 
Where  would  you  find  the  peerless  fair. 
With  Margaret  of  Branksome  might  com- 
pare ? 


And  now,  fair  dames,  methinks  I  see 

You  listen  to  my  minstrelsy; 

Your  waving  locks  ye  backward  throw. 

And  sidelong  bend  your  necks  of  snow; 

Ye  ween  to  hear  a  melting  tale, 

Of  two  true  lovers  in  a  dale; 

And  how  the  Knight,  with  tender  fire 
To  paint  his  faithful  passion  strove; 

Swore  he  might  at  her  feet  expire. 
But  never,  never,  cease  to  love; 
And  how  she  blush'd,  and  how  she  sigh'd. 
And,  half  consenting,  half  denied. 
And  said  that  she  would  die  a  maid;  — 
Yet,  might  the  blooily  feud  be  stay'd, 
Henry  of  Cranstoiin,  and  only  he, 
Margaret  of  Branksome's  choice  should 
be. 


Alas  !  fair  dames,  your  hopes  are  vain  ! 
My  harp  has  lost  the  enchanting  strain; 

Its  lightness  would  my  age  reprove: 
My  hairs  are  gray,  my  limbs  are  old. 
My  heart  is  dead,  my  veins  are  cold; 

I  may  not,  must  not,  sing  of  love. 


Beneath  an  oak,  moss'd  o'er  by  eld. 
The  Baron's  Dwarf  his  courser  held,^^ 

And  held  his  crested  helm  and  spear: 
That  Dwarf  was  scarce  an  earthly  man. 
If  the  tales  were  true  that  of  him  ran 

'I'hrough  all  the  Border,  far  and  near. 
'Twas    said,  when  the  Baron  a-hunting 

rode. 
Through   Redesdale's   glens,   but  rarely 
trode. 
He  heard  a  voice  cry,   "Lost!  lost! 

lost!" 
And,  like  tennis-ball  by  racket  toss'd, 

A  leap,  of  thirty  feet  and  three, 
Made  from  the  gorse  this  elfin  shape, 
Distorted  like  some  dwarfish  ape, 
And    lighted  at    Lord   Cranstoun's 
knee. 


THE  LAY  OF   THE  LAST  MINSTREL. 


Canto  III. 


Lord  Cranstoun  was  some  whit    dis- 

may'd ; 
'Tis  said  that  five  good  miles  he  rade, 
To  rid  him  of  his  company; 
But  where  he  rode  one  mile,  the  Dwarf 

ran  four, 
And  the   Dwarf  was  first  at  the  castle 
door. 


Use  lessens  marvel,  it  is  said: 
This  elvish  Dwarf  with  the  Baron  staid; 
Little  he  ate,  and  less  he  spoke, 
Nor  mingled  with  the  menial  flock: 
And  oft  apart  his  .arms  he  toss'd. 
And  often  mutter'd  "  Lost !  lost !  lost !  " 
He  was  waspish,  .arch,  and  litherlie,* 
But  well  Lord  Cranstoun  served  he : 
And  he  of  his  service  was  full  fain; 
For  once  he  had  been  ta'en  or  slain, 

An  it  had  not  been  for  his  ministry. 
All  between  Home  and  Hermitage, 
Talk'd  of  Lord  Cranstoun's  Goblin-Page. 


For  the  Baron  went  on  Pilgrimage, 
And  took  with  him  this  elvish  I'age, 
To  Mary's  Chapel  of  the  Lowes; 
For  there  beside  our  Ladye's  lake. 
An  offering  he  had  sworn  to  make. 

And  he  would  pay  his  vows. 
But  the  Ladye  of  Branksome  gather'd  a 

band 
Of  the  best  that  would  ride  at  her  com- 
mand: 
The  trysting  place  was  Newark  Lee. 
Wat  of  Harden  came  thither  am.ain, 
And  thither  came  John  of  Thirlestane, 
And  thither  came  William  of  Deloraine; 
They  were  three  hundred  spears  and 
three. 
Through     Douglas-burn,      up     Yarrow 

stream, 
Their  horses  prance,  their  lances  gleam. 
They  came  to  St.  Mary's  lake  ere  day; 
But  the  chapel  was  void,  and  the  Baron 

away. 
They  burn'd  the  chapel  for  very  rage, 
And   cursed    Lord  Cranstoun's   Goblin- 
Page. 

*  Idle. 


And  now,  in  Branksome's  good  green- 
wood, 

As  under  the  aged  oak  he  stood, 

The  Baron's  courser  pricks  his  ears, 

As  if  a  distant  noise  he  hears. 

The  Dwarf  waves  his  long  lean  arm  on 
high. 

And  signs  to  the  lovers  to  part  and  fly; 

No  time  was  then  to  vow  or  sigh. 

Fair  Margaret  through  the  hazel  grove, 

Flew  like  the  startled  cushat-dove: 

The  Dwarf  the  stirrup  held  and  rein; 

Vaulted  the  Knight  on  his  steed  amain. 

And,  pondering  deep  that  morning's 
scene, 

Rode  eastward  through  the  hawthorns 
green. 

While  thus  he  pour'd  the  lengthen'd  tale 
The  Minstrel's  voice  licgan  to  fail: 
Full  slyly  smiled  the  observant  page, 
And  gave  the  wither'd  hand  of  age 
A  goblet  crown'd  with  mighty  wine, 
The  blood  of  Velez'  scorched  vine. 
He  raised  the  silver  cup  on  high. 
And,  while  the  big  drop  fill'd  his  eye, 
Pray'd  (iod  to  bless  the  Duchess  long, 
And  all  who  cheer'd  a  son  of  song. 
The  attending  maidens  smiled  to  see 
How  long,  how  deep,  how  zealously. 
The  precious  juice  the  Minstrel  quaff 'd; 
And  he,  emboldcn'd  by  the  draught, 
Look'd  gayly  b.ack  to  them,  and  laugh'd. 
The  corclial  nectar  of  the  bowl 
Swell'd  his  old  veins,  and  cheer'd  his  soul ; 
A  lighter,  livelier  prelude  ran. 
Ere  thus  his  tale  again  began. 


CANTO  THIRD. 


And  said  I  that  my  limbs  were  old, 
And  said  I  that  my  blood  was  cold. 
And  that  my  kindly  fire  was  fled, 
And  my  poor  wither'd  heart  was  dead, 

And  that  I  might  not  sing  of  love?  - 
How  could  I  to  the  dearest  theme. 
That  ever  warm'd  a  minstrel's  dream, 

So  foul,  so  false  a  recreant  prove ! 


Camo  III. 


THE   LAY  OF   THE  LAST  MLNSTREL. 


How  could  I  name  love's  very  name, 
Nor  wake  my  heart  to  notes  of  flame  ! 


In  peace,  Love  tunes  the  shepherd's  reed; 
In  war,  he  mounts  the  warrior's  steed; 
In  halls,  in  gay  attire  is  seen; 
In  hamlets,  dances  on  the  green. 
Love  rules  the  court,  the  camp,  the  grove, 
And  n^-n  below,  and  saints  above; 
For  love  is  heaven,  and  heaven  is  love. 


So  thought  Lord  Cranstoun,  as  I  ween, 
While,  pondering  deep  the  tender  scene. 
He  rode  through  Branksome's  hawthorn 
green. 
But  the  Page  shouted  wild  and  shrill. 
And  scarce  his  helmet  could  he  don. 
When  downward  from  the  shady  hill 
A  stately  knight  came  pricking  on. 
That  warrior's  steed,  so  dapple-gray. 
Was  dark  with  sweat,  and  splash'd  with 
clay ; 
His  armor  red  with  many  a  stain; 
He  seem'd  in  such  a  weary  plight, 
As  if  he  had  ridden  the  live-long  night; 
For  it  was  William  of  Deloraine. 


But  no  whit  we.ary  did  he  seem. 

When,  dancing  in  the  sunny  beam. 

He   mark'd  the    crane    on    the    baron's 

crest;  * 
For  his  ready  spear  was  in  his  rest. 

PY'W  were  the   words,   and  stern   and 
high. 
That   mark'd    the    foemen's    feudal 
hate; 
For  question  fierce,  and  proud  reply, 
Gave  signal  soon  of  dire  del)ate. 
Their  very  coursers  seem'd  to  know 
That  each  was  other's  mortal  foe. 
And  snorted  fire,  when  wheel'd  around. 
To  give  each  knight  his  vantage-ground. 

*  The  crest  of  the  Cranstouns,  in  allusion  to 
their  name,  is  a  crane,  dormant,  holdin}^  a  stone 
in  his  foot,  with  an  emphatic  Border  motto, 
Thou  shall  want  ere  I  -want.  Arms  thus  pun- 
ning on  the  name,  arc  said  heraldically  to  be 
"  canting." 


In  rapid  round  the  Baron  bent; 

He  sigh'd  a  sigh,  and  pray'd  a  prayer; 
The  prayer  was  to  his  patron  saint, 

The  sigh  was  to  his  ladye  fair. 
Stout  Deloraine  nor  sigh'd  nor  pray'd. 
Nor  saint,  nor  ladye,  call'd  to  aid; 
But  he  stoop'd  his  head,  and  couch'd  his 

spear. 
And  spurr'd  his  steed  to  full  career. 
The  meeting  of  these  champions  proud 
Seem'd  like  the  bursting  thunder-cloud. 


Stern  was  the  dint  the  Borderer  lent ! 
The  stately  Baron  backwards  bent; 
Bent  backwards  to  his  horse's  tail. 
And  his  plumes  went  scattering  on  the 

gale. 
Tlie  tough  ash  spear,  so  stout  and  true. 
Into  a  thousand  flinders  flew. 
But  Cranstoun's  lance,  of  more  avail, 
Pierced  through,  like  silk,  the  Borderer's 

mail; 
Through  shield,  and  jack,  and  acton,  past, 
Deep  in  his  bosom,  broke  at  last.  — 
Still  sate  the  warrior  saddle-fast, 
Till,  stumbling  in  the  mortal  shock, 
Down  went  the  steed,  the  girthing  broke, 
Hurl'd  on  a  heap  lay  man  and  horse. 
The  Baron  onward  pass'd  his  course  ; 
Nor  knew  —  so  giddy  roU'd  his  brain  — 
His  foe  lay  stretch'd  upon  the  plain. 


But  when  he  rein'd  his  courser  round. 
And  saw  his  foeman  on  the  ground 

Lie  senseless  as  the  bloody  clay, 
He  bade  his  page  to  stanch  the  wound, 

And  there  beside  the  warrior  stay. 
And  tend  him  in  his  doubtful  state. 
And  lead  him  to  Branksome  castle-gate  r 
His  noble  mind  was  inly  moved 
For  the  kinsman  of  the  maid  he  loved. 
"  This  shalt  thou  do  without  delay: 
No  longer  here  myself  may  stay  ; 
Unless  the  swifter  I  speed  away. 
Short  shrift  will  be  at  my  dying  day." 


Away  in  speed  Lord  Cranstoun  rode; 
The  Goblin-Page  behind  abode; 


THE  LAY  OF  THE  LAST  MINSTREL. 


Canto  III. 


His  lord's  command  he  ne'er  withstood, 
Though  small  his  pleasure  to  do  good. 
As  the  corslet  off  he  took, 
The  Dwarf  espied  the  Mighty  Book ! 
Much  he  marvell'd  a  knight  of  pride, 
Like  a  book -bosom 'd  priest  should  ride  ;  * 
He  thought  not  to  search  or  stanch  the 

wound, 
Until  the  secret  he  had  found. 


The  iron  band,  the  iron  clasp. 
Resisted  long  the  elfin  grasp: 
For  when  the  first  he  had  undone, 
It  closed  as  he  the  next  begun. 
Those  iron  clasps,  that  iron  band, 
Would  not  yield  to  unchristen'd  hand. 
Till  he  smear'd  the  cover  o'er 
With  the  Borderer's  curdled  gore; 
A  moment  then  the  volume  spread. 
And  one  short  spell  therein  he  read. 
It  liad  much  of  glamour  t  might. 
Could  make  a  ladye  seem  a  knight; 
The  cobwebs  on  a  dungeon  wall 
Seem  tapestry  in  lordly  hall; 
A  nut-shell  seem  a  gilded  barge, 
A  sheelingt  seem  a  palace  large. 
And    youth    seem    age,    and    age    seem 

youth  — 
All  was  delusion,  naught  was  truth.-' 


He  had  not  read  another  spell. 
When  on  his  cheek  a  buffet  fell. 
So  fierce,  it  stretch'd  him  on  the  plain, 
Beside  the  wounded  Deloraine. 
From  the  ground  he  rose  dismay'd. 
And  shook  his  huge  and  matted  head; 
One  word  he  mutter'd,  and  no  more, 
"  Man  of  age,  thou  smitest  sore  !  "  — 
No  more  the  Elfin  Page  durst  try 
Into  the  wondrous  Book  to  pry; 
The  clasps,  though  smear'd  with  Chris- 
tian gore. 
Shut  faster  than  they  were  before. 
He  hid  it  underneath  his  cloak.  — 
Now,  if  you  ask  who  gave  the  stroke, 

*    Priests  were  wont  to  carry  their  mass-book, 
for  buryitig  and  marrying,  etc.,  in  their  bosoms, 
t  Magical  delusion. 
X  A  shepherd's  hut. 


I  cannot  tell,  so  mot  I  thrive; 
It  was  not  given  by  man  alive. 


Unwillingly  himself  he  address'd, 
To  do  his  master's  high  behest: 
He  lifted  up  the  living  corse. 
And  laid  it  on  the  weary  horse; 
He  led  him  into  Branksome  Hall, 
Before  the  beards  of  the  warders  all; 
And  each  did  after  swear  and  say. 
There  only  pass'd  a  wain  of  hay. 
He  took  him  to  Lord  David's  tower. 
Even  to  the  Ladye's  secret  bower; 
And,  l)Ut  that  stronger  spells  were  spread, 
And  the  door  might  not  be  opened, 
He  had  laid  him  on  her  very  bed. 
Whate'er  he  did  of  gramarye,§ 
Was  always  done  maliciously; 
He  flung  the  warrior  on  the  ground. 
And  the  blood  well'd   freshly  from  the 
wound. 


As  he  repass'd  the  outer  court. 

He  spied  the  fair  yo«ng  child  at  sport; 

He  thought  to  train  him  to  the  wood; 

F"or,  at  a  word,  be  it  understood. 

He  was  always  for  ill,  and  never  for  good. 

Seem'd  to  the  boy,  some  comrade  gay 

Led  him  forth  to  the  woods  to  pl.ty; 

On  the  drawbridge  the  warders  stout 

Saw  a  terrier  and  lurcher  passing  out. 


He  led  the  boy  o'er  bank  and  fell. 

Until  they  came  to  a  woodland  brook ;  ^' 
The  running  stream  dissolved  the  spell. 

And  his  own  elvish  .shape  he  took. 
Could  he  have  had  his  pleasure  vilde. 
He  had  crippled  the  joints  of  the  noble 

child; 
Or,  with  his  fingers  long  and  lean. 
Had  strangled  him  in  fiendish  spleen; 
But  his  awful  mother  he  had  in  dread. 
And  al.so  his  power  was  limited; 
•So  he  but  scowl'd  on  the  startled  child. 
And  darted  through  the  forest  wild; 
The  woodland  brook  he  bounding  cross'd, 
And  laugh'd,  and  shouted,  "  Lost !  lost ! 
lost!"  — 

§  Magic. 


Canto  III. 


THE  LA  V  OF   THE  LAST  ATI N ST R EL. 


«3 


Full  sore  amazed  at  the  wondrous  change, 

And  frighten'd  as  a  child  might  be, 
At  the  wild  yell  and  visage  strange, 
And  the  dark  words  of  gramarye, 
The  child,  amidst  the  forest  bower. 
Stood  rooted  like  a  lily  flower; 

And  when,  at  length,  with  trembling 
pace, 
He  sought  to  find  where  Branksome 
lay. 
He  fear'd  to  see  that  grisly  face 

Glare  from  some  thicket  on  his  way. 
Thus,  starting  oft,  he  journey'd  on. 
And  deeper  in  the  wood  is  gone,  — 
P"or  aye  the  more  he  sought  his  way, 
The  farther  still  he  went  astray,  — 
Until  he  heard  the  mountains  round 
Ring  to  the  baying  of  a  hound. 


And  hark  !  and  hark  !   the  deep-mouth'd 
bark 

Comes  nigher  still,  and  nigher: 
Bursts  on  the  path  a  dark  blood-hound, 
His  tawny  muzzle  track'd  the  ground. 

And  his  red  eye  shot  fire. 
Soon  as  the  wilder'd  child  saw  he, 
He  Hew  at  him  right  furiouslie. 
I  ween  you  would  have  seen  with  joy 
The  bearing  of  the  gallant  boy. 
When,  worthy  of  his  noble  sire. 
His  wet  cheek  glow'd  'twixt  fear  and  ire  ! 
He  faced  the  blood-hound  manfully, 
And  held  his  little  bat  on  high; 
So  fierce  he  struck,  the  dog,  afraid. 
At  cautious  distance  hoarsely  bay'd. 

But  still  in  act  to  spring; 
When  dash'd  an  archer  through  the  glade, 
And  when  he  saw  the  hound  was  stay'd. 

He  drew  his  tough  bow-string; 
But  a  rough  voice  cried,  "  Shoot  not,  hoy  ! 
Ho !  shoot  not,  Edward  —  'Tis  a  boy  !  " 


The  speaker  issued  from  the  wood, 
And  check'd  his  fellow's  surly  mood. 

And  quell'd  the  ban-dog's  ire: 
He  was  an  English  yeoman  good. 

And  born  in  Lancashire, 
Well  could  he  hit  a  fallow-deer 


Five  hundred  feet  him  fro; 
With  hand  more  true,  and  eye  more  clear. 

No  archer  trended  bow. 
His   coal-black   hair,  shorn  round    and 
close. 

Set  off  his  sun-burn'd  face: 
Old  England's  sign,  St.  George's  cross. 

His  barret-cap  did  grace; 
His  bugle-horn  hung  by  his  side. 
All  in  a  wolf -skin  baldric  tied; 
And  his  short  falchion,  sharp  and  clear. 
Had  pierced  the  throat  of  many  a  deer. 


His  kirtle,  made  of  forest  green, 

Reach'd  scantly  to  his  knee; 
And,  at  his  lx.'lt,  of  arrows  keen 

A  furbish'd  sheaf  bore  he; 
His  buckler,  scarce  in  breailth  a  span. 

No  larger  fence  had  he; 
He  never  counted  him  a  man. 

Would  strike  below  the  knee;*^ 
His  slacken'd  bow  was  in  his  hand, 
And  the  leash,  that  was  his  blood-hound's 
band. 


He  would  not  do  the  (air  child  harm. 
But  held  him  with  his  powerful  arm, 
That  he  might  neither  fight  nor  flee; 
For  when  the  Red-Cross  spied  he, 
The  boy  strove  long  and  violently. 
Now,  by  St.  George,"  the  archer  cries, 
"  Edward,  methinks  we  have  a  prize  ! 
This  boy's  fair  face,  and  courage  free. 
Show  he  is  come  of  high  degree."  — 


"  Yes  !   I  am  come  of  high  degree. 

For  I  am  the  heir  of  bold  Buccleuch, 
And,  if  thou  dost  not  set  me  free, 

False  Southron,  thou  shalt  dearly  rue  ! 
For  Walter  of   Harden  shall  come  with 

speed. 
And  William  of  Del oraine,  good  at  need. 
And  every  Scott,  from  Esk  to  Tweed; 
And,  if  thou  dost  not  let  me  go, 
Despite  thy  arrows,  and  thy  bow, 
I'll    have    thee    hang'd    to    feed     the 
crow  !  "  — 


H 


THE  LA  Y  OF  THE  LAST  MINSTREL. 


Canto  III. 


"  Gramercy,*  for  thy  good-will,  fair  boy ! 
My  mind  was  never  set  so  high; 
But  if  thou  art  chief  of  such  a  clan, 
And  art  the  son  of  such  a  man, 
And  ever  comest  to  thy  command. 

Our  wardens  had  need  to  keep  good 
order; 
My  bow  of  yew  to  a  hazel  wand, 

Thou'lt    make  them    work    upon  the 
Border. 
Meantime,  be  pleased  to  come  with  me. 
For  good  Lord  Dacre  shalt  thou  see; 
I  think  our  work  is  well  begun, 
When  we  have  taken  thy  father's  son." 


A.lthough  the  child  was  led  away, 
In  Branksome  still  he  seem'd  to  stay. 
Vox  so  the  Dwarf  his  part  did  play; 
And,  in  the  shape  of  that  young  boy. 
He  wrought  the  castle  much  annoy. 
The  comrades  of  the  young  Buccleuch 
He  pinch \1,  and  beat,  and  overthrew; 
Nay,  some  of  them  he  wellnigh  slew. 
He  tore  Dame  Maudlin's  silken  tire, 
And,  as  Sym  Hall  stood  by  the  fire. 
He  lighted  the  match  of  his  bandelier,+ 
And  wofully  scorch'd  the  hackbuteer.t 
It  may  he  hardly  thought  or  said. 
The  mischief  that  the  urchin  made. 
Till  many  of  the  castle  guess'd 
That  the  young  Baron  was  possess'd ! 


Well  I  ween  the  charm  he  held 
The  noble  Ladye  had  soon  dispelled; 
But  she  was  deeply  busied  then 
To  tend  the  wounded  Deloraine. 
Much  she  wonder'd  to  find  him  lie. 
On    the    stone    threshold    stretch'd 
along; 
She  thought  some  spirit  of  the  sky 
Had    done    the    bold    moss-trooper 
wrong; 
Because,  despite  her  precept  dread. 
Perchance  he  in  the  Book  had  read; 
But  the  broken  lance  in  his  bosom  stood, 
And  it  was  earthly  steel  and  wood. 

*  Grand  merci,  thanks. 

t  Bandelier,  beh  for  carrying  ammuuition. 

X  Hackbuteer.  musketeer. 


She  drew  the  splinter  from  the  wound, 
And  with  a  charm  she  stanch'd  the 
blood; 
She  bade  the  gash  be  cleansed  and  bound : 

No  longer  by  his  couch  she  stood; 
But  she  has  ta'en  the  broken  lance, 
And  wash'd  it  from  the  clotted  gore, 
And  salved  the  splinter  o'er  and  o'er.  § 
William  of  Deloraine,  in  trance. 

Whene'er    she   turned    it    round   and 

round. 
Twisted  as  if  she  gall'd  his  wound. 
Then  to  her  maidens  she  did  say, 
That    he   should    be    whole    man   and 
sound, 
V/ithin  the  course  of  a  night  and  day. 
Full  long  she  toil'd;    for  she  did  rue 
Mishap  to  friend  so  stout  and  true. 


So  pass'd  the  day  —  the  evening  fell, 
'Twas  near  the  time  of  curfew  bell; 
The  air  was  mild,  the  wind  was  calm. 
The   stream  was   smooth,    the   dew  was 

balm; 
E'en  the  rude  watchman,  on  the  tower, 
Enjoy'd  and  bless'd  the  lovely  hour. 
Far  more  fair  Margaret  loved  and  bless'd 
The  hour  of  silence  and  of  rest. 
On  tl^  high  turret  sitting  lone. 
She  waked  at  times  the  lute's  soft  tone, 
Touch'd  a  wild  note,  and  all  between 
Thought  of  the  bower  of  hawthorns  green. 
Her  golden  hair  stream'd  free  from  band, 
Her  fair  cheek  rested  on  her  hand. 
Her  blue  eyes  sought  the  west  afar. 
For  lovers  love  the  western  star. 


Is  yon  the  star,  o'er  Penchryst  Pen, 

That  rises  slowly  to  her  ken, 

And,  spreading  broad  its  wavering  light. 

Shakes  its  loose  tresses  on  the  night? 

Is  yon  red  glare  the  western  star?  — 

O,  'tis  the  beacon-blaze  of  war  ! 

Scarce   could    she    draw    her   tighten'd 

breath. 
For  well  she  knew  the  fire  of  death  ! 

§  niis  was  called  the  cure  by  sympathy. 
Sir  Keiielm  Digby  was  wont  occasionally  to 
practise  it. 


Canto  III. 


THE  LA  y  OF  THE  LAST  MINSTREL. 


25 


The  Warder  view'd  it  blazing  strong, 
And  blew  his  war-note  loud  and  long, 
Till,  at  the  high  and  haughty  sound, 
Rock,  wood,  and  river  rung  around. 
The  blast  alarm'd  the  festal  hall. 
And  startled  forth  the  warriors  all. 
Far  downward,  in  the  castle-yard, 
Full  many  a  torch  and  cresset  glared; 
And  helms  and  plumes,  confusedly  toss'd, 
Were  in  the  V)laze  half-seen,  half -lost; 
And  spears  in  wild  disorder  shook, 
Like  reeds  beside  a  frozen  brook. 

XXVII. 

The  Seneschal,  whose  silver  hair 
Was  redden'd  by  the  torches'  glare. 
Stood  in  the  midst,  with  gesture  proud, 
And  issued  forth  his  mandates  loud: 
"  On  Penchryst  glows  a  bale* of  fire. 
And  three  arc  kindling  on  Priesthaugh- 
swire ; 

Ride  out,  ride  out. 

The  foe  to  scout ! 
Mount,    iTiount    for    Branksome.t   every 

man. 
Thou,  Todrig,  warn  the  Johnstone  clan, 

That  ever  are  true  and  stout  — 
Ye  need  not  send  to  Liddesdale; 
For  when  they  see  the  blazing  bale, 
Elliots  and  Armstrongs  never  fail.  — 
Ride,  Alton,  ride,  for  death  and  life ! 
And  warn  the  Warder  of  the  strife. 
Young  Gilbert,  let  our  beacon  blaze. 
Our  kin  and  clan  and  friends  to  raise." 


Fair  Margaret  from  the  turret  head, 
Heard,  far  below,  the  coursers'  tread. 

While  loud  the  harness  rung. 
As  to  their  seats,  with  clamor  dread. 

The  ready  horsemen  sprung: 
And  trampling  hoofs,  and  iron  coats, 
And  leaders'  voices,  mingled  notes. 
And  out !  and  out ! 
In  hasty  rout. 

The  horsemen  gallop'd  forth; 
Dispersing  to  the  south  to  scout. 

And  east,  and  west,  and  north, 

•  A  Border  beacon. 

T  Mount  for   Branksome  was   the   gathering 
word  of  the  Scotts. 


To  view  their  coming  enemies. 
And  warn  their  vassals  and  allies. 


The  ready  page,  with  hurried  hand. 
Awaked     the     need-fire's  t    slumbering 

brand. 
And  ruddy  blush'd  the  heaven  : 
For  a  sheet  of  flame,  from  the  turret  high, 
Waved  like  a  blood-flag  on  the  sky. 

All  flaring  and  uneven; 
And  soon  a  score  of  fires,  I  ween. 
From  height,  and  hill,  and   cliff,  were 

seen ; 
Each  with  warlike  tidings  fraught. 
Each  from  each  the  signal  caught; 
Each  after  each  they  glanced  to  sight. 
As  stars  arise  upon  the  night. 
They  gleam'd  on  many  a  dusky  tarn,§ 
Haunted  by  the  lonely  earn;  II 
On  many  a  cairn's  gray  pyramid. 
Where  urns  of  mighty  chiefs  lie  hid;^ 
Till  high  Dunedin  the  blazes  saw. 
From  Soltra  and  Dumpender  Law; 
And  Lothian  heard  the  Regent's  order. 
That   all   should  boune  t  them  for  the 

Border. 


The  livelong  night  in  Branksome  rang 

The  ceaseless  sound  of  steel; 
The  castle-bell,  with  backward  clang, 

Sent  forth  the  larum  peal; 
Was  frequent  heard  the  heavy  jar, 
Where  massy  stone  and  iron  bar 
Were  piled  on  echoing  keep  and  tower. 
To  whelm  the  foe  with  deadly  shower; 
Was  frequent  heard  the  changing  guard. 
And  watchword  from  the  sleepless  ward; 
While,  wearied  by  the  endless  din, 
Blood-hound  and  ban-dog  yell'd  within. 


The  noble  Dame,  amid  the  broil. 
Shared  the  gray  Seneschal's  high  toil, 
And  spoke  of  danger  with  a  smile; 

X  Need-fire,  beacon. 
§   Tarn,  a  monntain  lake, 
n  Earn,  a  Scottish  eagle. 
H  Boune,  make  ready. 


26 


THE  LAY  OF  THE  LAST  MLNSTREL. 


Canto  IV. 


Cheer'd  the  young  knights,  and  council 

sage 
Held  with  the  chiefs  of  riper  age. 
No  tidings  of  the  foe  were  Vjrought, 
"Nor  of  his  numbers  knew  they  aught, 
Nor  what  in  time  of  truce  he  sought. 

Some  said,  that  there  were  thousands 
ten; 
And  others  ween'd  that  it  was  naught 

But  Leven  Clans,  or  Tynedale  men. 
Who  came  to  gather  in  black-mail;* 
And  Liddesdale,  with  small  avail, 

Might  drive  them  lightly  back  agen. 
So  pass'd  the  anxious  night  away, 
And  welcome  was  the  f)eep  of  day. 


Ceased  the  high  sound  —  the  listening 

throng 
Applaud  the  Master  of  the  Song; 
And  marvel  much,  in  helpless  age, 
So  hard  should  be  his  pilgrimage. 
Had  he  no  friend  —  no  daughter  dear, 
His  wandering  toil  to  share  and  cheer; 
No  son  to  be  his  father's  stay, 
And  guide  him  on  the  rugged  way? 
'  Ay,  once  he  had  —  but  he  was  ilead  !' 
Upon  the  harp  he  stoop'd  his  head, 
And  busied  himself  the  strings  withal. 
To  hide  the  tear  that  fain  would  fall. 
In  solemn  measure,  soft  and  slow, 
Arose  a  father's  notes  of  woe. 


CANTO   FOURTH. 
I. 
Sweet  Teviot !  on  thy  silver  tide 

The  glaring  bale-fires  blaze  no  more; 
No  longer  steel-clad  warriors  ride 

Along  thy  wild  and  willow'd  shore; 
Where'er  thou  wind'st,  by  dale  or  hill, 
All,  all  is  peaceful,  all  is  still. 

As  if  thy  waves,  since  Time  was  born. 
Since  first  they  roll'd  upon  the  Tweed, 
Had  only  heard  the  shepherd's  reed. 

Nor  started  at  the  bugle-horn. 


Unlike  the  tide  of  human  time. 

Which,  though  it  change  in  ceaseless 
flow, 

*  Protection  money  exacted  by  freebooters. 


Retains  each  grief,  retains  each  crime, 

Its  earliest  course  was  doom'd  to  know; 
And,  darker  as  it  downward  bears, 
Is  stain'd  with  past  and  present  tears. 
Low  as  that  tide  has  ebb'd  with  me, 
It  still  reflects  to  Memory's  eye 
The  hour  my  brave,  my  only  boy. 

Fell  by  the  side  of  great  Dundee. t 
Why,  when  the  volleying  musket  play'd 
Against  the  bloody  Highland  blade. 
Why  was  not  I  beside  him  laid  !  — 
Enough — he  died  the  death  of  fame! 
Enough  —  he     died     with      conquering 
Graeme ! 


Now  over  Border,  dale,  and  fell, 

Full  wide  and  far  was  terror  spread; 
For  pathless  marsh,  and  mountain  cell, 

The  peasant  left  his  lowly  shed.-* 
The  frighten'd  flocks  and  herds  were  pent 
Beneath  the  peel's  rude  battlement; 
And  maids  and  matrons  dropp'd  the  tear, 
While  ready  warriors  seized  the  spear. 
From    Branksome's    towers,  the  watch- 
man's eye 
Dun  wreaths  of  distant  smoke  can  spy. 
Which,  curling  in  the  rising  sun, 
Show'd  southern  ravage  was  begun. 


Now  loud  the  heedful  gate-ward  cried: — 
"  Prepare  ye  all  for  blows  and  blood ! 
Watt  Tinlinn,26  from  the  Liddel-side, 

Comes  wading  through  the  flood. 
Full  oft  the  Tynedale  snatchers  knock 
At  his  lone  gate,  and  prove  the  lock; 
It  was  V)ut  last  St.  Barnabright  X 
They  sieged  him  a  whole  summer  night, 
But  fled  at  morning;  well  they  knew. 
In  vain  he  never  twang'd  the  yew. 
Right    sharp    has     been     the     evening 

shower. 
That  drove  him  from  his  Liddel  tower; 
And  by  my  faith,"  the  gate-ward  said, 
"  I  think  'twill  provea  Warden-Raid."  § 

t  Claverhouse,  Viscount  of  Dundee,  slain  in 
the  battle  of  Killicrankie. 

t  St.  Barnabas's  day,  June  ii.  It  is  still  called 
Barnaby  Bright  in  Hants,  from  its  being  gener 
ally  a  bright,  sunshiny  day. 

§  An  inroad  commanded  by  the  Warden  in 
person. 


Canto  IV. 


THE  LAY  OF   THE  LAST  MINSTREL. 


27 


While  thus  he  spoke,  the  bold  yeoman 

Enter'd  the  echoing  barbican. 

He  led  a  small  and  shaggy  nag, 

That  through  a  bog,  from  hag  to  hag,* 

Could  bound  like  any  Billhope  stag. 

It  bore  his  wife  and  children  twain; 

A  half-clothed  serf  t  was  all  their  train; 

His  wife,  stout,  ruddy,  and  dark-brow'd. 

Of  silver  brooch  and  bracelet  proud, 

Laugh'd  to  her  friends  among  the  crowd. 

He  was  of  stature  passing  tall, 

But  sparely  forni'd,  and  lean  withal; 

A  batter 'd  morion  on  his  brow; 

A  leather  jack,  as  fence  enow, 

On  his  broad  shoulders  loosely  hung; 

A  border  axe  behind  was  slung; 

His  spear,  six  Scottish  ells  in  length, 
Seem'd  i^ewly  dyed  with  gore;    » 

His    shafts    and    bow,    of    wondrous 
strength. 
His  hardy  partner  bore. 


Thus  to  the  Ladye  did  Tinlinn  show 
The  tidings  of  the  English  foe: — 
"Belted    Will   Howard    '■*»   is    marching 

here, 
And  hot  Lord  Dacre  ^  with  many  a  spear, 
And  all  the  German  hackbut-men,^* 
Who  have  long  lain  at  Askerten : 
They  cross'd  the  Liddel  at  curfew  hour. 
And  burn'd  my  little  lonely  tower: 
The  fiend  receive  their  souls  therefor  ! 
It  had  not  been  burnt  this  year  and  more. 
Barn-yard  and  dwelling,  blazing  bright, 
Served  to  guide  me  on  my  flight; 
But  I  was  chased  the  livelong  night. 
Black    John  of    Akeshaw,    and     Fergus 

Grtjeme, 
Fast  upon  my  traces  came. 
Until  I  turn'd  at  Priesthaugh  Scrogg, 
And  shot  their  horses  in  the  bog,  . 
Slew  Fergus  with  my  lance  outright  — 
I  had  him  long  at  high  despite : 
He     drove     my     cows     last     Eastern's 

night."  t 

*  The  broken  ground  in  a  bog. 
t  Bondsman. 

X  Shrove  Tuesday,  the  eve  of  the  great  Spring 
fast. 


Now  weary  scouts  from  Liddesdale, 
Fast  hurrying  in,  confirm'd  the  tale; 
As  far  as  they  could  judge  by  ken, 
Three  hours  would  bring  toTeviot's 
strand 
Three  thousand  armed  Englishmen  — 
Meanwhile,    full     many    a    warlike 
band. 
From  Teviot,  Aill,  and  Ettrick  shade, 
Came  in,  their  Chief's  defence  to  aid. 
There  was  saddling  and  mounting  in 
haste. 
There  was  pricking  o'er  moor  and 
lea; 
He  that  was  last  at  the  trysting  place 
Was    but  lightly  held   of   his  gaye 
ladye. 


From  fair  St.  Mary's  silver  wave. 

From     dreary    Gamescleugh's    dusky 
height. 
His  ready  lances  Thirlestane  brave 

Array'd  beneath  a  banner  bright. 
The  tressured  fleur-de-luce  he  claims, 
To  wreathe  his  shield,  since  royal  James, 
Encamp'd  by  Fala's  mossy  wave. 
The  proud  distinction  grateful  gave. 

For  faith  mid  feudal  jars; 
What  time,  save  Thirlestane  aloi>e, 
Of  Scotland's  stubborn  barons  none 

Would  march  to  southern  wars; 
And  hence,  in  fair  remembrance  worn. 
Yon  sheaf  of  spears  his  crest  has  borne; 
Hence  his  high  motto  shines  reveal'd  — 
"  Ready,  aye  ready,"  for  the  field.® 


An  aged  Knight,  to  danger  steel'd. 

With  many  a  moss-trooper,  came  on : 
And  azure  in  a  golden  field. 
The  stars  and  crescent  graced  his  shield. 

Without  the  bend  of  Murdieston. 
Wide  lay  his  lands  round  Oakwood  tower, 
And  wide  round  haunted  Castle-Ower; 
High  over  Borthwick's  mountain  flood. 
His  wood-embosom'd  mansion  stood. 
In  the  dark  glen,  so  deep  below, 
The  herds  of  plunder'd  England  low; 
His  bold  retainers'  daily  food. 


28 


THE  LAY  OF   THE  LAST  MLNSTREL. 


Canto  IV. 


And    bought    with    clanger,    blows,  and 

blood. 
Marauding  chief !  his  sole  delight 
The  moonlight  raid,  the  morning  fight; 
Not  even  the  Flower  of  Yarrow's  charms, 
In  youth,  might  tame  his  rage  for  arms; 
And  still,  in  age,  he  spurn'd  at  rest. 
And  still  his  brows  the  helmet  press'd. 
Albeit  the  blanched  locks  below 
Were  white  as  Dinlay's  spotless  snow; 
Five  stately  warriors  drew  the  sword 

Before  their  father's  band; 
A  braver  knight  than  Harden "s  lord 

Ne'er  belted  on  a  brand.* 


Scotts  of  Eskdale,  a  stalwart  band, 

Came  trooping  down  the  Todshawhill; 
By  the  sword  they  won  their  land, 

And  by  the  sword  they  hold  it  still. 
Harken,  Ladye,  to  the  tale. 
How  thy  sires  won  fair  Eskdale.  — 
Earl  Morton  was  lord  of  that  valley  fair, 
The  Beattisons  were  his  vassals  there. 
The  Earl  was  gentle,  and  mild  of  mood. 
The  vassals  were  warlike,  and  fierce,  and 

rude; 
High  of  heart,  and  haughty  of  word. 
Little  they  reck'd  of  a  tame  liege  lord. 
The  Earl  into  fair  Eskdale  came. 
Homage  and  seignory  to  claim : 
Of    Gilbert    the  Galliard    a    heriot  t    he 

sought. 
Saying,  "  Give  thy  best  steed,  as  a  vassal 

ought." 
—  "  Dear  to  me  is  my  bonny  white  steed, 
Oft  has  he  help'd  me  at  pinch  of  need; 
Lord  and  Earl  though  thou  be,  I  trow, 
I  can  rein  Bucksfoot  better  than  thou." 
Word  on  word  gave  fuel  to  fire. 
Till  so  highly  blazed  the  Beattison's  ire, 
But  that  the  Earl  the  flight  had  ta'en, 
The  vassals  there  their  lord  had  slain. 
Sore  he  plied  both  whip  and  spur, 
As  he  urged  his  steed  through  Eskdale 

muir; 
And  it  fell  down  a  weary  weight. 
Just  on  the  threshold  of  Branksome  gate. 

*  This  knight  was  the  ancestor  of  Sir  Walter 
Scott. 

t  The  feudal  superior,  in  certain  cases,  was  en- 
titled to  the  best  horse  of  the  vassal,  in  name 
of  Heriot,  or  Herezeld. 


The  Earl  was  a  wrathful  man  to  see, 
Full  fain  avenged  would  he  be. 
In  haste  to  Branksome 's  Lord  he  spoke, 
Saying  —  "Take    these    traitors    to   the 

yoke; 
For  a  cast  of  hawks,  and  a  purse  of  gold. 
All   Eskdale  I'll  sell  thee,  to  have  and 

hold; 
Beshrewthy  heart,  of  the  Beattisons' clan 
If  thou  leavest  on  Esk  a  landed  man; 
But  spare  Woodkerrick's  lands  alone. 
For  he  lent  me  his  horse  to  escape  upon." 
A  glad  man  then  was  Branksome  bold, 
Down  he  flung  him  the  purse  of  gold; 
To  Eskdale  soon  he  spurr'd  am.iin. 
And    with   him   five  hundred  riders  has 

ta'en. 
He  left  his  merrymen  in  the  mist  of  the 

hill. 
And  bade  them  hold  them  close  and  still; 
And  alone  he  wended  to  the  plain. 
To  meet  with   the   Galliard  and   all   his 

train. 
To  Gilbert  the  Galliard  thus  he  said:  — 
"  Know  thou  me  for  thy  liege  lord  and 

head, 
Deal  not  with  me  as  with  Morton  tame. 
For  Scotts  play  best  at  the  roughest  game. 
Give  me  in  peace  my  heriot  due. 
Thy  bonny  white  steed,  or  thou  shalt  rue. 
If  my  horn  I  three  times  wind, 
Eskdale    shall    long    have    the  sound  in 

mind." 


Loudly  the  Beattison  laugh'd  in  scorn : — 
"  Little  care  we  for  thy  winded  horn. 
Ne'er  shall  it  be  the  Galliard's  lot. 
To  yield  his  steed  to  a  haughty  Scott. 
Wend  thou  to  Branksome  back  on  foot, 
With  rusty  spur  and  miry  boot."  — 
He  blew  his  bugle  so  loud  and  hoarse, 
That  the  dun  deer  started   at  fair  Craik- 

cross : 
He  blew  again  so  loud  and  clear. 
Through  the  gray  mountain-mist  there  did 

lances  appear: 
And  the  third  blast  rang  with  such  a  din. 
That  the  echoes  answer'd  from  Pent^iin- 

linn, 
And  all  his  riders  came  lightly  in. 


Canto  IV. 


THE  LAY  OF  THE  LAST  MLNSTREL. 


29 


Then  had  you  seen  a  gallant  shock, 
When  saddles  were  emptied,  and  lances 

l^roke ! 
For  each  scornful  word  the  Galliard  had 

said, 
A  Beattison  on  the  field  was  laid. 
1  lis  own  good  sword  the  Chieftain  drew, 
.\nd  he    bore  the  Galliard  through  and 

through : 
Where  the  Beattison's  blood  mix'd  with 

the  rill, 
Tlie  Galliard's-Haugh  men  call  it  still. 
The  Scotts  have  scatter'd  the  Beattison 

clan, 
In  Eskdale  they  left  but  one  landed  man. 
The  valley  of  Esk,  from  the  mouth  to  the 

source, 
Was  lost  and  won  for  that  bonny  white 

horse. 


Whitslade    the    Hawk,    and    Headshaw 

came. 
And  warriors  more  than  I  may  name; 
From     Yarrow-cleugh     to     Hindhaugh- 
swair, 
From  Woodhouselie  to  Chester-glen, 
Troop'd  man   and  horse,  and  bow  and 
spear; 
Their  gathering  word  was  Bellenden.*' 
And  better  hearts  o'er  Border  sod 
To  siege  or  rescue  never  rode. 

The  Ladye  mark'd  the  aids  come  in. 
And  high  her  heart  of  pride  arose: 
She  bade  her  youthful  son  attend. 
That  he  might  know  his  father's  friend, 

And  learn  to  face  his  foes. 
"The  boy  is  ripe  to  look  on  war; 

I  saw  him  draw  a  cross-bow  stiff, 
And  his  true  arrow  struck  afar 
The  raven's  nest  upon  the  cliff; 
The  red  cross,  on  a  southern  breast. 
Is  broader  than  a  raven's  nest : 
Thou,  Whitslade,  shalt  teach  him  his  wea- 
pon to  wield, 
And  o'er  him  hold  his  father's  shield." 


Well  may  you  think,  the  wily  page 
Cared  not  to  face  the  Ladye  sage. 
He  counterfeited  childish  fear, 
And  shriek'd  and  shed  full  many  a  tear, 


And   moan'd   and  plain'd  in  manner 
wild. 
The  attendants  to  the  Ladye  told. 
Some  fairy,  sure  had  changed  the  child. 
That  wont  to  be  so  free  and  bold. 
Then  wrathful  was  the  noble  dame; 
.She  blush'd  blood-red  for  very  shame :  — 
"  Hence  !  ere  the  clan  his  faintness  view; 
Hence  with  the  weakling  to  Buccleuch  !  — 
Watt  Tinlinn,  thou  shalt  be  his  guide 
To  Rangleburn's  lonely  side.  — 
Sure  some  fell  fiend  has  cursed  our  line, 
That  coward  should  e'er  be  son  of  mine  !  ' ' 


A  heavy  task  Watt  Tinlinn  had, 
To  guide  the  counterfeited  lad. 
Soon  as  the  palfrey  felt  the  weight 
Of  that  ill-omen'd  elvish  freight, 
He  bolted,  sprung,  and  rear'd  amain, 
Nor  heeded  bit,  nor  curb,  nor  rein. 
It  cost  W^att  Tinlinn  mickle  toil 
To  drive  him  but  a  Scottish  mile; 

But  as  a  shallow  brook  they  cross'd. 
The  elf,  amid  the  running  stream. 
His  figure  changed,  like  form  in  dream. 
And  fled,  and  shouted,  "  Lost !  lost ! 
lost!  " 
Full  fast  the  urchin  ran  and  laugh'd. 
But  faster  still  a  cloth-yard  shaft 
Whistled  from  startled  Tinlinn's  yew. 
And   pierced    his  shoulder  through    and 

through. 
Although  the  imp  might  not  be  slain, 
And  though  the  wound  soon  heal'd  again, 
Vet  as  he  ran,  he  yell'd  for  pain; 
And  Watt  of  Tinlinn,  much  aghast, 
Rode  back  to  Branksome  fiery  fast. 


Soon  on  the  hill's  steep  verge  he  stood. 
That  looks  o'er  Branksome's  towers  and 

wood; 
And  martial  murmurs,  from  below, 
Proclaim'd  the  approaching  southern  foe. 
Through  the  dark  wood,  in  mingled  tone, 
Were  Border  pipes  and  bugles  blown, 
The  coursers'  neighing  he  could  ken, 
A  measured  tread  of  marching  men; 
While  broke  at  times  the  solemn  hum. 
The  Almayn's  sullen  kettle-drum^ 


30 


THE  LAY  OF  THE  LAST  MINSTREL. 


Canto  IV. 


And  banners  tall,  of  crimson  sheen, 

Above  the  copse  appear; 
And,  glistening  through  the  hawthorns 
green, 

Shine  helm,  and  shield,  and  spear. 


Light  forayers,  first,  to  view  the  ground, 
Spurr'd  their  fleet  coursers  loosely  round; 
Behind,  in  close  array,  and  fast. 

The  Kendal  archers,  all  in  green. 
Obedient  to  the  bugle  blast. 

Advancing  from  the  wood  were  seen. 
To  back  and  guard  the  archer  band. 
Lord  Dacre's  bill-men  were  at  hand: 
A  hardy  race,  on  Irthing  bred. 
With  kirtles  white,  and  crosses  red, 
Array'd  beneath  the  banner  tall. 
That  stream'd  o'er  Acre's  conquer'd  wall ; 
And  minstrels,  as  they  march'd  in  order, 
Play'd  "  Noble  Lord  Dacre,  he  dwells  on 

the  Border." 


Behind  the  English  bill  and  bow. 
The  mercenaries,  firm  and  slow. 

Moved  on  to  fight,  in  dark  array. 
By  Conrad  led  of  Wolfenstein, 
Who  brought  the  band  from  distant  Rhine, 

And  sold  their  blood  for  foreign  pay. 
The  camp  their  home,  their  law  the  sword. 
They  knew  no  country,  own'd  no  lord: 
They  were  not  arm'd  like  England's  sons, 
But  bore  the  levin-darting  guns; 
Buff-coats,    all    frounced    and    broider'd 

o'er, 
And  morsing-horns  *and  scarfs  they  wore ; 
Each  better  knee  was  bared,  to  aid 
The  warriors  in  the  escalade; 
All,  as  they  march'd,  in  rugged  tongue, 
Songs  of  Teutonic  feuds  they  sung. 


But  louder  still  the  clamor  grew, 
And  louder  still  the  minstrels  blew, 
When,  from  beneath  the  greenwood  tree. 
Rode  forth  Lord  Howard's  chivalry; 
His  men-at-arms,  with  glaive  and  spear, 
Brought  up  the  battle's  glittering  rear, 

*  Powder-flasks.  j 


There  many  a  youthful  knight,  full  keen 
To  gain  his  spurs,  in  arms  was  seen; 
With  favor  in  his  crest,  or  glove. 
Memorial  of  his  ladye-love. 
So  rode  they  forth  in  fair  array. 
Till  full  their  lengthen'd  lines  display; 
Then  call'd  a  halt,  and  made  a  stand. 
And  cried,  "  St.  George,  for  merry  Eng- 
land !  " 


Now  every  English  eye,  intent 
On  Branksome's  armed  towers  were  bent; 
So  near  they  were,  that  they  might  know 
The  straining  harsh  of  each  cross-bow; 
On  battlement  and  bartizan 
Gleam'd  axe  and  spear  and  partisan; 
Falcon  and  culver, t    on  each  tower. 
Stood  prompt  their  deadly  hail  to  shower; 
And  flashing  armor  frequent  broke 
From  eddying  whirls  of  sable  smoke. 
Where  upon  tower  and  turret  head. 
The  seething  pitch  and  molten  lead 
Reek'd,  like  a  witch's  caldron  red. 
While  yet  they  gaze,  the  bridges  fall. 
The  wicket  opes,  and  from  the  wall 
Rides  forth  the  hoary  Seneschal. 


Armed  he  rode,  all  save  the  head. 

His    white    beard    o'er    his    breast-plate 

spread; 
Unbroke  by  age,  erect  his  seat, 
He  ruled  his  eager  courser's  gait; 
Forced  him,  with  chasten'd  fire,  to  prance, 
And,  high  curvetting,  slow  advance : 
In  sign  of  truce,  his  better  hand 
Display'd  a  peeled  willow  wand; 
His  squire,  attending  in  the  rear, 
Bore  high  a  gauntlet  on  a  spear,  t 
When  they  espied  him  riding  out. 
Lord  Howard  and  Lord  Dacre  stout 
Sped  to  the  front  of  their  array, 
To  hear  what  this  old  knight  should  say :  — 

t  Ancient  pieces  of  artillery. 

+  A  glove  upon  a  lance  was  the  emblem  of 
faith  among  the  ancient  Borderers,  who  were 
wont,  when  any  one  broke  his  word,  to  expose 
this  emblem,  and  proclaim  him  a  faithless  vil- 
lain at  the  first  Horder  meeting.  This  cere- 
mony was  much  dreaded.  —  See  Leslky. 


Canto  IV. 


THE  LAY   OF  THE  LAST  MINSTREL. 


31 


"  Ye  English  warden  lords,  of  you 
Demands  the  Ladye  of  Buccleuch, 
Why,  'gainst  the  truce  of  Border  tide, 
In  hostile  guise  ye  dare  to  ride. 
With  Kendal  bow,  and  Gilsland  brand. 
And  all  yon  mercenary  band. 
Upon  the  bounds  of  fair  Scotland? 
My  Ladye  redes  you  swith  *  return; 
And,  if  but  one  poor  straw  you  burn. 
Or  do  our  towers  so  much  molest. 
As  scare  one  swallow  from  her  nest, 
St.  Mary !  but  we'll  light  a  brand 
Shall  warm  your  hearths  in  Cumberland. 


A  wrathful  man  was  Dacre's  lord. 

But  calmer  Howard  took  the  word: 

"  May't  please  thy  Dame,  Sir  Seneschal, 

To  seek  the  castle's  outward  wall. 

Our  pursuivant-at-arms  shall  show 

Both  why  we  came,  and  when  we  go. "  — 

The  message  sped,  the  noble  Dame 

To  the  wall's  outward  circle  came; 

Each  chief  around  lean'd  on  his  spear. 

To  see  the  pursuivant  appear. 

All  in  Lord  Howard's  livery  dress'd. 

The  lion  argent  deck'd  his  breast; 

He  led  a  boy  of  blooming  hue  — 

O  sight  to  meet  a  mother's  view  ! 

It  was  the  heir  of  great  Buccleuch. 

Obeisance  meet  the  herald  made, 

And  thus  his  master's  will  he  said:  — 


"  It  irks,  high  Dame,  my  noble  Lords, 
'Gainst  ladye  fair  to  draw  their  swords: 
But  yet  they  may  not  tamely  see, 
All  through  the  Western  Wardenry, 
Your  law-contemning  kinsmen  ride, 
And  burn  and  spoil  the  Border-side; 
And  ill  Ijcseems  your  rank  and  birth 
To  make  ^owx  towers  a  flemens-firth.t 
We  claim  from  thee  William  of  Deloraine, 
That  he  may  suffer  march-treason  "^  pain. 
It  was  but  last  St.  Cuthbert's  even 
He  prick'd  to  Stapleton  on  Leven, 
Harried t  the  lands  of  Richard  Musgrave, 
And  slew  his  brother  by  dint  of  glaive. 

*  S-with,  instantly. 

t  An  asylum  for  outlaws. 

X  Plundered. 


Then,  since  a  lone  and  widow'd  Dame 
These  restless  riders  may  not  tame. 
Either  receive  within  thy  towers 
Two  hundred  of  my  master's  powers. 
Or  straight  they  sound  their  warrJson,§ 
And  storm  and  spoil  thy  garrison : 
And  this  fair  boy,  to  London  led. 
Shall  good  King  Edward's  page  be  bred." 


He  ceased  —  and  loud  the  boy  did  cry. 
And  stretch'd  his  little  arms  on  high; 
Implored  for  aid  each  well-known  face. 
And  strove  to  seek  the  Dame's  embrace. 
A  moment  changed  that  Ladye's  cheer, 
Gush'd  to  her  eye  the  unbidden  tear; 
She  gazed  upon  the  leaders  round. 
And  dark  and  sad  each  warrior  frown'd; 
Then,  deep  within  her  sobbing  breast 
She  lock'd  the  struggling  sigh  to  rest; 
Unalter'd  and  collected  stood. 
And  thus  replied,  in  dauntless  mood:  — 


"  Say  to  your  Lords  of  high  emprize, 
Who  war  on  women  and  on  boys. 
That  either  William  of  Deloraine 
Will  cleanse    him,   by  oath,   of    march- 
treason  stain, 
Or  else  he  will  the  combat  take 
'Gainst  Musgrave,  for  his  honor's  sake. 
No  knight  in  Cumberland  so  good. 
But  William  may  count  with  him  kin  and 

blood. 
Knighthood  he  took  of  Douglas'  sword,*^ 
When  English  blood  swell'd  Ancram's 

ford;** 
And  but  Lord  Dacre's  steed  was  wight. 
And  bare  him  ably  in  the  flight, 
Himself  had  seen  him  dubb'd  a  knight. 
For  the  young  heir  of  Branksome's  line, 
God  be  his  aid,  and  God  be  mine; 
Through  me    no    friend    shall    meet    his 

doom ; 
Here,  while  I  live,  no  foe  finds  room. 
Then,  if  thy  Lords  their  purpose  urge. 

Take  our  defiance  loud  and  high; 
Our  slogan  is  their  lyke-wake  11  dirge. 
Our  moat,  the  grave  where  they  shall 
lie." 

§  Note  of  assault. 

n  Watching  a  corpse  all  night. 


32 


THE  LA  Y  OF  THE  LAST  MINSTREL. 


Canto  IV. 


Proud   she    look'd   round,    applause    to 

claim  — 
Then  lighlen'd  Thirlestane's  eye  of  flame ; 

His  bugle  Watt  of  Harden  blew; 
Pensils  and  pennons  wide  were  flung, 
To  heaven  the  Border  slogan  rung, 

"  St.  Mary  for  the  young  Buccleuch  !  " 
The  English  war-cry  answer'd  wide. 

And  forward  bent  each  southern  spear; 
Each  Kendal  archer  made  a  stride, 

And  drew  the  bowstring  to  his  ear; 
Each  minstrel's  war-note  loud  was  blown : 
But,  ere  a  gray-goose  shaft  had  flown, 

A  horseman  gallop'd  from  the  rear. 


"  Ah !  noble  Lords !  "  he  breathless  said, 
"  What  treason  has  your  march  betray'd? 
What  make  you  here,  from  aid  so  far. 
Before  you  walls,  around  you  war? 
Your  foemen  triumph  in  the  thought, 
That  in  the  toils  the  lion's  caught. 
Already  on  dark  Ruberslaw 
The  Douglas  holds  his  weapon-schaw ;  * 
The  lances,  waving  in  his  train. 
Clothe  the  dun  heath  like  autumn  grain; 
And  on  the  Liddel's  northern  strand, 
To  bar  retreat  to  Cumberland, 
Lord  Maxwell  ranks  his  merrj'-men  good. 
Beneath  the  eagle  and  the  rood; 
And  Jedwood,  Esk,  and  Teviotdale, 

Have  to  proud  Angus  come ; 
And  all  the  Merse  and  Lauderdale 
Have  risen  with  haughty  Home. 
An  exile  from  Northumberland, 

In  Liddesdale  I've  wander'd  long; 
But  still  my  heart  was  with  merry  Eng- 
land, 
And    cannot    brook    my    country's 
wrong ; 
And  hard  I've  spurr'd  all  night  to  show 
The  mustering  of  the  coming  foe." 

XXIX. 

"And  let   them   come!"    fierce   Dacre 

cried; 
"  For  soon  yon  crest,  my  father's  pride. 
That  swept  the  shores  of  Judah's  sea, 
And  waved  in  gales  of  Galilee, 

•  Weapon-schaiv  —  military    gathering    of    a 
chiefs  followers,  or  the  army  of  a  county. 


From    Branksome's  highest   towers  dis- 

play'd, 
Shall  mock  the  rescue's  lingering  aid  !  — 
Level  each  harquebuss  on  row; 
Draw,  merry  archers,  draw  the  bow; 
Up,  bill-men,  to  the  walls,  and  cry, 
Dacre  for  England,  win  or  die !  " 


"Yet   hear,"  quoth   Howard,    "calmly 

hear, 
Nor  deem  my  words  the  words  of  fear : 
For  who,  in  field  or  foray  slack. 
Saw  the  blanche  lion  e'er  fall  back?  ^* 
But  thus  to  risk  our  Border  flower 
In  strife  against  a  kingdom's  power. 
Ten    thousand   Scots    'gainst   thousands 

three, 
Certes,  were  desperate  policy. 
Nay,  take  the  terms  the  I^dye  made. 
Ere  conscious  of  the  advancing  aid: 
Let  Musgrave  meet  fierce  Deloraine 
In  single  fight,  and,  if  he  gain, 
He  gains  for  us;   but  if  he's  cross'd, 
'Tis  but  a  single  warrior  lost: 
The  rest,  retreating  as  they  came. 
Avoid  defeat,  and  death,  and  shame." 


Ill  could  the  haughty  Dacre  brook 
His  brother  Warden's  sage  rebuke; 
And  yet  his  forward  step  he  staid. 
And  slow  and  sullenly  obey'd. 
But  ne'er  again  the  Border  side 
Did  these  two  lords  in  friendship  ride; 
And  this  slight  discontent,  men  say. 
Cost  blood  upon  another  day. 


The  pursuivant-at-arms  again 

Before  the  castle  took  his  stand; 
His  trumpet  call'd,  with  parleying  strain, 

The  leaders  of  the  Scottish. band; 
And  he  defied,  in  Musgrave's  right. 
Stout  Deloraine  to  single  fight; 
A  gauntlet  at  their  feet  he  laid, 
And  thus  the  terms  of  fight  he  said :  — 
"  If  in  the  lists  good  Musgrave's  sword 

Vanquish  the  Knight  of  Deloraine, 
Your    youthful    chieftain,    Branksome's 
Lord 

Shall  hostage  for  his  clan  remain :        j 


Canto  IV. 


THE  LA  \    OF  THE  LAST  MLMSTREL. 


33 


If  Deloraine  foil  good  Musgrave, 
The  boy  his  liberty  shall  have. 

Howe'er  it  falls,  the  English  band, 
Unharming  Scots,  by  Scots  unharm'd. 
In  peaceful  march,  like  men  unarm'd, 

bball  straight  retreat  to  Cumberland." 


Unconscious  of  the  near  relief, 

The  proffer  pleased  each  Scottish  chief, 

Though  much   the    Ladye    sage  gain- 
say'd; 
For  though  their  hearts  were  brave  and 

true. 
From  Jedwood's  recent  sack  they  knew, 

How  tardy  was  the  Regent's  aid: 
And  you  may  guess  the  noble  Dame 

Durst  not  the  secret  prescience  own. 
Sprung  from  the  art  she  might  not  name. 

By  which  the  coming  help  was  known. 
Closed  was  the  compact,  and  agreed 
That  lists  should  be  enclosed  with  speed, 

Beneath  the  castle,  on  a  lawn: 
They  fix'd  the  morrow  for  the  strife, 
On  foot,  with  Scottish  axe  and  knife, 

At  the  fourth  hour  from  peep  of  dawn; 
When  Deloraine,  from  sickness  freed. 
Or  else  a  champion  in  his  stead. 
Should  for  himself  and  chieftain  stand. 
Against  stout  Musgrave,  hand  to  hand. 


I  know  right  well,  that,  in  their  lay, 
I'ull  many  minstrels  sing  and  say. 

Such  combat  should  be  made  on  horse. 
Oil  foaming  steed,  in  full  career. 
With  brand  to  aid,  when  as  the  spear 

Should  shiver  in  the  course: 
But  he,  the  jovial  Harper,  taught 
Me,  yet  a  youth,  how  it  was  fought, 

In  guise  which  now  I  say; 
lie  knew  each  ordinance  and  clause 
Of  Black  Lord  Archibald's  battle-laws. 

In  the  old  Douglas'  day. 
He  brook 'd  not,  he,  that  scoffing  tongue 
Sliould  tax  his  minstrelsy  with  wrong. 

Or  call  his  song  untrue : 
For  this,  when  they  the  goblet  plied. 
And  such  rude  taunt  had  chafed  his  pride, 

The  Bard  of  ReuU  he  slew. 
On  Teviot's  side,  in  fight  they  stood. 


And    tuneful   hands   were   stain'd   with 

blood; 
Where  still  the  thorn's  white  branches 

wave, 
Memorial  o'er  his  rival's  grave. 


Why  should  I  tell  the  rigid  doom, 
That  dragg'd  my  master  to  his  tomb; 

How   Ousenam's  maidens   tore   their 
hair. 
Wept  till  their  eyes  were  dead  and  dim. 
And  wrung  their  hands  for  love  of  him. 

Who  died  at  Jedwood  Air? 
He  died  !  —  his  scholars,  one  by  one. 
To  the  cold  silent  grave  are  gone; 
And  I,  alas !  survive  alone. 
To  muse  o'er  rivalries  of  yore, 
And  grieve  that  I  shall  hear  no  more 
The  strains,  with  envy  heard  before; 
For,  with  my  minstrel  brethren  fled, 
My  jealousy  of  song  is  dead. 


He  paused :  the  listening  dames  again 
Applaud  the  hoary  Minstrel's  strain. 
With  many  a  word  of  kindly  cheer,  — 
In  pity  half,  and  half  sincere,  — 
Marvell'd  the  Duchess  how  so  well 
His  legendary  song  covdd  tell  — 
Of  ancient  deeds,  so  long  forgot; 
Of  feuds,  whose  memory  was  not; 
Of  forests,  now  laid  waste  and  bare; 
Of  towers,  which  harbor  now  the  hare; 
Of  manners,  long  since  changed  and  gone; 
Of  chiefs,  who  under  their  gray  stone 
So  long  had  slept,  that  fickle  Fame 
Had  Vjlotted  from  her  rolls  their  name. 
And  twined   round  some   new  minion's 

head 
The  fading  wreath  for  which  they  bled; 
In  sooth,  'twas  strange,  this  old  man's 

verse 
Could  call  them  from  their  marble  hearse. 

The  Harper  smiled,  well-pleased;  for 
ne'er 
Was  flattery  lost  on  poet's  ear: 
A  simple  race !  they  waste  their  toil 
For  the  vain  tribute  of  a  smile; 


34 


THE  LAY  OF  THE  LAST  AHNSTREL. 


Canto  V. 


E'en  when  in  age  their  flame  expires, 
Her  dulcet  breath  can  fan  its  fires: 
Their  drooping  fancy  wakes  at  praise, 
And  strives  to  trim  the  short-lived  blaze. 
Smiled   then,  well-pleased,  the  Aged 
Man, 
And  thus  his  tale  continued  ran. 


CANTO   FIFTH. 


Call  it  not  vain :  —  they  do  not  err, 
Who  say,  that  when  the  Poet  dies, 

Mute  Nature  mourns  her  worshipper, 
And  celebrates  his  ol>sequies: 

Who  say,  tall  cliff,  and  cavern  lone. 

For  the  departed  Bard  make  moan; 

That  mountains  weep  in  crystal  rill; 

That  flowers  in  tears  of  balm  distil; 

Through   his   loved   groves  that   breezes 
sigh. 

And  oaks,  in  deeper  groan,  reply; 

And  rivers  teach  their  rushing  wave 

To  murmur  dirges  round  his  grave. 


Not  that,  in  sooth,  o'er  mortal  urn 
Those  things  inanimate  can  mourn; 
But  that  the  stream,  the  wood,  the  gale. 
Is  vocal  with  the  plaintive  wail 
Of  those,  who,  else  forgotten  long. 
Lived  in  the  poet's  faithful  song. 
And,  with  the  poet's  parting  breath. 
Whose  memory  feels  a  second  death. 
The  Maid's  pale  shade,  who  wails  her  lot. 
That  love,  true  love,  should  be  forgot. 
From  rose  and  hawthorn  shakes  the  tear 
Upon  the  gentle  Minstrel's  l>ier: 
The  phantom  Knight,  his  glory  fled, 
Mourns   o'er  the    field    he    heap'd  with 

dead; 
Mounts  the  wild  blast  that  sweeps  amain. 
And  shrieks  along  the  battle-plain. 
The  Chief,  whose  antique  crownlet  long 
Still  sparkled  in  the  feudal  song. 
Now,  from  the  mountain's  misty  throne, 
Sees,  in  the  thanedom  once  his  own, 
I  lis  ashes  undistinguish'd  lie. 
His  place,  his  power,  his  memory  die: 


His  groans  the  lonely  caverns  fill, 
His  tears  of  rj^e  impel  the  rill : 
All  mourn  the  Minstrel's  harp  unstrung. 
Their  name  unknown,  their  praise  unsung. 


Scarcely  the  hot  assault  was  staid, 
The  terms  of  truce  were  scarcely  made, 
When  they  could  spy  from  Branksome's 

towers 
The  advancing  march  of  martial  powers. 
Thick  clouds  of  dust  afar  appear'd. 
And  trampling  steeds  were  faintly  heard; 
Bright  spears,  above  the  columns  dun, 
Glanced  momentary  to  the  sun; 
And  feudal  banners  fair  display'd 
The  bands  that  moved  to  Branksome's  aid. 


Vails  not  to  tell  each  hardy  clan. 

From  the  fair  Middle  Marches  came; 
The  Bloody  Heart  blazed  in  the  v.m, 

Announcing  Douglas,  dreaded  name  !  * 
Vails  not  to  tell  what  steeds  did  spurn. 
Where  the  Seven  Spears  of  Wedderburne* 

Their  men  in  liattle-order  set; 
And  Swinton  laid  the  lance  in  rest, 
That  tamed  of  yore  the  sparkling  crest 

Of  Clarence's  Plantagenet.''^ 
Nor  list  I  say  what  hundreds  more. 
From  the  rich  Merse  and  Lammermoke, 
And  Tweed's  fair  borders,  to  the  war. 
Beneath  the  crest  of  Old  Dunbar, 

And  Hepburn's  mingled  banners  come, 
Down  the  steep  mountain  glittering  far. 

And    shouting    still,     "  A    Home !   a 
Home!  "87 


Now  squire  and  knight,  from  Branksome 
sent, 

On  many  a  courteous  message  went ; 

To  every  chief  and  lord  they  paid 

Meet  thanks  for  prompt  and  powerful  aid; 

And  told  them,  —  how  a  truce  was  made. 
And  how  a  day  of  fight  was  ta'en 
'Twixt  Musgrave  and  stout  Deloraine; 

*  Sir  David  Home  r.f  Wedderburne,  who  was 
slain  in  the  fatal  battle  of  Flodden,  left  sevep 
sons,  who  were  called  the  Seven  Spears  oi 
Wedderburne. 


Canto  V. 


THE  LAY  OF   THE  LAST  MINSTREL. 


35 


And  how  the  Ladye  pray'd  them  dear, 
That  all  would  stay  the  fight  to  see, 
And  deign,  in  love  and  courtesy. 
To  taste  of  Branksome  cheer. 
Nor,  while  they  bade  to  feast  each  Scot, 
Were  England's  noble  lords  forgot. 
Himself,  the  hoary  Seneschal, 
Rode  forth,  in  seemly  terms  to  call 
Those  gallant  foes  to  Branksome  Hall. 
Accepted  Howard,  than  whom  knight 
Was  never  dubb'd  more  bold  in  fight; 
Nor,  when  from  war  and  armor  free. 
More  famed  for  stately  courtesy; 
But  angry  Dacre  rather  chose 
In  his  pavilion  to  repose. 


Now,  noble  Dame,  perchance  you  ask, 

How  these  two  hostile  armies  met? 
Deeming  it  were  no  easy  task 

To  keep  the  truce  which  here  was  set; 
Where  martial  spirits,  all  on  fire, 
Breathed  only  blood  and  mortal  ire. — 
By  mutual  inroads,  mutual  blows. 
By  habit,  and  by  nation,  foes, 

They  met  on  Teviot's  strand; 
They  met  and  sate  them  mingled  down, 
Without  a  threat,  without  a  frown. 

As  brothers  meet  in  foreign  land : 
The  hands,  the  spear  that  lately  grasp'd. 
Still  in  the  mailed  gauntlet  clasp'd, 

Were  interchanged  in  greeting  dear; 
Visors  were  raised,  and  faces  shown. 
And  many  a  friend,  to  friend  made  known. 

Partook  of  social  cheer. 
Some  drove  the  jolly  1x)wl  about; 

With  dice  and  draughts  some  chased 
the  day; 
And  some,  with  many  a  merry  shout. 
In  riot,  revelry,  and  rout. 

Pursued  the  foot-ball  play. 


Yet,  be  it  known,  had  bugles  blown. 

Or  sign  of  war  been  seen, 
Those  bands,  so  fair  together  ranged, 
Those  hands,  so  frankly  interchanged, 

Had  dyed  with  gore  the  green : 
The  merry  shout  by  Teviotside 
Had  sunk  in  war-cries  wild  and  wide, 

And  in  the  groan  of  death : 


And  whingers  *  now  in  friendship  bare, 
The  social  meal  to  part  and  share, 

Had  found  a  bloody  sheath. 
'Twixt  truce  and  war,  such  sudden  change 
Was  not  infrequent,  nor  held  strange. 

In  the  old  Border-day :  '^ 
But  yet  on  Branksome 's  towers  and  town, 
In  peaceful  merriment,  sunk  down 

The  sun's  declining  ray. 


The  blithesome  signs  of  wassail  gay 
Decay'd  not  with  the  dying  day; 
Soon  through  the  latticed  windows  tall 
Of  lofty  Branksome's  lordly  hall. 
Divided  square  by  shafts  of  stone, 
Huge  flakes  of  ruddy  lustre  shone; 
Nor  less  the  gilded  rafters  rang 
With  merry  harp  and  beakers'  clang: 

And  frequent,  on  the  darkening  plain. 
Loud  hollo,  whoop,  or  whistle  ran, 

As  bands,  their  stragglers  to  regain. 
Give  the  shrill  watchword  of  their 
clan;  '^ 
And  revellers,  o'er  their  bowls,  proclaim 
Douglas  or  Dacre's  conquering  name. 


Less  frequent  heard,  and  fainter  still. 

At  length  the  various  clamors  died : 
And  you  might  hear,  from  Branksome  hill, 

No  sound  but  Teviot's  rushing  tide; 
Save  when  the  changing  sentinel 
The  challenge  of  his  watch  could  tell; 
And  save  where,  through  the  dark  pro- 
found, 
The  clanging  axe  and  hammer's  sound 

Rung  from  the  nether  lawn; 
For  many  a  busy  hand  toil'd  there, 
Strong    pales    to    shape,  and    beams   to 

square, 
The  lists'  dread  barriers  to  prepare 

Against  the  morrow's  dawn. 


Margaret  from  hall  did  soon  retreat. 
Despite  the  Dame's  reproving  eye; 

Nor  mark'd  she,  as  she  left  her  seat, 
Full  many  a  stifled  sigh; 

*  Large  knives. 


36 


rHE  LAY  OF   THE  LAST  MLNSTREL. 


Canto  V. 


For  many  a  Kiv'ole  warrior  strove 
To  win  the  Flower  of  Teviot's  love, 

And  ma.ny  a  bold  ally.  — 
With  throbhii'ij;  head  and  anxious  heart, 
All  in  her  lonely  Ixjwer  apart, 

In  broken  sleep  she  lay; 
By  times,  from  silken  couch  she  rose; 
\Vhile  yet  the  banner'd  hosts  repose. 

She  view'd  the  dawning  day; 
Of  all  the  hundreds  sunk  to  rest, 
'iMrst  woke  the  loveliest  and  the  best. 


She  gazed  upon  the  inner  court, 

Which  in  the  tower's  tall  shadow  lay; 
Where  coursers'  clang,  and  stamp,   and 
snort. 

Had  rung  the  livelong  yesterday; 
Now  still  as  death;    till  stalking  slow,  — 

The     jingling    spurs    announced    his 
tread, 
A  stately  warrior  pass'd  below; 

But  when  he  raised  his  plumed  head  — 
Bless'd  Mary!  can  it  be?  — 
Secure,  as  if  in  Ousenam  bowers, 
He  walks  through   Branksome's   hostile 
towers. 

With  fearless  step  and  free. 
SIw  dared  not  sign,  she  dared  not  speak, 
Oh!  if  one  page's  slumbers  break. 

His  blood  the  price  must  pay  ! 
Not  all  the  pearls  Queen  Mary  wears. 
Not  Margaret's  yet  more  precious  tears. 

Shall  buy  his  life  a  day. 


Yet  was  his  hazard  small;    for  well 
You  may  bethink  you  of   the  spell 

Of  that  sly  urchin  page; 
This  to  his  lord  he  did  impart. 
And  made  him  seem,  by  glamour  art, 

A  knight  from  Hermitage. 
Unchallenged  thus,  the  warder's  post, 
The  court,  unchallenged,  thus  he  cross'd, 

For  all  the  vassalage : 
But  O  !   what  magic's  quaint  disguise 
Could  blind  fair  Margaret's  azure  eyes ! 

She  started  from  her  seat; 
While  with  surprise  and  fear  she  strove. 
And  both  could  scarcely  master  love  — 

Lord  Henry's  at  her  feet. 


Oft  have  I  mused,  what  purpose  bad 
That  foul  malicious  urchin  had 

To  bring  this  meeting  round; 
For  happy  love's  a  heavenly  sight. 
And  by  a  vile  malignant  sprite 

In  such  no  joy  is  found; 
And    oft     I've    deem'd,     perchance    he 

thought 
Their  erring  passion  might  have  wrought 

Sorrow,  and  sin,  and  shame; 
.^nd  death  to  Cranstoun's  gallant  Knight, 
And  to  the  gentle  ladye  bright. 

Disgrace,  and  loss  of  fame. 
But  earthly  spirit  could  not  tell 
The  heart  of  them  that  loved  so  well. 
True  love's  the  gift  which  God  has  given 
'I'o  man  alone  beneath  the  heaven; 

It  is  not  fantasy's  hot  fire, 

Whose  wishes,  soon  as  granted,  fly; 

It  livcth  not  in  fierce  desire, 

With  dead  desire  it  doth  not  die; 
It  is  the  secret  sympathy. 
The  silver  link,  the  silken  tie, 
Which  heart  to  heart,  and  mind  to  mind. 
In  l)ody  and  in  soul  can  bind.  ■ — 
Now  leave  we  Margaret  and  her  Knight, 
To  tell  you  of  the  approaching  fight. 


Their  warning  blasts  the  bugles  blew. 
The  pipe's  shrill   port*  aroused  each 
clan; 
In  haste,  the  deadly  strife  to  view, 
The  trooping  warriors  eager  ran : 
Thick  round  the  lists  their  lances  stood. 
Like  blasted  pines  in  Ettrick  wood; 
To  Branksome  many  a  look  they  threw, 
The  combatants'  approach  to  view, 
And  bandied  many  a  word  of  Iwast, 
About  the  knight  each  favor'd  most. 


Meantime  full  anxious  was  the  Dame; 
For  now  arose  disputed  claim, 
Of  who  should  fight  for  Deloraine, 
'Twixt  Harden  and  'Iwixt  Thirlestane: 
They  'gan  to  reckon  kin  and  rent. 
And  frowning  brow  on  brow  was  bent; 

*  A  martial  piece  of  music,  adapted  to  the 

bagpipes. 


Canto  V. 


THE   LAY  OF  THE  LAST  MLNSTREL. 


37 


But  yet  not  long  the  strife  —  for,  lo  '. 
Himself,  the  Knight  of  Deloraine, 
Strong,  as  it  seem'd,  and  free  from  pain. 

In  armor  sheath'd  from  top  to  toe, 
Appear'd,  and  craved  the  combat  due. 
The  Dame  her  charm  successful  knew, 
And  thefiercechicfstheirclaimswithdrew. 


When  for  the  lists  they  sought  the  plain, 
The  stately  Ladye's  silken  rein 

Did  noble  Howard  hold; 
Unarmed  Ijy  her  side  he  walk'd. 
And    much,   in    courteous    phrase,   they 
talk'd 

Of  feats  of  arms  of  old. 
Costly  his  garb  —  his  F'iemish  ruff 
Fell  o'er  his  doublet,  shaped  of  buff. 

With  satin  slash'd  and  lined; 
Tawny  his  boot,  and  gold  his  spur. 
His  cloak  was  all  of  Poland  fur. 

His  hose  with  silver  twined; 
His  Bilboa  blade,  by  Marchmen  felt. 
Hung  in  a  broad  and  studded  belt; 
Hence,  in  rude  phrase,  the  Borderers  still 
Call'd  noble  Howard,  Belted  Will. 


Behind  Lord  Howard  and  the  Dame, 
Fair  Margaret  on  her  palfrey  came. 

Whose  foot-cloth  swept  the  ground : 
White  was  her  wimple,  and  her  veil. 
And  her  loose  locks  a  chaplet  pale 

Of  whitest  roses  bound; 
The  lordly  Angus,  by  her  side. 
In  courtesy  to  cheer  her  tried; 
Without  his  aid,  her  hand  in  vain 
Had  strove  to  guide  her  broider'd  rein. 
He  deem'd  she  shudder'd  at  the  sight 
Of  warriors  met  for  mortal  fight; 
But  cause  of  terror,  all  unguess'd. 
Was  fluttering  in  her  gentle  breast. 
When,  in  their  chairs  of  crimson  placed. 
The  Dame  and  she  the  barriers  graced. 


Prize  of  the  field,  the  young  Buccleuch, 
An  English  knight  led  forth  to  view; 
Scarce  rued  the  boy  his  present  plight, 
So  much  he  longed  to  see  the  fight. 
Within  the  lists,  in  knightly  pride. 
High  Home  and  haughty  Dacre  ride; 


Their  leading  staffs  of  steel  they  wield, 
As  marshals  of  the  mortal  field; 
While  to  each  knight  their  care  assign'd 
Like  vantage  of  the  sun  and  wind. 
The  heralds  hoarse  did  loud  proclaim, 
In  King  and  Queen  and  Warden's  name. 

That  none,  while  lasts  the  strife. 
Should  dare,  by  look,  or  sign,  or  word. 
Aid  to  a  champion  to  afford. 

On  peril  of  his  life; 
And  not  a  breath  the  silence  broke. 
Till  thus  the  alternate  Heralds  spoke  :  — 


ENGLISH    HERALD. 

"  Here  standeth  Richard  of  Musgrave, 

Good  knight  and  true,  and  freely  born, 
Amends  from  Deloraine  to  crave. 

For  foul  despiteous  scathe  and  scorn. 
He  sayeth,  that  William  of  Deloraine 

Is  traitor  false  by  Border  laws; 
This  with  his  sword  he  will  maintain, 

So  help  him  God,  and  his  good  cause  ! ' ' 

XX. 

SCOTTISH    HERALD. 

"  Here  standeth  William  of  Deloraine, 
Good  knight  and  true,  of  noble  strain. 
Who  sayeth,  that  foul  treason's  stain. 
Since  he  bore   arms,  ne'er   soil'd   his 
coat. 
And  that,  so  help  him  God  above  ! 
He  will  on  Musgrave 's  body  prove, 
He  lies  most  foully  in  his  throat." 

LORD    DACRE. 

"  Forward,  brave  champions,  to  the  fight ! 
Sound  trumpets  !  ' ' 

LORD    HOME. 

"  God  defend  the  right !  " 

Then,  Teviot !  how  thine  echoes  rang, 
When  bugle -sound  and  trumpet  clang 

Let  loose  the  martial  foes, 
And  in  mid  list  with  shield  poised  high. 
And  measured  step  and  wary  eye, 

The  combatants  did  close. 


Ill  would  it  suit  your  gentle  ear. 
Ye  lovely  listeners,  to  hear 


38 


THE  LAY  OF  THE  LAST  MLMSTREL. 


Canto  V. 


How  to  the  axe  the  helms  did  sound, 
And  blood   pour'd   down  from  many  a 

wound ; 
For  desperate  was  the  strife  and  long, 
And  either  warrior  fierce  and  strong. 
But,  were  each  dame  a  listening  knight, 
I  well  could  tell  how  warriors  fight ! 
For  I  have  seen  war's  lightning  flashing. 
Seen  the  claymore  with  bayonet  clashing, 
Seen   through   red  blood   the  war-horse 

dashing. 
And  scorn'd,  amid  the  reeling  strife. 
To  yield  a  step  for  death  or  life.  — 


'Tis  done,  'tis  done !  that  fatal  blow 

Has  stretch'd  him  on  the  bloody  plain  ! 
He  strives  to  rise  —  Brave  Musgrave,  no  ! 

Thence  never  shalt  thou  rise  again ! 
He  chokes  in  blood  —  some  friendly  hand 
Undo  the  visor's  barred  band, 
Unfix  the  gorget's  iron  clasp. 
And  give  him  room  for  life  to  gasp !  — 
O,  lx)otless  aid !  —  haste,  holy  Friar, 
Haste,  ere  the  sinner  shall  expire  ! 
Of  all  his  guilt  let  him  be  shriven, 
And  smooth  his  path  from  earth  toheaven  ! 


In  haste  the  holy  Friar  sped;  — 
His  naked  foot  was  dyed  with  red. 

As  through  the  lists  he  ran; 
Unmindful  of  the  shouts  on  high, 
That  hail'd  the  conqueror's  victory, 

He  raised  the  dying  man; 
Loose  waved  his  silver  beard  and  hair. 
As  o'er  him  he  kneel'd  down  in  prayer; 
And  still  the  crucifix  on  high 
He  holds  before  his  darkening  eye; 
And  still  he  bends  an  anxious  ear. 
His  faltering  penitence  to  hear; 

Still  props  him  from  the  bloody  sod, 
Still,  even  when  soul  and  Ixidy  part, 
Pours  ghostly  comfort  on  his  heart, 

And  l)ids  him  trust  in  God ! 
Unheard    he   prays;  — the  death-pang's 

o'er ! 
Richard  of  Musgrave  breathes  no  more. 

XXIV. 

« 
As  if  exhausted  in  the  fight, 
Or  musing  o'er  the  piteous  sight, 


The  silent  victor  stands; 
His  beaver  did  he  not  unclasp, 
Mark'd  not  the  shouts,  felt  not  the  grasp 

Of  gratulating  hands. 
When  lo !  strange  cries  of  wild  surprise 
Mingled  with  seeming  terror,  rise 

Among  the  Scottish  bands; 
And  all,  amid  the  throng'd  array. 
In  panic  haste  gave  open  way 
To  a  half-naked  ghastly  man, 
Who  downward  from  the  castle  ran. 
He  cross'd  the  barriers  at  a  bound. 
And  wild  and  haggard  look'd  around. 

As  dizzy,  and  in  pain; 
And  all,  upon  the  armed  ground. 

Knew  William  of  Deloraine  ! 
Each  lady  sprung  from  seat  with  speed; 
Vaulted  each  marshal  from  his  steed; 

"  And  who  art  thou,"  they  cried, 
"Who  hast  this  battle  fought  and  won  ?  " 
His  plumed  helm  was  soon  undone  — 

"  Cranstoun  of  Teviot-side  ! 
For  this  fair  prize  I've  fought  and  won," 
And  to  the  Ladye  led  her  son. 


Full  oft  the  rescued  boy  she  kiss'd. 
And  often  press'd  him  to  her  breast; 
For,  under  all  her  dauntless  show, 
Her  heart  had  throbb'd  at  every  blow; 
Yet  not  Lord  Cranstoun  deign'd  she  greet, 
Though  low  he  kneeled  at  her  feet. 
Me  lists  not  tell  what  words  were  made. 
What  Douglas,  Home,  and  Howard,  said 

— For  Howard  was  a  generous  foe  — 
And  how  the  clan  united  pray'd 

The  Ladye  would  the  feud  forego. 
And  deign  to  bless  the  nuptial  hour 
Of  Cranstoun's  Lord  and  Tcviot's  Flower. 


She  look'd  to  river,  look'd  Ui  hill, 

Thought  on  the  Spirit's  prophecy, 
Then  broke  her  silence  stern  and  still, — 
"  Not  you,  but  Fate,  has  vanquish'd  me. 
Their  influence  kindly  stars  may  shower 
On  Teviot's  tide  and  Branksome's  tower, 
For  pride  is  quell 'd,  and  love  is  free." — 
She  took  fair  Margaret  by  the  hand, 
Who,  breathless,  trembling,  scarce  might 
stand, 


Canto 


THE  LAY  OF   THE  LAST  MINSTREL. 


39 


That  hand  to  Cranstoun's  Lord  gave 
she: 
"  As  I  am  true  to  thee  and  thine, 
Do  thou  be  true  to  me  and  mine ! 

This  clasp  of  love  our  bond  shall  be; 
For  this  is  your  betrothing  day, 
And  all  these  noble  lords  shall  stay, 

To  grace  it  with  their  company." 


All  as  they  left  the  listed  plain. 
Much  of  the  story  she  did  gain; 
How  Cranstoun  fought  with  Deloraine, 
And  of  his  page,  and  of  the  Book 
Which  from  the  wounded  knight  he  took; 
And  how  he  sought  her  castle  high. 
That  morn,  by  help  of  gramarye; 
How,  in  Sir  William's  armor  dight, 
Stolen  by  his  page,  while  slept  the  knight, 
He  took  on  him  the  single  fight. 
But  half  his  tale  he  left  unsaid, 
And  linger'd  till  he  join'd  the  maid.  — 
Cared  not  the  Ladye  to  betray 
Her  mystic  arts  in  view  of  day; 
But  well  she  thought,  ere  midnigbt  came. 
Of  that  strange  page  the  pride  to  tame, 
From  his  foul  hands  the  Book  to  save, 
And  send  it  back  to  Michael's  grave. — 
Needs  not  to  tell  each  tender  word 
'Twixt  Margaret  and  'twixt  Cranstoun's 

Lord; 
Nor  how  she  told  of  former  woes. 
And  how  her  bosom  fell  and  rose. 
While  he  and  Musgrave  bandied  blows. — 
Needs  not  these  lovers'  joys  to  tell : 
One  day,  fair  maids,  you'll  know  them 

well. 


William  of  Deloraine,  some  chance 
Had  wakened  from  his  death-like  trance; 

And  taught  that,  in  the  listed  plain. 
Another,  in  his  arms  and  shield, 
Against  fierce  Musgrave  axe  did  wield, 

Under  the  name  of  Deloraine. 
Hence,  to  the  field,  unarm'd,  he  ran, 
And  hence  his  presence  scared  the  clan, 
Who  held  him  for  some  fleeting  wraith,* 
And  not  a  man  of  blood  and  breath. 

Not  much  this  new  ally  he  loved. 

Yet,  when  he  saw  what  hap  had  proved. 
He  greeted  him  right  heartilie; 

*  The  spectral  apparition  of  a  living  person. 


He  would  not  waken  old  debate. 
For  he  was  void  of  rancorous  hate. 

Though  rude  and  scant  of  courtesy; 
In  raids  he  spilt  but  seldom  blood. 
Unless  when  men-at-arms  withstood. 
Or,  as  was  meet  for  deadly  feud. 
He  ne'er  bore  grudge  for  stalwart  blow, 
Ta'en  in  fair  fight  from  gallant  foe; 
And  so  'twas  seen  of  him,  e'en  now. 

When  on  dead  Musgrave  he  look'd 
down; 
Grief  darken'd  on  his  rugged  brow. 

Though  half  disguised  with  a  frown; 
And  thus,  while  sorrow  bent  his  head, 
His  foeman's  epitaph  he  made: — 


"Now,  RichardMusgrave,  liest  thou  here ! 

I  ween  my  deadly  enemy; 
For,  if  I  slew  thy  brother  dear. 

Thou  slew'st  a  sister's  son  to  me; 
And  when  I  lay  in  dungeon  dark. 

Of  Naworth  Castle,  long  months  three. 
Till  ransom'd  for  a  thousand  mark. 

Dark  Musgrave,  it  was  long  of  thee. 
And,  Musgrave,  could  our  fight  be  tried. 

And  thou  wert  now  alive  as  I, 
No  mortal  man  should  us  divide. 

Till  one,  or  both  of  us,  did  die: 
Yet  rest  thee  God !  for  well  I  know 
I  ne'er  shall  find  a  nobler  foe. 
In  all  the  northern  counties  here. 
Whose  word  is  Snaffle,  spur,  and  spear. 
Thou  wert  the  best  to  follow  gear ! 
'Twas  pleasure,  as  we  look'd  behind. 
To  see  how  thou  the  chase  could 'st  wind, 
Cheer  the  dark  blood-hound  on  his  way, 
And  with  the  bugle  rouse  the  fray ! 
I'd  give  the  Wnds  of  Deloraine, 
Dark  Musgrave  were  alive  again." 


So  mourn'd  he,  till  Lord  Dacre's  band 
Were  bouning  back  to  Cumberland. 
They  raised  brave  Musgrave  from  the  field. 
And  laid  him  on  his  bloody  shield; 
On  levell'd  lances,  four  and  four. 
By  turns  the  noble  burden  bore. 
Before,  at  times,  upon  the  gale. 
Was  heard  the  Minstrel's  plaintive  wail; 
Behind,  four  priests,  in  sable  stole. 
Sung  requiem  for  the  warrior's  soul : 


40 


THE  LAY  OF   THE  LAST  MINSTREL. 


Canto  VI, 


Around,  the  horsemen  slowly  rode; 
With  trailing  pikes  the  spearmen  trode; 
And  thus  the  gallant  knight  they  bore, 
Through  Liddesdale  to  Leven's  shore; 
Thence  to  Holme  Coltrame's  lofty  nave. 
And  laid  him  in  his  father's  grave. 


TnK  harp's  wild  notes,  though  hush'd 

the  song, 
The  mimic  march  of  death  prolong; 
Now  seems  it  far,  and  now  a-near, 
Now  meets,  and  now  eludes  the  ear; 
Now  seems  some  mountain-side  to  sweep, 
Now  faintly  dies  in  valley  deep; 
Seems  now  as  if  the  Minstrel's  wail. 
Now  the  sad  requiem,  loads  the  gale; 
Last,  o'er  the  warrior's  closing  grave, 
Rung  the  full  choir  in  choral  stave. 

After  due  pause,  they  bade  him  tell, 
Why  he,  who  touch'd  the  harp  so  well. 
Should  thus,  with  ill-rewarded  toil. 
Wander  a  poor  and  thankless  soil, 
When  the  more  generous  Southern  Land 
Would  well  requite  his  skilful  hand. 

The  Aged  Harper,  howsoe'er 
His  only  friend,  his  harp,  was  dear. 
Liked  not  to  hear  it  rank'd  so  high 
Above  his  flowing  poesy : 
Less  liked  he  still,  that  scornful   jeer 
Misprised  the  land  he  loved  so  dear; 
High  was  the  sound,  as  thus  again 
The  Bard  resumed  his  minstrel  strain. 


CANTO   SIXTH. 


Breathes  there  the  man,  with  soul  so 

dead. 
Who  never  to  himself  hath  said. 

This  is  my  own,  my  native  land  ! 
Whose  heart  hath  ne'er  within  him  burn'd. 
As  home  his  footsteps  he  hath  turn'd. 

From  wandering  on  a  foreign  strand  ! 
If  such  there  breathe,  go,  mark  him  well ; 
For  him  no  Minstrel  raptures  swell; 
High  though"his  titles,  proud  his  name. 
Boundless  his  wealth  as  wish  can  claim; 
Despite  those  titles,  power,  and  pelf, 
The  wretch,  concentred  all  in  self, 


Living,  shall  forfeit  fair  renown. 
And,  doubly  dying,  shall  go  down 
To  the  vile  dust,  from  whence  he  sprung, 
Unwept,  unhonor'd,  and  unsung. 


O  Caledonia!  stern  and  wild, 

Meet  nurse  for  a  poetic  child  ! 

Land  of  brown  heath  and  shaggy  wood. 

Land  of  the  mountain  and  the  flood, 

Land  of  my  sires !   what  mortal  hand 

Can  e'er  untie  the  filial  band. 

That  knits  me  to  thy  rugged  strand ! 

Still,  as  I  view  each  well-known  scene. 

Think  what  is  now,  and  what  hath  been. 

Seems  as,  to  me,  of  all  bereft. 

Sole  friends  thy  woods  and  streams  were 

left; 
And  thus  I  love  them  better  still, 
Even  in  extremity  of  ill. 
By  Yarrow's  streams  still  let  me  stray. 
Though  none  should  guide  my  feeble  way; 
Still  feel  the  breeze  down  Ettrick  break, 
Although  it  chill  my  wither'd  cheek;* 
Still  lay  my  head  hy  Teviot  Stone, 
Though  there,  forgotten  and  alone, 
The  Bard  may  draw  his  parting  groan. 


Not  scorn'd  like  me  !  to  Branksome  Hall 
The  Minstrels  came,  at  festive  call; 
Trooping  they  came,  from  near  and  far, 
The  jovial  priests  of  mirth  and  war; 
Alike  for  feast  and  fight  prepared, 
Battle  and  banquet  both  they  shared. 
Of  late,  before  each  martial  clan. 
They  blew  their  death-note  in  the  van, 
But  now,  for  every  merry  mate, 
Rose  the  portcullis'  iron  grate; 
They   sound    the    pipe,   they   strike    the 

string. 
They  dance,  they  revel,  and  they  sing. 
Till  the  rude  turrets  shake  and  ring. 


Me  lists  not  at  this  tide  declare 
The  splendor  of  the  spousal  rite. 

How  muster'd  in  the  chapel  fair 

Both    maid    and    matron,    squire    and 
knight; 

*  The  preceding  four  lines  now  form  the  in- 
scription on  the  monument  of  Sir  Walter  Scott 
in  the  market-place  of  Selkirk. 


Canto  VI. 


THE   LAY  OF   THE  LAST  MLNSTREL. 


41 


Me  lists  not  tell  of  owches  rare, 
Of  mantles  green,  and  braided  hair, 
And  kirtles  furr'd  with  miniver; 
What  plumage  waved  the  altar  round, 
How  spurs  and  ringing  chainlets  sound; 
And  hard  it  were  for  bard  to  speak 
The  changeful  hue  of  Margaret's  cheek; 
That  lovely  hue  which  comes  and  flies. 
As  awe  and  shame  alternate  rise  ! 


Some  bards  have  sung,  the  Ladye  high 

Chapel  or  altar  came  not  nigh; 

Nor  durst  the  rights  of  spousal  grace. 

So  much  she  fear'd  each  holy  place. 

False  slanders  these :  —  I  trust  right  well 

She  wrought  not  by  forbidden  spell;** 

For  mighty  words  and  signs  have  power 

O'er  sprites  in  planetary  hour: 

Yet  scarce  I  praise  their  venturous  part. 

Who  tamper  with  such  dangerous  art. 

But  this  for  faithful  truth  I  say, 
The  Ladye  by  the  altar  stood, 

Of  sable  velvet  her  array. 

And  on  her  head  a  crimson  hood. 
With  pearls  embroider'd  and  entwined. 
Guarded  with  gold,  with  ermine  lined; 
A  merlin  sat  upon  her  wrist  *^ 
Held  by  a  leash  of  silken  twist. 


The  spousal  rites  were  ended  soon: 
'Twas  now  the  merry  hour  of  noon, 
And  in  the  lofty  arched  hall 
Was  spread  the  gorgeous  festival. 
Steward  and  squire,  with  heedful  haste, 
Marshall'd  the  rank  of  every  guest; 
Pages,  with  ready  blade,  were  there, 
The  mighty  meal  to  carve  and  share. 
O'er  capon,  heron-shew,  and  crane. 
And  princely  peacock's  gilded  train, *"^ 
And  o'er  the  lx)ar-head,  garnish'd  brave. 
And  cygnet  from  St.  Mary's  wav^e;* 
O'er  ptarmigan  and  venison, 
The  priest  had  spoke  his  benison. 
Then  rose  the  riot  and  the  din, 
Above,  beneath,  without,  within! 
For,  from  the  lofty  balcony, 
Rung  trumpet,  shalm,  and  psaltery: 

*  Flights  of  wild  swans  are  often  seen  on  St. 
Mary's  Lake,  which  is  at  the  head  of  the  Yarrow, 


Their  clanging  bowls  old  warriors  quaff 'd, 
Loudly  they  spoke,  and  loudly  laugh'd; 
Whisper'd  young  knights,  in  tone  more 

mild. 
To  ladies  fair,  and  ladies  smiled. 
The  hooded  hawks,  high  perch'd  on  beam, 
The  clamor  join'd  with  whistling  scream, 
And  flapp'd  their  wings,  and  shook  their 

bells. 
In  concert  with  the  stag-hound's  yells. 
Round  go  the  flasks  of  ruddy  wine. 
From  Bordeaux,  Orleans,  or  the  Rhine. 
Their  tasks  the  busy  sewers  ply, 
And  all  is  mirth  and  revelry. 


The  Goblin  Page,  omitting  still 

No  opportunity  of  ill. 

Strove  now,  while  blood  ran  hot  and  high, 

To  rouse  debate  and  jealousy; 

Till  Conrad,  Lord  of  Wolfenstein, 

By  nature  fierce,  and  warm  with  wine. 

And  now  in  humor  highly  cross'd, 

About  some  steeds  his  band  had  lost, 

High  words  to  words  succeeding  still. 

Smote,  with  his  gauntlet ,  stout  Hunthill ;  *'-' 

A  hot  and  hardy  Rutherford, 

Whom    men    called    Dickon   Draw-the- 

Sword. 
He  took  it  on  the  page's  saye, 
Hunthill  had  driven  these  steeds  away. 
Then  Howard,  Home,  and  Douglas  rose. 
The  kindling  discord  to  compose : 
Stern  Rutherford  right  little  said. 
But  bit  his  glove,**  and  shook  his  head. 
A  fortnight  thence,  in  Inglewood, 
Stout  Conrad,  cold,  and  drench'd  in  biood. 
His  bosom  gored  with  many  a  wound. 
Was  by  a  woodman's  lyme-dog  found; 
Unknown  the  manner  of  his  death, 
Gono   was   his    brand,   both    sword   and 

sheath : 
But  ever  from  that  time,  'twas  said, 
That  Dickon  wore  a  Cologne  blade. 


The  dwarf,  who  fear'd  his  master's  eye 
Might  his  foul  treachery  espie, 
Now  sought  the  castle  buttery. 
Where  many  a  yeoman,  bold  and  free, 
Revell'd  as  merrily  and  well 
As  those  that  sat  in  lordly  selle. 


42 


THE  LAY  OF   THE  LAST  MINSTREL. 


Canto  VI. 


Watt  Tinlinn,  there,  did  frankly  raise 
The  pledge  to  Arthur  Firc-thc-Braes;* 
And  he,  as  by  his  breeding  bound, 
To  Howard's  merry-men  sent  it  round. 
To  quit  them,  on  the  English  side, 
Red  Roland  Forster  loudly  cried, 
"  A  deep  carouse  to  yon  fair  bride !  "  — 
At  every  pledge,  from  vat  and  pail, 
Foam'd  forth  in  floods  the  nut-brown  ale; 
While  shout  the  riders  every  one; 
Such  day  of  mirth  ne'er  cheer'd  their  clan, 
Since  old  Buccleuch  the  name  did  gain, 
When  in  the  cleuch  the  buck  was  ta'en. 


The  wily  page,  with  vengeful  thought, 

Remember'd  him  of  Tinlinn's  yew. 

And  swore,  it  should  be  dearly  bought 

That  ever  he  the  arrow  drew. 
First,  he  the  yeoman  did  molest. 
With  bitter  gibe  and  taunting  jest; 
Told,  how  he  fled  at  Solway  strife, 
And  how  Hob  Armstrong  cheer'd  his  wife ; 
Then,  shunning  still  his  powerful  arm. 
At  unawares  he  wrought  him  harm; 
From  trencher  stole  his  choicest  cheer, 
Dash'd  from  his  lips  his  can  of  beer; 
Then,  to  his  knee  sly  creeping  on, 
With  bodkin  pierced  him  to  the  bone : 
The  venom'd  wound,  and  festering  joint. 
Long  after  rued  that  bodkin's  point. 
The  startled  yeoman  swore  and  spurn'd. 
And  board  and  flagons  overturn'd. 
Riot  and  clamor  wild  began; 
Back  to  the  hall  the  Urchin  ran; 
Took  in  a  darkling  nook  his  post, 
And  grinn'd,  and  mutter'd  "  Lost !  lost ! 
lost!" 

X. 

By  this,  the  Dame,  lest  farther  fray 
should  mar  the  concord  of  the  day, 
Had  V)id  the  Minstrels  tune  their  lay. 
And  first  stept  forth  old  Albert  Grreme, 
The  Minstrel  of  that  ancient  name:  '•^ 
Was  none  who  struck  the  harp  so  well. 
Within  the  I^and  Debatcable. 
Well  friended,  too,  his  hardy  kin. 
Whoever  lost,  were  sure  to  win; 

*  The  persoa  bearing  this  redoutable  ii(»n  de 
gtierre  was  an  Elliott,  and  resided  at  Thorles- 
nope,  in  I>iddesdale.  He  occurs  in  the  list  of 
Border  riders,  in  1597. 


They  sought  the  beeves  that  made  their 

broth. 
In  Scotland  and  in  England  both. 
In  homely  guise,  as  nature  bade, 
His  simple  song  the  Borderer  said. 

XI. 

ALBERT  GR^ME. 

It  was  an  English  ladye  bright, 

(The  sun  shines  fair  on  Carlisle  wall,t) 

And  she  would  marry  a  Scottish  knight. 
For  Love  will  still  be  lord  of  all. 

Blithely  they  saw  the  rising  sun. 

When  he  shone  fair  on  Carlisle  wall; 
But  they  were  sad  ere  day  was  done. 

Though  Love  was  still  the  lord  of  all. 

Her  sire  gave  brooch  and  jewel  fine. 
Where  the  sun  shines  fair  on  Carlisle 
wall; 

Her  brother  gave  but  a  flask  of  wine. 
For  ire  that  Love  was  lord  of  all. 

For  she  had  lands,  both  meadow  and  lea, 
Where  the  sun  shines  fair  on  Carlisle 
wall, 

And  he  swore  her  death,  ere  he  would  see 
A  Scottish  knight  the  lord  of  all ! 


That  wine  she  had  not  tasted  well, 

(The  sun  shines  fair  on  Carlisle  wall,) 

When  dead,  in  her  true  love's  arms,  she 
fell, 
For  Love  was  still  the  lord  of  all ! 

He  pierced  her  brother  to  the  heart. 
Where  the  sun  shines  fair  on  Carlisle 
wall: 

So  perish  all  would  true  love  part. 
That  Love  may  still  be  lord  of  all ! 

And  then  he  took  the  cross  divine, 

(Where  the  sun  shines  fair  on  Carlisle 
wall,) 

And  died  for  her  sake  in  Palestine, 
So  Love  was  still  the  lord  of  all. 

Now  all  ye  lovers,  that  faithful  prove, 
(The  sun  shines  fair  on  Carlisle  wall,) 

Pray  for  their  souls  who  died  for  love. 
For  Love  shall  still  be  lord  of  all  t 

t  This  burden  is  from  an  old  Scottish  song. 


Canto  VI. 


THE  LAY  OF  THE  LAST  MINSTREL. 


43 


As  ended  Albert's  simple  lay, 
Arose  a  bard  of  loftier  port; 
For  sonnet,  rhyme,  and  roundelay, 

Renown'd  in  haughty  Henry's  court: 
There  rung  thy  harp,  unrivall'd  long, 
Fitztraver  of  the  silver  song ! 

The  gentle  Surrey  loved  his  lyre  — 
Who     has    not    heard    of    Surrey's 
fame  ?  ^ 
His  was  the  hero's  soul  of  fire, 

And  his  the  bard's  immortal  name. 
And  his  was  love,  exalted  high 
By  all  the  glow  of  chivalry. 


They  sought,  together,  climes  afar. 

And  oft,  within  some  olive  grove. 
When  even  came  with  twinkling  star. 

They  sung  of  Surrey's  absent  love. 
His  step  the  Italian  peasant  stay'd. 

And  deem'd,  that  spirits  from  on  high. 
Round  where  some  hermit  saint  was  laid, 

Were  breathing  heavenly  melody; 
So  sweet  did  harp  and  voice  combine 
To  praise  the  name  of  Geraldine. 


Fitztraver !  O  what  tongue  may  say 

The  pangs  thy  faithful  bosom  knew. 
When  Surrey,  of  the  deathless  lay. 

Ungrateful  Tudor's  sentence  slew? 
Regardless  of  the  tyrant's  frown. 
His   harp   call'd   wrath    and  vengeance 

down. 
He  left,  for  Naworth's  iron  towers, 
Windsor's    green    glades,    and    courtly 

bowers, 
And  faithful  to  his  patron's  name, 
With  Howard  still  Fitztraver  came; 
Lord  William's  foremost  favorite  he. 
And  chief  of  all  his  minstrelsy. 

XVI. 
FITZTRAVER. 

'Twas  All-souls'  eve,  and  Surrey's  heart 
beat  high; 
He  heard  the  midnight  bell  with  anx- 
ious start. 
Which  told  the  mystic  hour,  approaching 
nigh, 
When  wise  Cornelius  promised,  by  his 
art, 


To  show  to  him  the  ladye  of  his  heart. 
Albeit  betwixt  them  roar'd  the  ocean 
grim; 
Yet  so  the  sage  had  hight  to  play  his  part. 
That  he  should  see   her    form  in  life 
and  limb. 
And  mark,  if  still  she  loved,  and  still  she 
thought  of  him. 


Dark  was  the  vaulted  room  of  gramarye, 
To  which  the  wizard  led  the  gallant 
Knight, 
Save  that  before  a  mirror,  huge  and  high, 
A  hallow'd  taper  shed  a  glimmering 
light 
On  mystic  implements  of  magic  might; 

On  cross,  and  character,  and  talisman. 
And  almagest,  and  altar,  nothing  bright : 
For  fitful  was  the  lustre,  pale  and  wan. 
As  watchlight  by  the  bed  of  some  de- 
parting man. 


But  soon,  within  that  mirror  huge  and  high, 

Was  seen  a  self -emitted  light  to  gleam; 

And  forms  upon  its  breast  the  Earl  'gan 

Cloudy    and    indistinct,    as     feverish 
dream, 
Till,   slow  arranging,  and  defined,  they 
seem 
To  form  a  lordly  and  a  lofty  room. 
Part  lighted  by  a  lamp  with  silver  beam. 
Placed  by  a   couch  of    Agra's  silken 
loom. 
And  part  by  moonshine   pale,  and  part 
was  hid  in  gloom. 


Fair  all  the  pageant — but  how  passing  fair 
The  slender  form,  which  lay  on  couch 
of  Ind ! 
O'er  her  white  bosom  stray'd  her  hazel 

hair. 
All  in  her  night-robe  loose   she  lay  re- 
clined. 
Pale  her  dear  cheek,  as  if  for  love  she 

pined; 
And,  pensive,  read  from  tablet  eburnine 
Some  strain  that  seem'd  her  inmost  soul 
to  find; — 


44 


THE  LAY  OF   THE  LAST  MINSTREL. 


Canto  VI. 


That  favor'd  strain  was  Surrey's  rap- 
tured line, 
That  fair  and  lovely  form,  the  Lady  Ger- 
aldine ! 


Slow  roH'd  the   clouds  upon  the  lovely 
form, 
And  swept  the  goodly  vision  all  away  — 
So  royal  envy  roll'd  the  murky  storm 

O'er  my  Ijeloved  Master's  glorious  day. 
Thou  jealous,  ruthless  tyrant !     Heaven 
repay 
On  thee,  and  on  thy  children's  latest 
line. 
The  wild  caprice  of  thy  despotic  sway. 
The   gory   bridal   bed,    the    plunder'd 
shrine, 
The  murder'd  Surrey's  blood,  the  tears  of 
Geraldine. 


Both  Scots  and  Southern  chiefs  prolong 
Applauses  of  Fitztraver's  song; 
These  hated  Henry's  name  as  death, 
And  those  still  held  the  ancient  faith  — 
Then,  from  his  seat,  with  lofty  air. 
Rose  Harold,  bard  of  brave  St.  Clair; 
St.  Clair,  who,  feasting  high  at  Home, 
Had  with  that  lord  to  battle  come. 
Harold  was  Ixirn  where  restless  seas 
Howl  round  the  storm-swept  Orcades; 
Where  erst  St.  Clairs  held  princely  sway 
O'er  isle  and  islet,  strait  and  bay;  — 
Still  nods  their  palace  to  its  fall. 
Thy  jiride  and  sorrow,  fair  Kirkwall !  — 
Thence  oft  he  mark'd  fierce  Pentland  rave. 
As  if  grim  Odin  rode  her  wave; 
Andwatch'd,  the  whilst,  with  visage  pale, 
And  throbbing  heart,  the  struggling  sail; 
For  all  of  wonderful  and  wild 
Had  rapture  for  the  lonely  child. 


And  much  of  wild  and  wonderful 
In  these  rude  isles  might  fancy  cull ! 
For  thither  came,  in  times  afar. 
Stern  Lochlin's  sons  of  roving  war. 
The  Norsemen,  train'd  to  spoil  and  blood, 
Skill'd  to  prepare  the  raven's  food; 
Kings  of  the  main  their  leaders  brave. 
Their  barks  the  dragons  of  the  wave. 


And  there,  in  many  a  stormy  vale. 
The  Scald  had  tolcl  his  wondrous  tale; 
And  many  a  Runic  colunm  high 
Had  witness'd  grim  idolatry. 
And  thus  had  Harold,  in  his  youth, 
Learn'd  many  a  Saga's  rhyme  uncouth, — 
Of  that  Sea-Snake  *  tremendous  curl'd. 
Whose  monstrous  circle  girds  the  world; 
Of  those  dread  Maids  t  whose  hideous  yell 
Maddens  the  battle's  bloody  swell; 
Of  Chiefs,  who,  guided  through  the  gloom 
By  the  pale  death- lights  of  the  tomb. 
Ransack 'd  the  graves  of  warriors  old. 
Their  falchions  wrench'd  from  corpses' 

hold. 
Waked  the  deaf  tomb  with  war's  alarms, 
And  bade  the  dead  arise  to  arms ! 
With  war  and  wonder  all  on  flame, 
To  Roslin's  bowers  young  Harold  came, 
Where,   by  sweet  glen  and  greenwood 

tree. 
He  learn'd  a  milder  minstrelsy; 
Yet  something  of  the  Northern  spell 
Mix'd  with  the  softer  numbers  well. 

XXIU. 
HAROLD. 

O  listen,  listen,  ladies  gay! 

No  haughty  feat  of  arms  I  tell; 
Soft  is  the  note,  and  sad  the  lay. 

That  mourns  the  lovely  Rosabelle, 

—  "  Moor,   moor  the   Vjarge,   ye  gallant 
crew  ! 

And,  gentle  ladye,  deign  to  stay. 
Rest  thee  in  Castle  Ravensheuch, 

Nor  tempt  the  stormy  firth  to-day. 

"The   blackening   wave    is    edged   with 
white : 
To  inch  X  and  rock  the  sea-mews  fly; 
The  fishers  have  heard  the  Water-Sprite, 
Whose  screams  forebode  that  wreck  is 
nigh. 

*  The  jortnungandr  or  snake  of  the  ocean, 
whose  folds  surround  the  earth.  It  was  very 
nearly  caught  by  the  god  Thor,  who  went  to  fish 
for  it  with  a  hook  baited  with  a  bull's  head.  See 
the  "  Edda,"  or  Mallet's  "  Northern  Antiqui- 
ties," p.  445. 

t  The  Valkyriur  or  Scandinavian  Fates,  or 
Fatal  Sisters. 

X  Inch,  an  island. 


Canto  VI. 


THE  LAY  OF  THE  LAST  MINSTREL. 


45 


"  Last  night  the  gifted  Seer  did  view 
A  wet  shroud  swathed  round  ladye  gay; 

Then  stay  thee,  Pair,  in  Kavensheuch : 
Why  cross  the  gloomy  firth  to-day  ?  "  — 

"  'Tis  not  because  Lord  Lindesay's  heir 
To-night  at  Roslin  leads  the  ball, 

But  that  my  ladye-mother  there 
Sits  lonely  in  her  castle-hall. 

"  'Tis  not  because  the  ring  they  ride, 
And  Lindesay  at  the  ring  rides  well. 

But  that  my  sire  the  wine  will  chide. 
If  'tis  not  fill'd  by  Rosabelle."  — 

O'er  Roslin  all  that  dreary  night 

A  wondrous  blaze  was  seen  to  gleam; 

'Twas  broader  than  the  watch-fire's  light, 
And  redder  than  the  bright  moonbeam. 

It  glared  on  Roslin's  castled  rock, 
It  ruddied  all  the  copse-wood  glen, 

'Twas  seen  from  Dryden's  groves  of  oak. 
And  seen  from  cavern'd  Hawthornden. 

Seem'd  all  on  fire  that  chapel  proud, 
Where  Roslin's  chiefs  uncoffin'd  lie. 

Each  Baron,  for  a  sable  shroud, 
Sheathed  in  his  iron  panoply. 

Seem'd  all  on  fire,  within,  around, 
Deep  sacristy  and  altar's  pale. 

Shone  every  pillar  foliage-bound. 

And  glimmer'd  all  the  dead  men's  mail. 

Blazed  battlement  and  pinnet  high, 
Blazed  every  rose-carved  buttress  fair  — 

So  still  they  blaze,  when  fate  is  nigh 
The  lordly  line  of  high  St.  Clair. 

There  are  twenty  of  Roslin's  barons  bold 
Lie  buried  within  that  proud  chapelle; 

Each  one  the  holy  vault  doth  hold  — 
But  the  sea  holds  lovely  Rosalielle  ! 

And  each  St.  Clair  was  buried  there, 
With  candle,  with  1x)ok,and  with  knell ; 

But   the    sea-caves   rung,   and    the    wild 
winds  sung, 
The  dirge  of  lovely  Rosabelle. 


So  sweet  was  Harold's  piteous  lay, 

Scarce  mark'd  the  guests  the  darken'd 
hall, 
Though,  long  before  the  sinking  day, 

A  wondrous  shade  involved  them  all : 
It  was  not  eddying  mist  or  fog, 
Drain 'd  by  the  sun  from  fen  or  bog; 

Of  no  eclipse  had  sages  told; 
And  yet,  as  it  came  on  apace. 
Each  one  could  scarce  his  neighbor's  face. 

Could  scarce  his  own  stretch 'd  hand 
behold. 
A  secret  horror  check 'd  the  feast. 
And  chill'd  the  soul  of  every  guest; 
Even  the  high  Dame  stood  half  aghast, 
She  knew  some  evil  on  the  blast; 
The  elvish  page  fell  to  the  ground. 
And,    shuddering,    mutter'd,    "Found' 
found  !  found  !  ' ' 


Then  sudden,  through  the  darken'd  air, 

A  flash  of  lightning  came; 
So  broad,  so  bright,  so  red  the  glare. 

The  castle  seem'd  on  flame. 
Glanced  every  rafter  of  the  hall. 
Glanced  every  shield  upon  the  wall; 
Each   trophied    beam,    each   sculptured 

stone. 
Were  instant  seen,  and  instant  gone : 
Full  through  the  guests'  bedazzled  band 
Resistless  flash 'd  the  levin-brand. 
And   fill'd   the    hall    with    smouldering 

smoke, 
As  on  the  elvish  page  it  broke. 

It  broke,  with  thunder  long  and  loud, 
Dismay'd    the    brave,    appall'd    the 
proud, — 
From  sea  to  sea  the  larum  rung; 
On  Berwick  wall,  and  at  Carlisle  withal. 
To  arms  the  startled  warders  sprung : 
When  ended  was  the  dreadful  roar. 
The  elvish  dwarf  was  seen  no  more. 

XXVI. 

Some  heard  a  voice  in  Branksome  Hall, 
Some  saw  a  sight,  not  seen  by  all; 
That  dreadful  voice  was  heard  by  some. 
Cry,    with    loud    summons,    "  Gylbin, 
come!  " 


46 


THE  LAY  OF  THE  LAST  MINSTREL. 


Canto  VI. 


And  on  the  spot  where  burst  the  brand, 
Just  where  the  page  had  flung  him 
down, 

Some  saw  an  arm,  and  some  a  hand. 
And  some  the  waving  of  a  gown. 
The  guests  in  silence  pray'd  and  shook. 
And  terror  dimm'd  each  lofty  look. 
But  none  of  all  the  astonish'd  train 
Was  so  dismay 'd  as  Deloraine; 
His  blood  did  freeze,  his  brain  did  burn, 
'Twasfear'd  his  mind  wouldne'er  return; 

For  he  was  speechless,  ghastly,  wan, 

IJke  him  of  whom  the  story  ran. 

Who  spoke  the  spectre-hound  in  Man. 
At  length,  by  fits,  he  darkly  told, 
With  broken  hint,  and  shuddering  cold  — 

That  he  had  seen,  right  certainly, 
A  shape  with  amice  zurapp'd  around. 
With  a  wrought  Spanish  baldric  bound. 

Like  pilgrim  from  beyond  the  sea  ; 
And  knew  —  but  how  it  matter'd  not  — 
It  was  the  wizard,  Michael  Scott. 

XXVII. 

The  anxious  crowd,  with  horror  pale. 
All  trembling  heard  the  wondrous  tale; 
No  sound  was  made,  no  word  was  spoke. 
Till  noble  Angus  silence  broke; 

And  he  a  solemn  sacred  plight 
Did  to  St.  Bride  of  Douglas  make. 
That  he  a  pilgrimage  would  take 
To  Melrose  Abbey,  for  the  sake 
Of  Michael's  restless  sprite. 
Then  each,  to  ease  his  troubled  breast. 
To    some  bless'd    saint  his  prayers    ad- 

dress'd : 
Some  to  St.  Modan  made  their  vows. 
Some  to  St.  Mary  of  the  Lowes, 
Some  to  the  Holy  Rood  of  Lisle, 
Some  to  our  Ladye  of  the  Isle; 
Each  did  his  patron  witness  make, 
That  he  such  pilgrimage  would  take. 
And  monks  should  sing,  and  bells  should 

toll, 
All  for  the  weal  of  Michael's  soul. 
While    vows    were    la'en,    and    prayers 

were  pray'd, 
'Tis  said  the  noble  dame,  dismay'd, 
Renounced,  for  aye,  dark  magic's  aid. 


Naught  of  the  bridal  will  I  tell. 
Which  after  in  short  space  befell; 


Nor  how  brave  sons  and  daughters  fair 
Bless'd  Teviot's  Flower,  and  Cranstoun's 

heir: 
After  such  dreadful  scene,  'twere  vain 
To  wake  the  note  of  mirth  again. 
More  meet  it  were  to  mark  the  day 

Of  penitence  and  prayer  divine 
When  pilgrim  chiefs,  in  sad  array, 
Sought  Melrose'  holy  shrine. 


With  naked  foot,  and  sackcloth  vest, 
And  arms  enfolded  on  his  breast. 

Did  every  pilgrim  go; 
The  standers-by  might  hear  uneatli,* 
Footstep,  or  voice,  or  high-drawn  breath. 

Through  all  the  lengthen'd  row. 
No  lordly  look,  nor  martial  stride, 
Gone  was  their  glory,  sunk  their  pride, 

Forgotten  their  renown; 
Silent  and  slow,  like  ghosts  they  glide 
To  the  high  altar's  hallow'd  side, 

And  there  they  knelt  them  down : 
Above  the  suppliant  chieftains  wave 
The  banners  of  departed  brave; 
Beneath  the  letter'd  stones  were  laid 
The  ashes  of  their  fathers  dead; 
From  many  a  garnish'd  niche  around. 
Stern  saints  and  tortured  martyrs  frown'd. 


And  slow  up  the  dim  aisle  afar, 
With  sable  cowl  and  scapular. 
And  snow-white  stoles,  in  order  due, 
The  holy  Fathers,  two  and  two. 

In  long  procession  came; 
Tajier,  and  host,  and  book  they  bare. 
And  holy  banner,  flourish'd  fair 

With  the  Redeemer's  name. 
Above  the  prostrate  pilgrim  band 
The  mitred  Abbot  stretch'd  his  hand, 

And  bless'd  them  as  they  kneel'd; 
With  holy  cross  he  sign'd  them  all, 
And  pray'd  they  might  be  sage  in  hall. 

And  fortunate  in  field. 
Then  mass  was  sung  andprayers  were  said, 
And  solemn  requiem  for  the  dead; 
And  bells  toll'd  out  their  mighty  peal, 
For  the  departed  spirit's  weal; 
And  ever  in  the  office  close 
The  hymn  of  intercession  rose: 

*  Scarcely  hear. 


Canto  VI. 


THE  LAY  OF  THE  LAST  MINSTREL. 


47 


And  far  the  echoing  aisles  prolong 

The  awful  burden  of  the  song,  — 
Dies  ir^,  dies  illa, 
solvet  s^eclum  in  favilla; 

While  the  pealing  organ  rung. 
Were  it  meet  with  sacred  strain 
To  close  ray  lay,  so  light  and  vain, 

Thus  the  holy  Fathers  sung :  — 


XXXI. 
m'MN    FOR    THE    DEAD. 

That  day  of  wrath,  that  dreadful  day. 
When  heaven  and  earth  shall  pass  away. 
What  power  shall  be  the  sinner's  stay? 
How  shall  he  meet  that  dreadful  day? 


When,  shrivelling  like  a  parched  scroll. 
The  flaming  heavens  together  roll; 
When  louder  yet,  and  yet  more  dread. 
Swells  the  high  trump  that  wakes  the  dead. 


Oh  !  on  that  day,  that  wrathful  day. 
When  man  to  judgment  wakes  from  clay, 
Be  Thou  the  trembling  sinner's  stay, 
Though  heaven  and  earth  shall  pass  away, 


Hush'd  is  the  harp — the  Minstrel  gone, 
And  did  he  wander  forth  alone  ? 
Alone,  in  indigence  and  age. 
To  linger  out  his  pilgrimage? 
No ;  close  beneath  proud  Newark's  tower. 
Arose  the  Minstrel's  lowly  bower; 
A  simple  hut;    but  there  was  seen 
The  little  garden  hedged  with  green. 
The  cheerful  hearth,  and  lattice  clean. 
There  shelter'd  wanderers,  by  the  blaze. 
Oft  heard  the  tale  of  other  days; 
For  much  he  loved  to  ope  his  door, 
And  give  the  aid  he  begg'd  before. 
So  pass'd  the  winter's  day;    but  still. 
When  summer  smiled  on  sweet  Bowhill, 
And  July's  eve,  with  balmy  breath. 
Waved  the  blue-bells  on  Newark  heath; 
When  throstles  sung  in  Harehead-shaw, 
And  corn  was  green  on  Carterhaugh, 
And  flourish'd,  broad,  Blackandro's  oak. 
The  aged  Harper's  soul  awoke  ! 
Then  would  he  sing  achievements  high. 
And  circumstance  of  chivalry. 
Till  the  rapt  traveller  would  stay. 
Forgetful  of  the  closing  day; 
And  noble  youths,  the  strain  to  hear, 
Forsook  the  hunting  of  the  deer; 
And  Yarrow,  as  he  roll'd  along. 
Bore  burden  to  the  Minstrel's  song. 


MARMION: 

A   TALE    OF   FLODDEN    FIELD. 

IN  SIX  CANTOS. 


Alas !  that  Scottish  maid  should  sing 

The  combat  where  her  lover  fell ! 
That  Scottish  Bard  should  wake  the  string, 

The  triumph  of  our  foes  to  tell ! 

Lkvden. 


TO   THE    RIGHT    HONORABLE 


HENRY   LORD    MONTAGU,    ETC.,    ETC.,    ETC., 


THIS    ROMANCE    IS    INSCRIBED    BY 


THE   AUTHOR. 


ADVERTISEMENT  TO  THE   FIRST   EDITION. 

//  is  hardly  to  be  expected  that  an  author  whom  the  Public  have  honored  -with  some 
degree  of  applause  should  not  be  again  a  trespasser  on  their  kindness.  Yet  the  Author  of 
Marmion  must  be  supposed  to  feel  some  anxiety  concerning  its  success,  since  he  is  sensible 
that  he  hazards  by  this  second  intrusion,  any  reputation  which  his  first  poem  may  have 
procured  him.  The  present  story  turns  upon  the  private  adventures  of  a  fictitious  char- 
acter ;  but  is  called  a  Tale  of  Flodden  Field,  because  the  hero' s  fate  is  connected  with  that 
memorable  defeat,  and  the  causes  which  ted  to  it.  The  design  of  the  Author  was,  if  pos- 
sible, to  apprise  his  readers,  at  the  outset,  of  the  date  of  his  Story,  and  to  prepare  them  for 
the  manners  of  the  Age  in  which  it  is  laid.  Any  Historical  Narrative,  far  more  an 
attempt  at  Epic  composition,  exceeded  his  plan  of  a  Romantic  Tale  ;  yet  he  may  be  per- 
mitted to  hope,  from  the  popularity  of  The  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel,  that  an 
attempt  to  paint  the  manners  of  the  feudal  times,  upon  a  broader  scale,  and  in  the  course 
of  a  more  interesting  story,  will  not  be  unacceptable  to  the  Public.  ^ 

The  Poem  opens  about  the  commencement  of  August,  and  concludes  with  the  defeat  of 
Plodden,  9///  September,  15 13. 
ASHESTIEL,  1808. 

48 


INTRODUCTION   TO  MARMION.  49 


INTRODUCTION   TO   EDITION   1830. 

What  I  have  to  say  respecting  this  Poem  may  be  briefly  told.  In  the  Introduction  to  the 
"  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel,"  I  have  mentioned  the  circumstances,  so  far  as  my  literary  life 
is  concerned,  which  induced  me  to  resign  the  active  pursuit  of  an  honorable  profession,  for 
the  more  precarious  resources  of  literature.  My  appointment  to  the  Sheriffdom  of  Selkirk 
called  for  a  change  of  residence.  1  left,  therefore,  the  pleasant  cottage  I  had  upon  the  side 
of  the  Esk  for  the  "  pleasanter  banks  of  the  Tweed,"  in  order  to  comply  with  the  law, 
which  requires  that  the  Sheriff  shall  be  resident,  at  least  during  a  certain  number  of 
months,  within  his  jurisdiction.  We  found  a  delightful  retirement,  by  my  becoming  the 
tenant  of  my  intimate  friend  and  cousin-german,  Colonel  Kussell,  in  his  mansion  of  AshesJ- 
tiel,  wliich  was  unoccupied,  during  his  absence  on  military  service  in  India.  The  house 
was  adequate  to  our  accommodation,  and  the  exercise  of  a  limited  hospitality.  The  sitU' 
ation  is  uncommonly  beautiful,  by  the  side  of  a  fine  river,  whose  streams  are  there  very 
favorable  for  angling,  surrounded  by  the  remains  of  natural  wotxls,  and  by  hills  abounding 
in  game.  In  point  of  society,  according  to  the  heartfelt  phrase  of  Scripture,  we  dwelt 
"  amongst  our  own  people  ;  "  and  as  the  distance  from  the  metropolis  was  only  thirty  mifes, 
we  were  not  out  of  reach  of  our  Edinburgh  friends,  in  which  city  we  spent  the  terms  of 
the  summer  and  winter  Sessions  of  the  Court,  that  is.  five  or  si.K  months  in  the  year. 

.An  important  circumstance  had,  about  the  same  time,  taken  place  in  my  life.  IIopos 
had  Ijeen  held  out  to  me  from  an  influential  quarter,  of  a  nature  to  relieve  me  from  the 
anxiety  which  I  must  have  otherwise  felt,  as  one  upon  the  precarious  tenure  of  whose  own 
life  rested  the  principal  prosjjects  of  his  family,  and  especially  as  one  who  had  necessarily 
some  dependence  upon  the  favor  of  the  public,  which  is  proverbially  capricious  ;  though  it 
is  but  justice  to  add  that,  in  my  own  case,  I  have  not  found  it  so.  Mr.  Pitt  had  expressed 
a  wish  to  my  personal  friend,  the  Right  Honorable  \V' illiam  Dundas,  now  Lord  Clerk  Re- 
gister of  Scotland,  that  some  fitting  opportunity  should  be  taken  to  be  of  service  to  me, 
and  as  my  views  and  wishes  pointed  to  a  future  rather  than  an  immediate  provision,  an 
opportunity  of  accomplishing  this  was  soon  found.  One  of  the  Principal  Clerks  of  .'Ses- 
sion, as  they  are  called  (official  [persons  who  occupy  an  important  and  resjwnsible  situa- 
tion, and  enjoy  a  considerable  income),  who  had  served  upwards  of  thirty  years,  felt  himself, 
from  age,  and  the  infirmity  of  deafness  with  which  it  was  accompanied,  desirous  of  retiring 
from  his  official  situation.  As  the  law  then  stood,  such  official  persons  were  entitled  to 
bargain  with  their  successors,  either  for  a  sum  of  money,  which  was  usually  a  considerable 
one,  or  for  an  interest  in  the  emoluments  of  the  office  during  their  life.  My  predecessor, 
whose  services  had  been  unusually  meritorious,  stipulated  for  the  emoluments  of  his  office 
during  his  life,  while  I  should  enjoy  the  survivorship,  on  the  condition  that  1  discharged 
the  duties  of  the  office  in  the  meantime.  Mr.  Pitt,  however,  having  died  in  the  interval, 
his  administration  was  dissolved,  and  was  succeeded  by  that  known  by  the  name  of  the 
Fox  and  Grenville  Ministry.  My  affair  was  so  far  completed,  that  my  commission  lay  in 
the  office  subscribed  by  his  majesty ;  but,  from  hurry  or  mistake,  the  interest  of  my  pre- 
decessor was  not  expressed  in  it,  as  had  been  usual  in  such  cases.  .Although,  therefore,  it 
only  required  payment  of  the  fees,  I  could  not  in  honor  take  out  the  commission  in  the 
present  state,  since  in  the  event  of  my  dying  before  him,  the  gentleman  whom  I  succeeded 
nmst  have  lost  the  vested  interest  which  he  had  stipulated  to  retain.  1  had  the  honor  of  an 
interview  with  Earl  Spencer  on  the  subject,  and  he,  in  the  most  handsome  manner,  gave 
directions  that  the  commission  should  issue  as  originally  intended  ;  adding,  that  the  matter 
having  received  the  royal  assent,  he  regarded  only  as  a  claim  of  justice  what  he  would  have 
willingly  done  as  an  act  of  favor.  I  never  saw  Mr.  Fox  on  this,  or  on  any  other  occasion, 
and  never  made  any  application  to  him,  conceiving  that  in  doing  so  I  might  have  been 
supposed  to  express  political  opinions  contrary  to  those  which  I  had  always  professed.  In 
his  private  capacity,  there  is  no  man  to  whom  I  would  have  been  more  proud  to  owe  an 
obligation,  had  I  been  so  distinguished. 

By  this  arrangement  I  obtained  the  survivorship  of  an  office,  the  emoluments  of  which 
were  fully  adequate  to  my  wishes :  and  as  the  law  respecting  the  mode  of  providing  for 
superannuated  officers  was,  about  five  or  si.x  years  after,  altered  from  that  which  admitted 
the  arrangement  of  assistant  and  successor,  my  colleague  very  handsomely  took  the  oppor- 
tunity of  the  alteration,  to  accept  of  the  retiring  annuity  provided  in  such  cases,  and  ad- 
mitted me  to  the  full  benefit  of  the  office. 


50  INTRODUCTION   TO  MARMION. 

But  although  the  certainty  of  succeeding  to  a  considerable  income,  at  the  time  I  obtained 
it,  seemed  to  assure  me  of  a  quiet  harbor  in  my  old  age,  I  did  not  escajse  my  share  of  in- 
convenience from  tiie  contrary  tides  and  currents  by  which  we  are  so  often  encountered  in 
our  journey  through  life.  Indeed  the  publication  of  my  next  poetical  attempt  was  pre- 
maturely accelerated,  from  one  of  those  unpleasant  accidents  which  can  neither  be  foreseen 
nor  avoided. 

I  had  formed  the  prudent  resolution  to  endeavor  to  bestow  a  little  more  labor  than  I 
had  yet  done  on  my  productions,  and  to  be  in  no  hurry  again  to  announce  myself  as  a 
candidate  for  literary  fame.  .Accordingly,  particular  passages  of  a  poem,  which  was 
finally  called  "  Marmion,"  were  labored  with  a  good  deal  of  care  by  one  by  whom  much  care 
was  seldom  bestowed.  Whether  the  work  was  wortii  the  labor  or  not  I  am  no  competent 
judge  ;  but  I  may  be  permitted  to  say,  that  the  period  of  its  composition  was  a  very  iiappy 
one  in  my  life  ;  so  much  so,  that  I  remember  with  pleasure,  at  this  moment,  some  of  the 
spots  in  which  particular  passages  were  composed.  It  is  probably  owing  to  this,  that  the 
Introductions  to  the  several  Cantos  assumed  the  form  of  familiar  epistles  to  my  intimate 
friends,  in  which  I  alluded,  perhaps  more  than  was  necessary  or  graceful,  to  my  domestic 
occupations  and  anmsements  —  a  loquacity  which  may  be  excused  by  those  who  remember 
that  I  was  still  young,  light-headed,  and  happy,  and  that  "  out  of  the  abundance  of  the 
heart  the  mouth  speaketh." 

The  misfortunes  of  a  near  relation  and  friend,  which  happened  at  this  time,  led  me  to 
alter  my  prudent  determination,  which  had  been,  to  use  great  precaution  in  sending  this 
poem  into  the  world ;  and  made  it  convenient  at  least,  if  not  absolutely  necessary,  to 
hasten  its  publication.  The  publishers  of  "  The  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel,"  emboldened 
by  the  success  of  that  poem,  willingly  offered  a  thousand  pounds  for  "  Marmion."  The 
transaction,  being  no  secret,  afforded  Lord  Byron,  who  was  then  at  general  war  with  all 
who  blacked  paper,  an  apology  for  including  me  in  his  satire,  entitled  "  English  Bards  and 
Scotch  Reviewers."  I  never  could  conceive  how  an  arrangement  between  an  author  and 
his  publishers,  if  satisfactory  to  the  persons  concerned,  could  afford  matter  of  censure  to 
any  third  party.  I  had  taken  no  unusual  or  ungenerous  means  of  enhancing  the  value  of 
my  merchandise — I  had  never  higgled  a  moment  about  the  bargain,  but  accepted  at  once 
what  I  considered  the  handsome  offer  of  my  publishers.  These  gentlemen,  at  least,  were 
not  of  opinion  that  they  had  been  taken  advantage  of  in  the  transaction,  which,  indeed, 
was  one  of  their  own  framing  ;  on  the  contrary,  the  sale  of  the  Poem  was  so  far  beyond 
their  expectation,  as  to  induce  them  to  supply  the  Author's  cellars  with  what  is  always 
an  acceptable  present  to  a  young  Scottish  housekeeper,  namely,  a  hogshead  of  excellent 
claret. 

The  Poem  was  finished  in  too  much  haste  to  allow  me  an  opportunity  of  softening  down, 
if  not  removing,  some  of  its  most  prominent  defects.  The  nature  of  Marmion's  guilt, 
although  similar  instances  were  found,  and  might  be  quoted,  as  existing  in  feudal  times, 
was  nevertheless  not  sufficiently  {jeculiar  to  be  indicative  of  the  character  of  the  period, 
forgery  being  the  crime  of  a  commercial,  rather  than  of  a  proud  and  warlike  age.  This 
gross  defect  ought  to  have  been  remedied  or  palliated.  Yet  I  suffered  the  tree  to  lie  as  it 
had  fallen.  I  remember  my  friend,  Dr.  Leyden,  then  in  the  East,  wrote  me  a  furious 
remonstrance  on  the  subject.  I  have,  nevertheless,  always  been  of  opinion,  that  correc- 
tions, however  in  themselves  judicious,  have  a  bad  effect  —  after  publication.  An  author 
is  never  so  decidedly  condemned  as  on  his  own  confession,  and  may  long  find  apologists 
and  partisans,  until  he  gives  up  his  own  cause.  I  was  not,  therefore,  inclined  to  afford 
matter  for  censure  out  of  my  own  admissions ;  and,  by  good  fortune,  the  novelty  of  the 
subject,  and,  if  I  may  so  say,  some  force  and  vivacity  of  description,  were  allowed  to  atone 
for  many  imperfections.  Thus  the  second  experiment  on  the  public  patience,  generally 
the  most  perilous,  —  for  the  public  are  then  most  apt  to  judge  with  rigor,  what  in  the  first 
instance  they  had  received,  perhaps,  with  imprudent  generosity,  —  was  in  my  case  decidedly 
successful.  I  had  the  good  fortune  to  pass  this  ordeal  favorably,  and  the  return  of  sales 
before  me  makes  the  copies  amount  to  thirty-six  thousand  printed  between  1808  and  1825, 
besides  a  considerable  sale  since  that  period.  I  shall  here  pause  upon  the  subject  of  "  Mar- 
mion," and,  in  a  few  prefatory  words  to  "  The  Lady  of  the  Lake,"  the  last  poem  of  mine 
which  obtained  eminent  success,  I  will  continue  the  task  which  I  have  imposed  on  myself 
respecting  the  origin  of  my  productions. 

Abbotsford,  ^/r/7,  1830,        „^.  - 


MARMION. 


INTRODUCTION   TO   CANTO   FIRST. 


WILLIAM    STEWART    ROSE,    ESQ. 

A  shestiel,  Ettrick  Forest. 

November's  sky  is  chill  and  drear, 
November's  leaf  is  red  and  sear : 
Late,  gazing  down  the  steepy  linn, 
That  hems  our  little  garden  in, 
Low  in  its  dark  and  narrow  glen, 
You  scarce  the  rivulet  might  ken, 
So  thick  the  tangled  greenwood  grew. 
So  feeble  trill'd  the  streamlet  through: 
Now    murmuring   hoarse,  and    frequent 

seen 
Through  bush  and  brier,  no  longer  green. 
An  angry  brook,  it  sweeps  the  glade. 
Brawls  over  rock  and  wild  cascade. 
And,  foaming  brown  with  doubled  speed, 
Hurries  its  waters  to  the  Tweed. 


No  longer  Autumn's  glowing  red 
Upon  our  Forest  hills  is  shed; 
No  more,  beneath  the  evening  beam. 
Fair  Tweed  reflects  their  purple  gleam; 
Away  hath  pass'd  the  heather-bell 
That  bloom'd  so  rich  on  Needpath-fell; 
Sallow  his  brow,  and  russet  bare 
Are  now  the  sister-heights  of  Yair. 
The  sheep,  before  the  pinching  heaven, 
To  shelter'd  dale  and  down  are  driven. 
Where  yet  some  faded  herbage  pines. 
And  yet  a  watery  sunbeam  shines : 
In  meek  despondency  they  eye 
The  wither'd  sward  and  wintry  sky 
And  far  beneath  their  summer  hill. 
Stray  sadly  by  Glenkinnon's  rill: 
The  shepherd  shifts  his  mantle's  fold. 
And  wraps  him  closer  from  the  cold; 
His  dogs  no  merry  circles  wheel, 
But,  shivering,  follow  at  his  heel; 
A  cowering  glance  they  often  cast. 
As  deeper  moans  the  gathering  blast. 


My  imps,  though  hardy,  bold,  and  wild, 
As  best  befits  the  mountain  child. 
Feel  the  sad  influence  of  the  hour. 
And  wail  the  daisy's  vanish'd  flower: 
Their  summer  gambols  tell,  and  mourn. 
And  anxious  ask,  —  Will  spring  return. 
And  birds  and  lambs  again  be  gay. 
And  blossoms  clothe  the  hawthorn  spray? 

Yes,  prattlers,  yes.     The  daisy's  flower 
Again  shall  paint  your  summer  bower; 
Again  the  hawthorn  shall  supply 
The  garlands  you  delight  to  tie; 
The  lambs  upon  the  lea  shall  bound, 
The  wild  birds  carol  to  the  round. 
And  while  you  frolic  light  as  they. 
Too  short  shall  seem  the  summer  day. 

To  mute  and  to  material  things 
New  life  revolving  summer  brings; 
The  genial  call  dead  Nature  hears, 
And  in  her  glory  reappears. 
But  oh  !  my  country's  wintry  state 
What  second  spring  shall  renovate? 
What  powerful  call  shall  bid  arise 
The  buried  warlike  and  the  wise; 
The  mind  that  thought  for  Britain's  weal. 
The  hand  that  grasp'd  the  victor  steel? 
The  vernal  sun  new  life  bestows 
Even  on  the  meanest  flower  that  blows; 
But  vainly,  vainly  may  he  shine, 
Where  glory  weeps  o'er  Nelson's  shrine ; 
And  vainly  pierce  the  solemn  gloom. 
That  shrouds,  O  Pitt,  thy  hallow'd  tomb ! 

Deep  graved  in  every  British  heart, 
O  never  let  those  names  depart ! 
Say  to  your  sons,  —  Lo,  here  his  grave, 
who  victor  died  on  Gadite  wave;* 
To  him,  as  to  the  burning  levin. 
Short,  bright,  resistless  course  was  given, 


*  Nelson. 
Gades. 


Gadite  -wave,   sea   of    Cadiz,   or 


51 


52 


MARMION. 


Where'er  his  country's  foes  were  found, 
Was  heard  the  fated  thunder's  sound. 
Till  burst  the  bolt  on  yonder  shore, 
Roll'd,  blazed,  destroy'd, — and  was  no 
more. 

Nor  mourn  ye  less  his  perish'd  worth, 
Who  bade  the  conqueror  go  forth, 
And  launch'd  that  thunderbolt  of  war 
On  Egypt,  Hafnia,*  Trafalgar; 
Who,  l)orn  to  guide  such  high  cmprize, 
For  Britain's  weal  was  early  wise; 
Alas !  to  whom  the  Almighty  gave. 
For  Britain's  sins,  an  early  grave  ! 
His  worth,  who,  in  his  mightiest  hour, 
A  bauble  held  the  pride  of  power, 
Spurn'd  at  the  sordid  lust  of  pelf, 
And  served  his  Albion  for  herself; 
Who,  when  the  frantic  crowd  amain 
Strain'd  at  subjection's  bursting  rein, 
O'er  their  wild  mood  full  conquest  gain'd, 
The  pride,  he  would  not  crush,  restrain'd, 
Show'd  their  fierce  zeal  a  worthier  cause. 
And  brought  the  freeman's  arm,  to  aid 
the  freeman's  laws. 

Had'st  thou  but  lived,  though  stripp'd 
of  power, 
A  watchman  on  the  lonely  tower. 
Thy  thrilling  trump  had  roused  the  land, 
when  fraud  or  danger  were  at  hand; 
By  thee,  as  by  the  beacon-light. 
Our  pilots  had  kept  course  aright; 
As  some  proud  column,  though  alone. 
Thy  strength  had  propp'd  the  tottering 

throne : 
Now  is  the  stately  column  broke. 
The  beacon-light  is  quench'd  in  smoke. 
The  trumpet's  silver  sound  is  still. 
The  warder  silent  on  the  hill ! 

Oh  think,  how  to  his  latest  day, 
When  Death,  just  hovering,  claim'd  his 

prey, 
With  Palinure's  unalter'd  mood. 
Firm  at  his  dangerous  post  he  stood; 
Each  call  for  needful  rest  repell'd, 
With  dying  hand  the  rudder  held. 
Till,  in  his  fall,  with  fateful  sway. 
The  steerage  of  the  realm  gave  way ! 
Then,  while  on  Britain's  thousand  plains, 
One  unpolluted  church  remains, 

*  Copenhagen. 


Whose  peaceful  bells  ne'er  sent  around 
The  bloody  tocsin's  maddening  sound. 
But  still,  upon  the  hallow'd  day. 
Convoke  the  swains  to  praise  and  pray; 
While  faith  and  civil  peace  are  dear, 
Grace  this  cold  marble  with  a  tear,  — 
He,  who  preserved  them,  Pitt,  lies  here  ! 

.  Nor  yet  suppress  the  generous  sigh. 
Because  his  rival  bluml)ers  nigh; 
Nor  l)c  thy  rcquiescat  dumb, 
Lest  it  be  said  o'er  Fox's  tomb. 
For  talents  mourn,  untimely  lost, 
When  best  employ'd,  and  wanted  most; 
Mourn  genius  high,  and  lore  profound, 
And  wit  that  loved  to  play,  not  wound; 
And  all  the  reasoning  powers  divine, 
To  penetrate,  resolve,  combine; 
And  feelings  keen,  and  fancy's  glow,  — 
They  sleep  with  him  who  sleeps  below : 
And,  if  thou  mourn'st  they  could  not  save 
From  error  him  who  owns  this  grave. 
Be  every  harsher  thought  suppress'd. 
And  sacred  be  the  last  long  rest. 
Here,  where  the  end  of  earthly  things 
Lays  heroes,  patriots,  bards,  and  kings; 
Where  stiff  the  hand,  and  still  the  tongue. 
Of  those  who  fought,  and  spoke,  and  sung ; 
Here,  where  the  fretted  aisles  prolong 
The  distant  notes  of  holy  song. 
As  if  some  angel  spoke  agen, 
"  All  peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men; " 
If  ever  from  an  English  heart, 
O  here  let  prejudice  depart. 
And,  partial  feeling  cast  aside. 
Record,  that  Fo.\  a  Briton  died ! 
When  Europe  crouch'd  to  France's  yoke. 
And  Austria  bent,  and  Prussia  broke, 
And  the  firm  Russian's  purpose  brave. 
Was  bartcr'd  by  a  timorous  slave. 
Even  then  dishonor's  peace  he  spurn'd, 
The  sullied  olive-branch  return'd. 
Stood  for  his  country's  glory  fast. 
And  nail'd  her  colors  to  the  mast ! 
Heaven,  to  reward  his  firmness,  gave 
A  portion  in  this  honor'd  grave. 
And  ne'er  held  marble  in  its  trust 
Of  two  such  wondrous  men  the  dust. 

With  more  than    mortal   powers   en- 
dow'd,  ' 
How  high  they  soar'd  above  the  crowd ! 


INTRODUCTION   TO    CANTO  I. 


53 


Theirs  was  no  common  party  race, 
Jostling  by  dark  intrigue  for  place; 
Like  fabled  Gods,  their  mighty  war 
Shook  realms  and  nations  in  its  jar; 
Beneath  each  banner  proud  to  stand, 
Look'd  up  the  noblest  of  the  land. 
Till  through  the  British  world  were  known 
The  names  of  Pitt  and  Fox  alone. 
Spells  of  such  force  no  wizard  grave 
E'er  framed  in  dark  Thessalian  cave. 
Though  his  could  drain  the  ocean  dry, 
And  force  the  planets  from  the  sky. 
These  spells  are  spent,  and,  spent  with 

these. 
The  wine  of  life  is  on  the  lees, 
Genius,  and  taste,  and  talent  gone. 
Forever  tomb'd  beneath  the  stone. 
Where  — -  taming     thought     to     human 

pride !  — 
The  mighty  chiefs  sleep  side  by  side. 
Drop  upon  Fox's  grave  the  tear, 
'Twill  trickle  to  his  rival's  bier; 
O'er  Pitt's  the  mournful  requiem  sound, 
And  Fox's  shall  the  notes  rebound. 
The  solemn  echo  seems  to  cry,  — 
"  Here  let  their  discord  with  them  die. 
Speak  not  for  those  a  separate  doom,     - 
Whom  Fate  made  Brothers  in  the  tomb; 
But  search  the  land  of  living  men. 
Where  wilt  thou  find  their  like  agen  ?  " 

Rest,  ardent  Spirits  !  till  the  cries 
Of  dying  Nature  bid  you  rise; 
Not  even  your  Britain's  groans  can  pierce 
The  leaden  silence  of  your  hearse; 
Then,  O,  how  impotent  and  vain 
This  grateful  tributary  strain  ! 
Though    not    unmark'd    from    nortliern 

clime, 
Ye  heard  the  Border  Minstrel's  rhyme: 
His  Gothic  harp  has  o'er  you  rung; 
The   Bard    you   deign'd   to  praise,  your 

deathless  names  has  sung. 

Stay  yet,  illusion,  stay  a  while. 
My  wilder'd  fancy  still  beguile  ! 
From  this  high  theme  how  can  I  part. 
Ere  half  unloaded  is  my  heart! 
For  all  the  tears  e'er  sorrow  drew, 
And  all  the  raptures  fancy  knew, 
And  all  the  keener  rush  of  blood. 
That   throbs  through  bard  in   bard  iik», 
mood, 


Were  here  a  tribute  mean  and  low. 
Though  all  their  mingled  streams  could 

flow  — 
Woe,  wonder,  and  sensation  high. 
In  one  spring-tide  of  ecstasy  !  — 
It  will  not  be  —  it  may  not  last  • — • 
The  vision  of  enchantment's  past: 
Like  frostwork  in  the  morning  ray, 
The  fancied  fabric  melts  away; 
Each  Gothic  arch,  memorial-stone. 
And  long,  dim,  lofty  aisle,  are  gone; 
And,  lingering  last,  deception  dear, 
The  choir's  high  sounds  die  on  my  ear. 
Now  slow  return  the  lonely  down. 
The  silent  pastures  bleak  and  brown. 
The  farm  begirt  with  copsewood  wild, 
The  gamlx)ls  of  each  frolic  child, 
Mixing  their  shrill  cries  with  the  tone 
Of  Tweed's  dark  waters  rushing  on. 

Prompt  on  unequal  tasks  to  run, 
Thus  Nature  disciplines  her  son : 
Meeter,  she  says,  for  me  to  stray. 
And  waste  the  solitary  day. 
In  plucking  from  yon  fen  the  reed, 
And  watch  it  floating  down  the  Tweed; 
Or  idly  list  the  shrilling  lay. 
With  which  the  milkmaid  cheers  her  w£.)\ 
Marking  its  cadence  rise  and  fail. 
As  from  the  field,  beneath  her  pail. 
She  trips  it  down  the  uneven  dale : 
Meeter  for  me,  by  yonder  cairn. 
The  ancient  shepherd  s  lale  to  learn; 
Though  oft  he  stop  in  rustic  fear, 
Lest  his  old  legends  tire  the  ear 
Of  one,  who,  in  his  simple  mind, 
May  boast  (\  bo  jk-learn'd  taste  refin'.d. 

But  tl.oi.,  my  friend,  canst  fitly  tell, 
(For  f..-\\  h.tve  read  romance  so  well), 
How  still  the  legendary  lay 
O'ei  poet's  Ijosom  holds  its  sway; 
How  on  the  ancient  minstrel  strain 
Tiir.e  lays  his  palsied  hand  in  vain; 
And  how  our  hearts  at  doughty  deeds. 
By  warriors  wrought  in  steely  weeds. 
Still  throb  for  fear  and  pity's  sake; 
As  when  the  champion  of  the  Lake 
Enters  Morgana's  fated  house. 
Or  in  the  Chapel  Perilous, 
Despising  spells  and  demons'  force, 
I  Holds  converse  with  the  unburied  corse;  ^ 


54 


MARMtON. 


Canto  1. 


Or  when,  Dame  Ganore's  grace  to  move, 
(Alas,  that  lawless  was  their  love  !) 
lie  sought  proud  Tarquin  in  his  den. 
And  freed  full  sixty  knights;    or  when, 
A  sinful  man,  and  unconfess'd, 
He  took  the  Sangreal's  holy  quest. 
And,  slumbering,  saw  the  vision  high, 
He  might  not  view  with  waking  eye.  - 

The  mightiest  chiefs  of  British  song 
Scorn'd  not  such  legends  to  prolong: 
They     gleam     through    Spenser's     elfin 

dream, 
And  mix  in  Milton's  heavenly  theme; 
And  Dryden,  in  immortal  strain. 
Had  raised  the  TaVile  Round  again, ^ 
But  that  a  ribald  King  and  Court 
Bade  him  toil  on,  to  make  them  sport; 
Demanded  for  their  niggard  pay. 
Fit  for  their  souls,  a  looser  lay. 
Licentious  satire,  song,  and  play; 
The  world  defrauded  of  the  high  design. 
Profaned   the    God-given    strength,   and 

marr'd  the  lofty  line. 

Warm'd  by  such  names,  well  may  we 
then 
Though  dwindled  souls  of  little  men, 
Essay  to  break  a  feeble  lance 
In  the  fair  fields  of  old  romance; 
Or  seek  the  moated  castle's  cell. 
Where  long  through  talisman  and  spell. 
While  tyrants  ruled,  and  damsels  wept, 
Thy  Genius,  Chivalry,  hath  slept : 
There  sound  the  harpings  of  the  North, 
Till  he  awake  and  sally  forth. 
On  venturous  quest  to  prick  again, 
In  all  his  arms,  with  all  his  train, 
Shield,  lance,  and  brand,  and  plume,  and 

scarf. 
Fay,  giant,  dragon,  squire,  and  dwarf. 
And  wizard  with  his  wand  of  might, 
And  errant  maid  on  palfrey  white. 
Around  the  Genius  weave  their  spells. 
Pure  Love,  who  scarce  his  passion  tells; 
Mystery,  half  veil'd  and  half  reveal'd; 
And  Honor,  with  his  spotless  shield; 
Attention,  with  fix'd  eye;   and  Fear, 
That  loves  the  tale  she  shrinks  to  hear; 
And  gentle  Courtesy;    and  Faith, 
Unchanged  by  sufferings,  time,  or  death; 
And  Valor,  lion-mettled  lord, 
Leaning  upon  his  own  good  sword. 


Well  has  thy  fair  achievement  shown, 
A  worthy  meed  may  thus  Vje  won; 
Ytene's  *  oaks  —  beneath  whose  shade 
Their  theme  the  merry  minstrels  made, 
Of  Ascapart,  and  Bevis  bold,'' 
And  that  Red  King,  t  who,  while  of  old, 
Through  Boldrewood  the  chase  he  led. 
By  his  loved  huntsman's  arrow  bled  — 
Ytene's  oaks  have  heard  again 
Renevv'dsuch  legendary  strain; 
For  thou  hast  sung,  how  He  of  Gaul, 
That  Amadis  so  famed  in  hall. 
For  Oriana,  foil'd  in  fight 
The  Necromancer's  felon  might; 
And  well  in  modern  verse  hast  wove 
Partenopex's  mystic  love  :  t 
Hear,  then,  attentive  to  my  lay, 
A  knightly  tale  of  Albion's  elder  day. 


CANTO    FIRST. 


THE    CASTLE. 


Day  set  on  Norham's  castled  steep," 
And  Tweed's  fair  river,  bro.id  and  deep. 

And  Cheviot's  mountains  lone: 
The  battled  towers,  the  donjon  keep,^ 
The  loophole  grates,  where  captives  weep, 
The  flanking  walls  that  round  it  sweep. 

In  yellow  lustre  shone. 
The  warriors  on  the  turrets  high, 
Moving  athwart  the  evening  sky, 

Seem'd  forms  of  giant  height : 
Their  armor,  as  it  caught  the  rays, 
Flash'd  back  again  the  western  blaze, 

In  lines  of  dazzling  light. 


Saint  George's  banner,  broad  and  gay. 
Now  faded,  as  the  fading  ray 

I^ess  bright,  and  less,  was  flung: 
The  evening  gale  had  scarce  the  power 
To  wave  it  on  the  Donjon  Tower, 

So  heavily  it  hung. 

*  Ytene,  ancient  name  of   the    New   Forest, 
Hants. 

t  William  Rufus. 

X  Partenopex,  a  poem  by  W.  S.  Rose. 


Canto  I. 


THE    CASTLE. 


5S 


The  scouts  had  parted  on  their  search. 

The  Castle  gates  were  barr'd; 
Above  the  gloomy  portal  arch, 
Timing  his  footsteps  to  a  march, 

The  Warder  kept  his  guard; 
Low  humming,  as  he  paced  along. 
Some  ancient  Border  gathering  song. 


A  distant  trampling  sound  he  hears; 
He  looks  abroad,  and  soon  appears 
O'er  Horncliff-hill  a  plump  of  spears,* 

Beneath  a  pennon  gay; 
A  horseman,  darting  from  the  crowd, 
Like  lightning  from  a  summer  cloud. 
Spurs  on  his  mettled  courser  proud, 

Before  the  dark  array. 
Beneath  the  sable  palisade. 
That  closed  the  Castle  barricade. 

His  bugle-horn  he  blew; 
The  warder  hasted  from  the  wall. 
And  warn'd  the  Captain  in  the  hall. 
For  well  the  blast  he  knew; 
And  joyfully  that  knight  did  call. 
To  sewer,  squire,  and  seneschal. 


"  Now  broach  ye  a  pipe  of  Malvoisie,t 

Bring  pasties  of  the  doe, 
And  quickly  make  the  entrance  free, 
And  bid  my  heralds  ready  te. 
And  every  minstrel  sound  his  glee, 

And  all  our  trumpets  blow; 
And,  from  the  platform,  spare  ye  not 
To  lire  a  noble  salvo-shot; 

Lord  Marmion  waits  below  !  " 
Then  to  the  Castle's  lower  ward 

Sped  forty  yeomen  tall, 
The  iron-studded  gates  unbarr'd, 
Raised  the  portcullis'  ponderous  guard. 
The  lofty  palisade  unsparr'd 

And  let  the  drawbridge  fall. 


Along  the  bridge  Lord  Marmion  rode. 
Proudly  his  red-roan  charger  trode. 
He  was  a  stalworth  knight,  and  keen, 
And  had  in  many  a  battle  been; 

*  Body  of  men-at-arms.  "  Plump  "  properly 
applies  to  a  flight  of  water-fowl  ;  but  is  used  by 
analojcy  for  a  body  of  horse. 

t  Malmsey. 


The  scar  on  his  brown  cheek  reveal'd 
A  token  true  of  Bosworth  field: 
His  helm  hung  at  the  saddlebow; 
Well  by  his  visage  you  might  know 
His  eyebrow  dark,  and  "eye  of  fire, 
Show'd  spirit  proud,  and  prompt  to  ire; 
Yet  lines  of  thought  upon  his  cheek 
Did  deep  design  and  counsel  speak. 
His  forehead,  by  his  casque  worn  bare. 
His  thick  mustache,  and  curly  hair. 
Coal-black,  and  grizzled  here  and  there. 

But  more  through  toil  than  age ; 
His  square-tnrn'd  joints,  and  strength  of 

limb, 
Show'd  him  no  carpet  knight  so  trim. 
But  in  close  fight  a  champion  grim. 

In  camps  a  leader  sage. 


Well  was  he  arm'd  from  head  to  heel. 
In  mail  and  plate  of  Milan  steel;'' 
But  his  strong  helm,  of  mighty  cost. 
Was  all  with  burnish'd  gold  emboss'd : 
Amid  the  plumage  of  the  crest, 
A  falcon  hover'd  on  her  nest. 
With  wings  outspread, and  forward  breast ; 
E'en  such  a  falcon,  on  his  shield, 
Soar'd  sable  in  an  azure  field: 
The  golden  legend  bore  aright, 

35a()a  cficcfes  at  me,  to  titatfj  is  Uigfjt.^ 

Blue  was  the  charger's  broider'd  rein; 
Blue  ribbons  deck'd  his  arching  mane; 
The  knightly  housing's  ample  fold 
Was  velvet  blue,  and  trapp'd  with  gold. 


Behind  him  rode  two  gallant  squires, 
Of  noble  name,  and  knightly  sires; 
They  burn'd  the  gilded  spurs  to  claim. 
For  well  could  each  a  war-horse  tame, 
Could  draw  the  VjoWjthe  swordcould  sway. 
And  lightly  bear  the  ring  away; 
Nor  less  with  courteous  precepts  stored. 
Could  dance  in  hall,  and  carve  at  board,  , 
And  frame  love-ditties  passing  rare,  \ 

And  sing  them  to  a  lady  fair.  '' 

VIII. 

Four  men-at-arms  came  at  their  backs, 
With  halbert,  bill,  and  battle-axe; 
They    bore    Lord    Marmion 's    lance    so 

strong, 
And  led  his  sumpter  mules  along. 


56 


MARMION. 


Canto  I. 


And  ambling  palfrey,  when  at  need 
Him  listed  ease  his  battle-steed. 
The  last  and  trustiest  of  the  four. 
On  high  his  forky  pennon  bore; 
Like  swallow's  tale,  in  shape  and  hue, 
Flutter'd  the  streamer  glossy  blue. 
Where,  blazon'd  sable,  as  before. 
The  towering  falcon  seem'd  to  soar. 
Last,  twenty  yeomen,  two  and  two, 
In  hosen  black  and  jerkins  blue. 
With  falcons  broider'd  on  each  breast, 
Attended  on  their  lord's  behest. 
Each,  chosen  for  an  archer  good. 
Knew  hunting-craft  by  lake  or  wood; 
Each  one  a  six-foot  Ixiw  could  bend, 
And  far  a  cloth-yard  shaft  could  send; 
Each  held  a  boar-spear  tough  and  strong. 
And  at  their  belts  their  qurvers  rung. 
Their  dusty  palfreys,  and  array, 
Show'd  they  had  march'd  a  weary  way. 


'Tis  meet  that  I  should  tell  you  now, 
How  fairly  arm'd,  and  order'd  how. 

The  soldiers  of  the  guard, 
With  musket,  pike,  and  morion. 
To  welcome  noble  Marmion, 

Stood  in  the  Castle-yard; 
Minstrels  and  trumpeters  were  there, 
The  gunner  held  his  linstock  yare, 

For  welcome-shot  prepared; 
Enter'd  the  train,  and  such  a  clang. 
As  then  through  all  his  turrets  rang, 

Old  Norham  never  heard. 


The  guards  their  morrice-pikes  advanced. 

The  trumpets  flourish'd  brave. 
The  cannon  from  the  ramparts  glanced, 

And  thundering  welcome  gave. 
A  blithe  salute,  in  martial  sort. 

The  minstrels  well  might  sound. 
For,  as  Lord  Marmion  cross'd  the  court, 

He  scatter'd  angels*  round. 
"  Welcome  to  Norham,  Marmion! 

Stout  heart,  and  open  hand  ! 
Well  dost  thou  brook  thy  gallant  roan. 

Thou  flower  of  English  land!  " 


*  A  gold  coin  of  the  period,  value  about  ten 
shillings. 


Two  pursuivants,  whom  tabarts  t  deck. 
With  silver  scutcheon  round  their  neck, 

Stood  on  the  steps  of  stone, 
By  which  you  reach  the  donjon  gate. 
And  there,  with  herald  pomp  and  state, 

They  hail'd  Lord  Marmion: 
They  hail'd  him  Lord  of  Fontenaye, 
Of  Lutterward,  and  Scrivelbaye, 

Of  Tamworth  tower  and  town;'-* 
And  he,  their  courtesy  to  requite. 
Gave    them    a    chain    of   twelve    marks' 
weight. 
All  as  he  lighted  down. 
"  Now,  largesse,  largesse, t    Lord   Mar- 
mion, 

Knight  of  the  crest  of  gold  ! 
A  blazon'd  shield,  in  battle  won, 

Ne'er  guarded  heart  so  bold." 


They  marshall'd  him  to  the  Castle-hall, 

Where  the  guests  stood  all  aside. 
And  loudly  flourish'd  the  trumpet-call. 

And  the  heralds  loudly  cried:  — 
"Room,  lordings,  room  for  Lord  Mar- 
mion, 

With  the  crest  and  helm  of  gold ! 
Full  well  we  know  the  trophies  won 

In  the  lists  of  Cottisw(jld: 
There,  vainly  Ralph  de  Wilton  strove, 

'Gainst  Marmion's  force  to  stand; 
To  him  he  lost  his  lady-love. 

And  to  the  King  his  land. 
Ourselves  beheld  the  listed  field, 

A  sight  both  sad  and  fair; 
We  saw  Lord  Marmion  pierce  his  shield. 

And  saw  his  saddle  bare; 
We  saw  the  victor  win  the  crest 

He  wears  with  worthy  pride; 
And  on  the  gibbet-tree,  reversed, 

His  foeman's  scutcheon  tied. 
Place,  nobles,  for  the  Falcon-Knight ! 

Room,  room,  ye  gentles  gay. 
For  him  who  conquer'd  in  the  right, 

Marmion  of  Fontenaye!  " 

t  The  embroidered  overcoat  of  the  heralds, 
etc.,  also  spelt  tabard  and  taberd. 

X  The  cry  by  which  the  bounty  of  knights  and 
nobles  was  tlianked.  The  cry  is  srill  used  in  the 
hop  gardens  of  Kent  and  Sussex,  as  a  demand 
for  jjayment  from  strangers  entering  them. 


Canto  I. 


TJIE    CASTLE. 


57 


Then  stepp'd  to  meet  that  noble  Lord, 

Sir  Hugh  the  Heron  bold, 
Baron  of  Twisell,  and  of  Ford, 

And  Captain  of  the  Hold.i" 
He  led  Lord  Marmion  to  the  dais, 
Raised  o'er  the  pavement  high. 
And  placed  him  in  the  upper  place  — 

They  feasted  full  and  high: 
The  whiles  a  Northern  harper  rude 
Chanted  a  rhyme  of  deadly  feud, 

"  Hmv  the  fierce  Thirwalls,  and  Rid- 
leys  all. 
Stout  Willimondsiuick, 
And  Hardriding  Dick, 
And  Hughie  of  Haiodon,  and  Will  o'' 
the  Wall, 
Have  set  on  Sir  Albany  Featherstonhaugh, 
And  taken   his  life  at  the  Deadman'' s- 
shaw. ' ' 
Scantly    Lord    Marmion's    ear    could 
brook 
The  harper's  barbarous  lay; 
Yet  much  he  praised  the  pains  he  took. 
And  well  those  pains  did  pay : 
For  lady's  suit,  and  minstrel's  strain. 
By  knight  should  ne'er  be  heard  in  vain. 


"Now,    good    Lord  Marmion,"   Heron 
says, 

"  Of  your  fair  courtesy, 
I  pray  you  bide  some  little  space 

In  this  poor  tower  with  me. 
Here  may  you  keep  your  arms  from  rust. 

May  breathe  your  war-horse  well; 
Seldom  hath  pass'd  a  week  but  giust 

Or  feat  of  arms  befell : 
The  Scots  can  rein  a  mettled  steed; 

And  love  to  couch  a  spear;  — 
Saint  George  !  a  stirring  life  they  lead. 

That  have  such  neighlx)rs  near. 
Then  stay  with  us  a  little  space. 

Our  northern  wars  to  learn; 
I  pray  you,  for  your  lady's  grace !  " 

Lord  Marmion's  brow  grew  stern. 


The  Captain  mark'd  his  alter'd  look. 
And  gave  a  squire  the  sign; 

A  migiily  wassail-bowl  he  took, 
And  crown'd  it  high  in  wine. 


"  Now  pledge  me  here.  Lord  Marmion  : 

But  first  I  pray  thee  fair. 
Where  hast  thou  left  that  page  of  thine. 
That  used  to  serve  thy  cup  of  wine. 

Whose  beauty  was  so  rare? 
When  last  in  Raby  towers  we  met, 

The  boy  I  closely  eyed. 
And  often  mark'd  his  cheeks  were  wet, 

With  tears  he  fain  would  hide : 
His  was  no  rugged  horse-lxjy's  hand. 
To  burnish  shield  or  sharpen  brand. 

Or  saddle  battle-steed; 
But  meeter  seem'd  for  lady  fair. 
To  fan  her  cheek,  or  curl  her  hair. 
Or  through  embroidery,  rich  and  rare. 

The  slender  silk  to  lead; 
His  skin  was  fair,  his  ringlets  gold. 

His  bosom  —  when  he  sigh'd, 
The  russet  doublet's  rugged  fold 

Could  scarce  repel  its  pride  ! 
Say,  hast  thou  given  that  lovely  youth 

To  serve  in  lady's  bower? 
Or  was  the  gentle  page,  in  sooth, 

A  gentle  paramour?  " 


Lord  Marmion  ill  could  brook  such  jest; 

He  roll'd  his  kindling  eye, 
With  pain  his  rising  wrath  suppress'd. 

Yet  made  a  calm  reply : 
"  That   boy   thou  thought'st   so    goodly 

fair, 
He  might  not  brook  the  northern  air; 
More  of  his  fate  if  thou  wouldst  learn, 
I  left  him  sick  in  Lindisfarne.* 
Enough  of  him.  —  But,  Heron,  say. 
Why  does  thy  lovely  lady  gay 
Disdain  to  grace  the  hall  to-day? 
Or  has  that  dame,  so  fair  and  sage. 
Gone  on  some  pious  pilgrimage?  "  — 
He  spoke  in  covert  scorn,  for  fame 
Whisper'd  light  tales  of  Heron's  dame. 


Unmark'd,  at  least  unreck'd,  the  taunt; 

Careless  the  Knight  replied, 
"No  bird,  whose  feathers  gayly  flaunt, 

Delights  in  cage  to  bide  : 
Norham  is  grim  and  grated  close, 
Hemm'd  in  by  battlement  and  fosse, 
*  See  note  24. 


58 


MARMION. 


Canto  I. 


And  many  a  darksome  tower; 
And  better  loves  my  lady  bright 
To  sit  in  liberty  and  light. 

In  fair  Queen  Margaret's  bower. 
We  hold  our  greyhound  in  our  hand, 

Our  falcon  on  our  glove; 
But  where  shall  we  find  leash  or  band, 

For  dame  that  loves  to  rove? 
Let  the  wild  falcon  soar  her  swing. 
She'll  stoop  when  she  has  tired  her  wing." 


"  Nay,  if  with  Royal  James's  bride 

The  lovely  Lady  Heron  bide, 

Behold  me  here  a  messenger, 

Your  tender  greetings  prompt  to  bear; 

For,  to  the  Scottish  court  address'd, 

I  journey  at  our  King's  behest, 

And  pray  you,  of  your  grace,  provide 

For  me,  and  mine,  a  trusty  guide. 

I  have  not  ridden  in  Scotland  since 

James  back'd  the  cause  of  that  mock  prince 

Warbeck,  that  Flemish  counterfeit. 

Who  on  the  gibbet  paid  the  cheat. 

Then  did  I  march  with  Surrey's  power, 

What  time  we  razed  old  Ayton  tower. "^^ 


"  For  such-like  need,  my  lord,  I  trow, 
Norham  can  find  you  guides  enow; 
For  here  be  some  have  prick'd  as  far. 
On  Scottish  ground,  as  to  Dunljar; 
Have  drunk  the  monks  of  St.  Bothan'sale, 
And  driven  the  beeves  of  Lauderdale; 
Harried  the  wives  of  Greenlaw's  goods. 
And  given  them  light  to  set  their  hoods.  "^'^ 


"  Now,  in  good  sooth,"   Lord  Marmion 

cried, 
"  Were  I  in  warlike  wise  to  ride, 
A  better  guard  I  would  not  lack. 
Than  your  stout  forayers  at  my  back; 
But,  as  in  form  of  peace  I  go, 
A  friendly  messenger,  to  know. 
Why  through  all  Scotland,  near  and  far. 
Their  King  is  mustering  troops  for  war. 
The  sight  of  plundering  border  spears 
Might  justify  suspicious  fears. 
And  deadly  feud,  or  thirst  of  spoil. 
Break  out  in  some  unseemly  broil : 


A  herald  were  my  fitting  guide; 
Or  friar,  sworn  in  peace  to  bide; 
Or  pardoner,  or  travelling  priest. 
Or  strolling  pilgrim,  at  the  least." 


The  Captain  mused  a  little  space, 

And  pass'd  his  hand  across  his  face. 

—  "  Fain  would  I  find  the  guide  you  want, 

But  ill  may  spare  a  pursuivant. 

The  only  men  that  safe  can  ride 

Mine  errands  on  the  Scottish  side: 

And  though  a  bishop  built  this  fort, 

Few  holy  brethren  here  resort; 

Even  our  good  chaplain,  as  I  ween, 

.Since  our  last  siege,  we  have  not  seen: 

The  mass  he  might  not  sing  or  say, 

Upon  one  stinted  meal  a-day; 

So,  safe  he  sat  in  Durham  aisle. 

And  pray'd  for  our  success  the  while. 

Our  Norman  vicar,  woe  betide. 

Is  all  too  well  in  case  to  ride; 

The  priest  of  Shoreswood  ^^  —  he  could 

rein 
The  wildest  war-horse  in  your  train; 
But  then,  no  spearman  in  the  hall 
Will  sooner  swear,  or  stab,  or  brawl. 
Friar  John  of  Tilmouth  were  the  man: 
A  blithesome  brother  at  the  can, 
A  welcome  guest  in  hall  and  bower, 
He  knows  each  castle,  town,  and  tower, 
In  which  the  wine  and  ale  is  good, 
'Twixt  Newcastle  and  Holy-Rood. 
But  that  good  man,  as  ill  befalls, 
Hath  seldom  left  our  castle  walls. 
Since,  on  the  vigil  of  St.  Bede, 
In  evil  hour,  he  cross'd  the  Tweed, 
To  teach  Dame  Alison  her  creed. 
Old  Bughtrig  found  him  with  his  wife; 
And  John,  an  enemy  to  strife. 
Sans  frock  and  hood,  fled  for  his  life. 
The  jealous  churl  hath  deeply  swore, 
That,  if  again  he  venture  o'er. 
He  shall  shrive  penitent  no  more. 
Little  he  loves  such  risks,  I  know; 
Yet,  in  your  guard,  perchance  will  go.'' 

XXII. 

Young  Selby,  at  the  fair  hall-board. 
Carved  to  his  uncle  and  that  lord. 
And  reverently  took  up  the  word :  — 
"  Kind  uncle,  woe  were  we  each  one. 
If  harm  should  hap  to  brother  John. 


Canto  I. 


THE    CASTLE. 


59 


He  is  a  man  of  mirthful  speech, 
Can  many  a  game  and  gambol  teach; 
Full  well  at  tables  can  he  play, 
And  sweep  at  bowls  the  stake  away. 
None  can  a  lustier  carol  bawl, 
The  needfuUest  among  us  all, 
When  time  hangs  heavy  in  the  hall, 
And  snow  comes  thick  at  Christmas  tide. 
And  we  can  neither  hunt,  nor  ride 
A  foray  on  the  Scottish  side. 
The  vow'd  revenge  of   Bughtrig  rude, 
May  end  in  worse  than  loss  of  hood. 
Let  Friar  John,  in  safety,  still 
In  chimney-corner  snore  his  fill. 
Roast  hissing  crabs,  or  flagons  swill. 
Last  night,  to  Norham  there  came  one. 
Will  better  guide  Lord  Marmion."  — 
"  Nephew,"  quoth  Heron,  "  by  my  fay. 
Well  hast  thou  spoke;  say  forth  thy  say." 


"  Here  is  a  holy  Palmer  come. 

From  Salem  first,  and  last  from  Rome; 

One,  that  hath  kiss'd  the  blessed  tomb. 

And  visited  each  holy  shrine 

In  Araby  and  Palestine; 

On  hills  of  Armenie  hath  been, 

Where  Noah's  ark  may  yet  be  seen; 

By  that  Red  Sea,  too,  hath  he  trod. 

Which  parted  at  the  prophet's  rod; 

In  Sinai's  wilderness  he  saw 

The  Mount,  where  Israel  heard  the  law. 

Mid  thunder-dint,  and  flashing  levin. 

And  shadows,  mists,  and  darkness,  given. 

He  shows  Saint  James's  cockle-shell. 

Of  fair  Montserrat,  too,  can  tell; 

And  of  that  Grot  where  Olives  nod. 
Where,  darling  of  each  heart  and  eye, 
From  all  the  youth  of  Sicily, 

Saint  Rosalie  retired  to  God.i* 


"To  stout  Saint  George  of  Norwich  merry, 
Saint  Thomas,  too,  of  Canterbury, 
Cuthbert  of   Durham  and  Saint  Bede, 
For  his  sins'  pardon  hath  he  pray'd. 
He  knows  the  passes  of  the  North, 
And  seeks  far  shrines  beyond  the  Forth; 
Little  he  eats,  and  long  will  wake. 
And  drinks  but  of  the  stream  or  lake. 
This  were  a  guide  o'er  moor  and  dale; 
But,  when  our  John  hath  quaff'd  his  ale, 


As  little  as  the  wind  that  blows. 
And  warms  itself  against  his  nose, 
Kens  he,  or  cares,  which  way  he  goes. ' '  ■ 


"  Gramercy  !  "  quoth  Lord  Marmion, 
"  Full  loth  were  I,  that  Friar  John, 
That  venerable  man,  for  me. 
Were  placed  in  fear  of  jeopardy. 
If  this  same  Palmer  will  me  lead        ^ 

From  hence  to  Holy-Rood, 
Like  his  good  saint,  I'll  pay  his  meed. 
Instead  of  cockle-shell,  or  bead. 

With  angels  fair  and  good. 
I  love  such  holy  ramblers;   still 
They  know  to  charm  a  weary  hill. 

With  song,  romance,  or  lay: 
Some  jovial  tale,  or  glee,  or  jest, 
Some  lying  legend,  at  the  least, 

They  bring  to  cheer  the  way. ' '  — 


"  Ah  !  noble  sir,"  young  Selby  said, 

And  finger  on  his  lip  he  laid, 

"  This  man  knows  much,  perchance  e'en 

more 
Than  he  could  learn  by  holy  lore. 
Still  to  himself  he's  muttering, 
And  shrinks  as  at  some  unseen  thing. 
Last  night  we  listen'd  at  his  cell; 
Strange  sounds  we  heard,  and,  sooth  to 

tell. 
He  murmur'd  on  till  morn,  howe'er 
No  living  mortal  could  be  near. 
Sometimes  I  thought  I  heard  it  plain. 
As  other  voices  spoke  again. 
I  cannot  tell  —  I  like  it  not  — 
Friar  John  hath  told  us  it  v,  wrote. 
No  conscience  clear,  and  void  of  wrong. 
Can  rest  awake,  and  pray  so  long. 
Himself  still  sleeps  before  his  beads 
Have  mark'd  ten  aves,  and  two  creeds."*^ 

xxvn. 
—  "  Let  pass,"  quoth  Marmion;  "  by  my 

fay. 
This  man  shall  guide  me  on  my  way, 
Although  the  great  arch  fiend  and  he 
Had  sworn  themselves  of  company. 
So  please  you,  gentle  youth,  to  call 
This  Palmer  to  the  Castle-hall." 
The  summon'd  Palmer  came  in  place:  i® 
His  sable  cowl  o'erhung  his  face; 


6o 


MARMION. 


Canto  I. 


In  his  black  mantle  was  he  clad, 
With  Peter's  keys,  in  cloth  of  red, 

On  his  broad  shoulders  wrought; 
The  scallop-shell  his  cap  did  deck; 
The  crucifix  around  his  neck 

Was  from  Loretto  brought; 
His  sandals  were  with  travel  tore, 
Staff,  budget,  bottle,  scrip,  he  wore; 
The  faded  palm-])ranch  in  his  hand 
Show'd  pilgrim  from  the  Holy  Land. 

XXVIII. 

W^hen  as  the  Palmer  came  in  hall. 

No  lord,  nor  knight,  was  there  more  tall. 

Nor  had  a  statglier  step  withal. 

Or  look'd  more  high  and  keen; 
For  no  saluting  did  he  wait, 
But  strode  across  the  hall  of  state. 
And  fronted  Marmion  where  he  sate. 

As  he  his  peer  had  been. 
But  his  gaunt  frame  was  worn  with  toil; 
His  cheek  was  sunk,  alas  the  while  ! 
And  when  he  struggled  at  a  smile. 

His  eye  look'd  haggard  wild: 
Poor  wretch !  the  mother  that  him  bare. 
If  she  had  been  in  presence  there. 
In  his  wan  face,  and  sun-burn'd  hair. 

She  had  not  known  her  child. 
Danger,  long  travel,  want,  or  woe, 
Soon    change    the    form    that    best    we 

know  — 
For  deadly  fear  can  time  outgo. 

And  blanch  at  once  the  hair; 
Hard  toil  can  roughen  form  and  face, 
And  want  can  quench  the  eye's  bright 
)  grace. 

Nor  does  old  age  a  wrinkle  trace 

More  deeply  than  despair. 
Happy  whom  none  of  these  Ijefall, 
But  this  poor  I'almer  knew  them  all. 


Lord  Marmion  then  his  l)oon  did  ask ; 
The  Palmer  took  on  him  the  task. 
So  he  would  march  with  morning  tide, 
To  Scottish  court  to  Ix;  his  guide. 
"  But  I  have  solemn  vows  to  pay, 
And  may  not  linger  by  the  way. 

To  fair  St.  Andrew's  bound, 
Within  the  ocean-cave  to  pray. 
Where  good  .Saint  Rule  his  holy  lay, 
From  midnight  to  the  dawn  of  day. 

Sung  to  the  billows'  sound ;!'' 


Thence  to  Saint  Fillan's  blessed  well. 
Whose  spring  can  frenzied  dreams  dispel, 

And  the  crazed  brain  restore :'" 
Saint  Mary  grant,  that  cave  or  spring 
Could  back  to  peace  my  bosom  bring, 

Or  bid  it  throb  no  more !  " 


And     now    the     midnight    draught     of 

sleep. 
Where  wine  and  spices  richly  steep, 
In  massive  bowl  of  silver  deep. 

The  p.lge  presents  on  knee. 
Lord  Marmion  drank  a  fair  good  rest, 
The  Captain  pledged  his  noble  guest. 
The  cup  went  through  among  the  rest, 

Who  drain'd  it  merrily; 
Alone  the  Palmer  pass'd  it  by. 
Though  Selby  press'd  him  courteously. 
This  was  a  sign  the  feast  was  o'er; 
It  hush'd  the  merry  wassail  roar. 

The  minstrels  ceased  to  sound. 
Soon  in  the  castle  naught  was  heard, 
But  the  slow  footstep  of  the  guard. 

Pacing  his  sober  round. 


With  early  dawn  Lord  Marmion  rose: 
And  first  the  chapel  doors  unclose; 
Then,  after  morning  rites  were  done, 
(A  hasty  mass  from  Friar  Jcjhn,) 
And  knight  and  squire  had  broke  their 

fast 
On  rich  substantial  repast. 
Lord  Marmion's  bugles  l)lew  to  horse: 
Then  came  the  stirrup-cup  in  course: 
Between  the  Baron  and  his  host. 
No  point  of  courtesy  was  lost; 
High    thanks    were    by    Lord    Marmion 

paid, 
.Solemn  excuse  the  Captain  made. 
Till,  filing  from  the  gate,  had  pass'd 
That  noble  train,  their  Lord  the  last. 
Then  loudly  rung  the  trum|)et  call; 
Thunder'd  the  cannon  from  the  wall, 

And  shook  the  Scottish  shore; 
Around  the  castle  eddied  slow. 
Volumes  of  smoke  as  white  as  snow. 

And  hid  its  turrets  hoar; 
Till  they  roll'd  forth  upon  the  air. 
And  met  the  river  breezes  there. 
Which  gave  again  the  prospect  fair. 


INTRODUCTION   TO    CANTO   IL 


'   6i 


INTRODUCTION  TO  CANTO 
SECOND. 


THE    REV.  JOHN    MARRIOTT,    A.M. 

A  shcstiel,  Ettrick  Forest. 
The  scenes  are  desert  now,  and  bare. 
Where  flourish'd  once  a  forest  fair,''-* 
Wlien  these  waste  glens  with  copse  were 

lined. 
And  peopled  with  the  hart  and  hind. 
Yon   Thorn  —  perchance   whose   prickly 

spears 
Have  fenced  him  for  three  hundred  years, 
While  fell  around  liis  green  compeers  — 
Yon  lonely  Thorn,  would  he  could  tell 
The  changes  of  his  parent  dell. 
Since  he,  so  gray  and  stubborn  now, 
Waved  in  each  breeze  a  sapling  bough; 
Would  he  could  tell  how  deep  the  shade 
A  thousand  mingled  branches  made; 
How  broad  the  shadows  of  the  oak. 
How  clung  the  rowan  *  to  the  rock, 
And  through  the  foliage  show'd  his  head. 
With  narrow  leaves  and  berries  red ; 
What  pines  on  every  mountain  sprung, 
O'er  every  dell  what  birches  hung, 
In  every  breeze  what  aspens  shook. 
What  alders  shaded  every  brook  ! 

"  Here,  in  my  shade,  '  methinks  he'd 
say, 
"The  mighty  stag  at  noon-tide  lay: 
The  wolf  I've  seen,  a  fiercer  game, 
(The  neighboring  thngle  l)ears  his  name,) 
With  lurching  step  around  me  prowl. 
And  stop,  against  the  moon  to  howl; 
The  mountain-boar,  on  battle  set. 
His  tusks  upon  my  stem  would  whet; 
While  doe,  and  roe,  and  red  deer  good, 
Have  bounded   ijy,   through   gay  green- 
wood. 
Then  oft,  from  Newark's  riven  tower. 
Sallied  a  Scottish  monarch's  power: 
A  thousand  vassals  muster'd  round. 
With  horse,   and   hawk,  and  horn,  and 

hound; 
And  I  might  see  the  youth  intent, 
Guard  every  pass  with  crossbow  bent; 
And  through  the  brake  the  rangers  stalk. 
And  falc'ners  hold  the  ready  hawk; 

*  Mountain  ash.  , 


And  foresters,  in  green-wood  trim. 
Lead  in  the  leash  the  gazehounds  grim. 
Attentive,  as  the  bratchet's  t  bay 
From  the  dark  covert  drove  the  prey, 
To  slip  them  as  he  broke  away. 
The  startled  quarry  bounds  amain. 
As  fast  the  gallant  greyhounds  strain; 
Whistles  the  arrow  from  the  bow. 
Answers  the  harquebuss  below; 
While  all  the  rocking  hills  reply. 
To  hoof-clang,  hound,  and  hunters'  cry. 
And  bugles  ringing  lightsomely'. " 

Of  such  proud  huntings,  many  tales 
Yet  linger  in  our  lonely  dales, 
Up  pathless  Ettrick  and  on  Yarrow, 
Where  erst  the  outla\/  drew  his  arrow. t 
But  not  more  Ijlithe  that  silvan  court, 
Than  we  have  been  at  humbler  sport; 
Though  small  our  pomp,  and  mean  our 

game. 
Our  mirth,  dear  Marriott,  was  the  same. 
Rememl)er'st  thou  my  greyhounds  true? 
O'er  holt  or  hill  there  never  flew. 
From  slip  or  leash  there  never  sprang, 
More  fleet  of  foot,  or  sure  of  fang. 
Nor  dull,  between  each  merry  chase, 
Fass'd  by  the  intermitted  space; 
For  we  had  fair  resource  in  store. 
In  Classic  and  in  Gothic  lore: 
We  mark'd  each  memorable  scene. 
And  held  poetic  talk  between; 
Nor  hill,  nor  brook,  we  paced  along. 
But  had  its  legend  or  its  song. 
All  silent  now  —  for  now  are  still 
Thy  bowers,  untenanted  Bowhill !  § 
No  longer,  from  thy  mountains  dun, 
The  yeoman  hears  the  well-known  gun. 
And  while  his  honest  heart  grows  warm. 
At  thought  of  his  parental  farm. 
Round  to  his  mates  a  brimmer  fills. 
And    drinks,     "The    Chieftain    of    the 

Hills!" 
No  fairy  forms,  in  Y'arrow's  bowers, 
'iVip  o'er  the  walks,  or  tend  the  flowers, 
Fair  as  the  elves  whom  Janet  saw 
By  moonlight  dance  on  Carterhaugh; 

t  Slowhound. 

X  Murray,  the  Robin  Hood  of  Ettrick,  but 
inferior  in  good  qualities  to  the  famous  English 
archer. 

§  A  seat  of  the  Duke  of  Uuccleueh  on  tire 
Yarrow. 


62 


MARMION. 


No  youthful  Baron's  left  to  grace 
The  Forest-Sheriff's  lonely  chase, 
And  ape,  in  manly  step  and  tone, 
The  majesty  of  Oberon : 
And  she  is  gone,  whose  lovely  face 
Is  but  her  least  and  lowest  grace; 
Though  if  to  Sylphid  Queen  'twere  given, 
To  show  our  earth  the  charms  of  Heaven, 
She  could  not  glide  along  the  air. 
With  form  more  light,  or  face  more  fair. 
No  more  the  widow's  deafen'd  ear 
Grows  quick  that  lady's  step  to  hear : 
At  noon-tide  she  expects  her  not, 
Nor  busies  her  to  trim  the  cot; 
Pensive  she  turns  her  humming  wheel. 
Or  pensive  cooks  her  orphans'  meal; 
Yet  blesses,  ere  she  deals  their  bread, 
The  gentle  hand  by  which  they're  fed. 

From  Yair, — which  hills  so  closely  bind. 
Scarce  can  the  Tweed  his  passage  find, 
Though  much  he  fret,  and  chafe,  and  toil, 
Till  all  his  eddying  currents  boil,  — 
Her  long-descended  lord  is  gone,* 
And  left  us  by  the  stream  alone. 
And  much  I  miss  those  sportive  boys. 
Companions  of  my  mountain  joys. 
Just  at  the  age  'twixt  boy  and  youth, 
When  thought  is  speech,  and  speech  is 

truth. 
Close  to  my  side,  with  what  delight 
They  press'd  to  hear  of  Wallace  wight. 
When,  pointing  to  his  airy  mound, 
I  call'd  his  ramparts  holy  ground  ! 
Kindled  their  brows  to  hear  me  speak; 
And  I  have  smiled,  to  feel  my  cheek, 
Despite  the  difference  of  our  years. 
Return  again  the  glow  of  theirs. 
Ah,  happy  boys  !    such  feelings  pure. 
They  will  not,  cannot,  long  endure  ! 
Condemn'd  to  stem  the  world's  rude  tide, 
You  may  not  linger  by  the  side; 
For  Fate  shall  thrust  you  from  the  shore, 
And  Passion  ply  the  sail  and  oar. 
Yet  cherish  the  remembrance  still, 
Of  the  lone  mountain,  and  the  rill; 
For  trust,  dear  boys,  the  time  will  come, 
When  fiercer  transports  shall  be  dumb, 
And  you  will  think  right  frequently. 
But  well,  I  hope,  without  a  sigh, 
On  the  free  hours  that  we  have  spent 
Together,  on  the  brown  hill's  bent. 

*  The  late  Alex.  Pringle,  Esq..  of  Whytbank. 


When,  musing  on  companions  gone. 
We  doubly  feel  ourselves  alone, 
Something,  my  friend,  we  yet  may  gain; 
There  is  a  pleasure  in  this  pain : 
It  soothes  the  love  of  lonely  rest. 
Deep  in  each  gentler  heart  impress'd. 
'Tis  silent  amid  worldly  toils. 
And  stifled  soon  by  mental  broils: 
But  in  a  bosom  thns  prepared. 
Its  still  small  voice  is  often  heard. 
Whispering  a  mingled  sentiment, 
'Twixt  resignation  and  content. 
Oft  in  my  mind  such  thoughts  awake, 
By  lone  St.  Mary's  silent  lake;^ 
Thou  know'st  itwell, — nor  fen, nor  sedge, 
Pollute  the  pure  lake's  crystal  edge; 
Abrupt  and  sheer,  the  mountains  sink 
At  once  upon  the  level  brink; 
And  just  a  trace  of  silver  sand 
Marks  where  the  water  meets  the  land. 
Far  in  the  mirror,  bright  and  blue. 
Each  hill's  huge  outline  you  may  view. 
Shaggy  with  heath,  but  lonely  bare. 
Nor  tree,  nor  bush,  jior  brake,  is  there. 
Save  where,  of  land,  yon  slender  line 
Bears  thwart  the  lake  the  scatter'd  pine. 
Yet  even  this  nakedness  has  power. 
And  aids  the  feeling  of  the  hour : 
Nor  thicket,  dell,  nor  copse  you  spy. 
Where  living  thing  conceal'd  might  lie; 
Nor  point,  retiring,  hides  a  dell. 
Where  swain,  or  woodman  lone,  might 

dwell; 
There's  nothing  left  to  fancy's  guess. 
You  see  that  all  is  loneliness: 
And  silence  aids  —  though  the  steep  hills 
Send  to  the  lake  a  thousand  rills; 
In  summer  tide,  so  oft  they  weep, 
The  sound  but  lulls  the  ear  asleep; 
Your  horse's  hoof-tread  sounds  too  rude. 
So  stilly  is  the  solitude. 

Naught  living  meets  the  eye  or  ear. 
But  well  I  ween  the  dead  are  near; 
For  though,  in  feudal  strife,  a  foe 
Hath  laid  Our  Lady's  chapel  »ow,2l 
Yet  still,  beneath  the  hallow'd  soil, 
The  peasant  rests  him  from  his  toil. 
And,  dying,  bids  his  lx)nes  be  laid, 
Where  erst  his  simple  fathers  pray'd. 

If  age  had  tamed  the  passions'  strife, 
And  fate  had  cut  my  ties  to  life. 


Canto  II. 


THE    CONVENT. 


63 


Here,  have  I  thought,   'twere  sweet  to 

dwell, 
And  rear  again  the  chaplain's  cell, 
Like  that  same  peaceful  hermitage, 
Where  Milton  long'd  to  spend  his  age. 
'Twere  sweet  to  mark  the  setting  day. 
On  Bourhope's  lonely  top  decay; 
And,  as  it  faint  and  feeble  died 
On  the  broad  lake,  and  mountain's  side, 
To  say,  "  Thus  pleasures  fade  away; 
Youth,  talents,  beauty,  thus  decay. 
And  leave  us  dark,  forlorn,  and  gray;" 
Then  gaze  on  Dryhope's  ruin'd  tower. 
And  think  on  Yarrow's  faded  Flower: 
And  when  that  mountain-sound  I  heard. 
Which  bids  us  be  for  storm  prepared. 
The  distant  rustling  of  his  wings. 
As  up  his  force  the  Tempest  brings, 
'Twere  sweet,  ere  yet  his  terrors  rave. 
To  sit  upon  the  Wizard's  grave; 
That  Wizard  Priest's,  whose  bones  are 

thrust 
From  company  of  holy  dust; 22 
On  which  no  sunbeam  ever  shines  — 
(So superstition's  creed  divines) — ■ 
Thence  view  the  lake,  with  sullen  roar, 
Heave  her  broad  billows  to  the  shore; 
And  mark  the  wild-swans  mount  the  gale. 
Spread  wide  through  mist  their  snowy  sail, 
And  ever  stoop  again,  to  lave 
Their  bosoms  on  the  surging  wave. 
Then,  when  against  the  driving  hail 
No  longer  might  my  plaid  avail, 
Back  to  my  lonely  home  retire, 
And  light  my  lamp,  and  trim  my  fire; 
There  ponder  o'er  some  mystic  lay. 
Till  the  wild  tale  had  all  its  sway. 
And,  in  the  bittern's  distant  shriek, 
I  heard  unearthly  voices  speak. 
And  thought  the  Wizard  Priest  was  come. 
To  claim  again  his  ancient  home  ! 
And  bade  my  busy  fancy  range. 
To  frame  him  fitting  shape  and  strange, 
Till  from  the  task  my  brow  I  clear'd. 
And  smiled  to  think  that  I  had  fear'd. 

But  chief,  'twere  sweet  to  think  such 
life, 
(Though  but  escape  from  fortune's  strife,) 
Something  most  matchless  good  an-f  wise, 
A  great  and  grateful  sacrifice: 
And  deem  each  hour  to  musing  given, 
A  step  upon  the  road  to  heaven. 


Yet  him,  whose  heart  is  ill  at  ease, 
Such  peaceful  solitudes  displease : 
He  loves  to  drown  his  bosom's  jar 
Amid  the  elemental  war : 
And  my  black  Palmer's  choice  had  been 
Some  ruder  and  more  savage  scene. 
Like  that  which  frowns  round  dark  Loch- 

skene."^ 
There  eagles  scream  from  isle  to  shore; 
Down  all  the  rocks  the  torrents  roar; 
O'er  the  black  waves  incessant  driven. 
Dark  mists  infect  the  summer  heaven; 
Through  the  rude  barriers  of  the  lake. 
Away  its  hurrying  waters  break. 
Faster  and  whiter  dash  and  curl. 
Till  down  yon  dark  abyss  they  hurl. 
Rises  the  fog-smoke  white  as  snow. 
Thunders  the  viewless  stream  below. 
Diving,  as  if  condemned  to  lave 
Some  demon's  subterranean  cave. 
Who,  prison 'd  by  enchanter's  spell. 
Shakes  the  dark  rock  with  groan  and  yell 
And  well  that  Palmer's  form  and  mien 
Had  suited  with  the  stormy  scene. 
Just  on  the  edge,  straining  his  ken 
To  view  the  bottom  of  the  den. 
Where,  deep  deep  down,  and  far  within. 
Toils  with  the  rocks  the  roaring  linn; 
Then,  issuing  forth  one  foamy  wave. 
And  wheeling  round  the  Giant's  Grave, 
White  as  the  snowy  charger's  tail, 
Drives  down  the  pass  of  Moffatdale. 

Marriott,  thy  harp,  on  Isis  strung, 
To  many  a  Border  theme  has  rung : 
Then  list  to  me,  and  thou  shalt  know 
Of  this  mysterious  Man  of  Woe. 


CANTO   SECOND. 

THE   CONVENT. 
I. 

The  breeze  which  swept  away  the  smoke 

Round  Norham  Castle  roU'd, 
When  all  the  loud  artillery  spoke. 
With  lightning- flash  and  thunder-stroke, 

As  Marmion  left  the  Hold. 
It  curl'd  not  Tweed  alone,  that  breeze, 
For,  far  upon  Northumbrian  seas. 
It  freshly  blew,  and  strong. 


64 


M ARM  ION. 


Canto  II. 


Where,  from  high  Whitby'scloister'd  pile, 
15ound  to  St.  Cuthbert's  Holy  Isle,^* 

It  bore  a  bark  along. 
Upon  the  gale  she  stoop'd  her  side. 
And  bounded  o'er  the  swelling  tide, 

As  she  were  dancing  home; 
The  merry  seamen  laugh'd,  to  see 
Their  gallant  ship  so  lustily 

Furrow  the  green  sea-foam. 
Much  joy'd  they  in  their  honor'd  freight, 
For,  on  the  tlcck,  in  chair  of  state, 
The  Abbess  of  Saint  Hilda  placed. 
With  five  fair  nuns,  the  galley  graced. 


'Twas  sweet  to  see  these  holy  maids. 
Like  birds  escaped  to  green-wood  shades, 

Their  first  flight  from  the  cage. 
How  timid,  and  how  curious  too. 
For  all  to  them  was  strange  and  new. 
And  all  the  common  sights  they  view, 

Their  wonderment  engage. 
One  eyed  the  shrouds  and  swelling  sail, 

With  many  a  benedicite; 
One  at  the  rippling  surge  grew  pale. 

And  would  for  terror  pray ; 
Then  shriek'd,  because  the  sea-dog,  nigh. 
His  round  black  head,  and  sparkling  eye, 

Rear'd  o'er  the  foaming  spray; 
And  one  would  still  adjust  her  veil, 
Disorder'd  by  the  summer  gale, 
Perchance  lest  some  more  worldly  eye 
Her  dedicated  charms  might  spy; 
Perchance,  because  such  action  graced 
Her  fair-lurn'd  arm  and  slender  waist. 
Light  was  each  simple  bosom  there. 
Save  two,  who  ill  might  pleasure  share, — 
The  Abbess  and  the  Novice  Clare. 


The  Abbess  was  of  noble  blood, 
Hut  early  took  the  veil  and  hood. 
Ere  upon  life  she  cast  a  look, 
Ox  knew  the  world  that  she  forsook. 
Fair  too  she  was,  and  kind  had  been 
As  she  was  fair,  but  ne'er  had  seen 
For  her  a  timid  lover  sigh, 
Nor  knew  the  influence  of  her  eye. 
Love,  to  her  ear,  was  but  a  name 
Combined  with  vanity  and  shame; 
Her  hopes,  her  fears,  her  joys,  were  all 
Bounded  within  the  cloister  wall : 


The  deadliest  sin  her  mind  could  reach. 
Was  of  monastic  rule  the  breach; 
And  her  ambition's  highest  aim 
To  emulate  Saint  Hilda's  fame. 
For  this  she  gave  her  ample  dower. 
To  raise  the  convent's  eastern  tower; 
For  this,  with  carving  rare  and  quaint, 
She  deck'd  the  chapel  of  the  saint. 
And  gave  the  relic-shrine  of  cost, 
With  ivory  and  gems  emboss'd. 
The  poor  her  Convent's  bounty  blest. 
The  pilgrim  in  its  halls  found  rest. 


Black  was  her  garb,  her  rigid  rule 
Reform'd  on  Benedictine  school; 
Her  cheek  was  jiale,  her  form  was  spare: 
Vigils,  and  penitence  austere. 
Had  early  quench'd  the  light  of   youth. 
But  gentle  was  the  dame,  in  sooth; 
Though,  vain  of  her  religious  sway. 
She  loved  to  see  her  maids  obey. 
Yet  nothing  stern  was  she  in  cell. 
And  the  nuns  loved  their  Abbess  well. 
Sad  was  this  voyage  to  the  dame; 
Summon'd  to  Lindisfarne,  she  came, 
There,  with  Saint  Cuthbert's  Al;>bot  old, 
And  Tynemouth's  Prioress,  to  hold 
A  chapter  of  St.  Benedict, 
For  inquisition  stern  and  strict, 
On  two  apostates  from  the  faith. 
And,  if  need  were,  to  doom  to  death. 


Naught  say  I  here  of  Sister  Clare, 
Save  this,  that  she  was  young  and  fair; 
As  yet,  a  novice  unprofess'd. 
Lovely  and  gentle,  but  distress'd. 
She  was  betrolh'd  to  one  now  dead, 
Or  worse,  who  had  dishonor'd  fled. 
Her  kinsmen  liade  her  give  her  hand 
To  one,  who  loved  her  for  her  land : 
Herself,  almost  heart-broken  now. 
Was  bent  to  take  the  vestal  vow, 
And  shroud  within  Saint  Hilda's  gloom, 
Her  blasted  hopes  and  wither'd  bloom. 


She  sate  upon  the  galley's  prow. 
And  seem'd  to  mark  the  waves  below; 
Nay,  seem'd,  so  fix'd  her  look  and  eye. 
To  count  them  as  they  glided  by. 


Canto  II. 


THE    CONVENT. 


65 


She  saw  them  not —  'twas  seeming  all  — 
Far  other  scene  her  thoughts  recall, — 
A  sun-scorch  d  desert,  wa;>te  and  hare, 
Nor  waves,  nor  breezes,  niurmur'd  there; 
Tiiere  saw  she,  where  some  careless  hand 
O'er  a  dead  corpse  had  heap'd  the  sand, 
To  hide  it  till  the  jackals  come. 
To  tear  it  from  the  scanty  tomb. — 
See  what  a  wuful  look  was  given. 
As  she  raised  up  her  eyes  to  heaven ! 


Lovely,  and  gentle,  and  distress'd  — 
These    charms    might    tame  the   fiercest 

breast ; 
Harpers  have  sung,  and  poets  told. 
That  he,  in  fury  uncontroll'd. 
The  shaggy  monarch  of  the  wood, 
Before  a  virgin,  fair  and  good. 
Hath  pacified  his  savage  mood. 
But  passions  in  the  human  frame. 
Oft  put  the  lion's  rage  to  shame: 
And  jealousy,  by  dark  intrigue, 
With  sordid  avarice  in  league. 
Had  practised  with  their  bowl  and  knife, 
Against  the  mourner's  harmless  life. 
This  crime  was  charged  'gainst  those  who 

lay 
Prison'd  in  Cuthbert's  islet  gray. 


And  now  the  vessel  skirts  the  strand 
Of  mountainous  Norlhumljerland; 
Towns,  towers,  and  halls,  successive  rise. 
And  catch  the  nuns'  delighted  eyes. 
Monk-Wearmouth soon  behind  them  lay; 
And  Tynemouth's  priory  and  bay; 
They  mark'd,  amid  her  trees,  the  hall 
Of  lofty  Seaton-Delaval; 
They  saw  the  Blythe  and  Wansbeck  floods 
Hush  to  the  sea  through  sounding  woods; 
Tiiey  pass'd  the  tower  of  Widderington, 
Mother  of  many  a  valiant  son; 
At  Coquet-isle  their  beads  they  tell 
To  the  good  Saint  who  own'd  the  cell; 
Then  did  the  Alne  attention  claim, 
And  Warkworth,  proud  of  Percy's  name; 
And   next,   they  cross'd    themselves,   to 

hear 
The  whitening  breakers  sound  so  near. 
Where,  boiling  thro'  the  rocks,  they  roar, 
On  Dunstanborough's  cavern'd  shore; 


Thy  tower,  proud   Bamborough,  mark'd 

•    they  there. 
King  Ida's  castle,  huge  and  square. 
From  its  tall  rock  look  grimly  down. 
And  on  the  swelling  ocean  frown; 
Then  from  the  coast  they  bore  away, 
And  reach'd  the  Holy  Island's  bay. 


The  tide  did  now  its  flood-mark  gain, 
And  girdled  in  the  Saint's  domain: 
For,  with  the  flow  and  ebb,  its  style 
Varies  from  continent  to  isle; 
Dry-shod,  o'er  sands,  twice  every  day. 
The  pilgrims  to  the  shrine  find  way; 
Twice  every  day,  the  waves  efface 
Of  staves  and  sandall'd  feet  the  trace. 
As  to  the  port  the  galley  flew, 
Higher  and  higher  rose  to  view 
The  Castle  with  its  battled  walls, 
The  ancient  monastery's  halls, 
A  solemn,  huge,  and  dark-red  pile. 
Placed  on  the  margin  of  the  isle. 


In  Saxon  strength  that  abbey  frown'd, 
With  massive  arches  broad  and  round. 
That  rose  alternate,  row  and  row. 
On  ponderous  columns,  short  and  low. 

Built  ere  the  art  was  known. 
By  pointed  aisle,  and  shafted  stalk. 
The  arcades  of  an  alley'd  walk 
To  emulate  in  stone. 
On  the  deep  walls,  the  heathen  Dane 
Had  pour'd  his  impious  rage  in  vain; 
And  needful  was  such  strength  to  these. 
Exposed  to  the  tempestuous  seas. 
Scourged  by  the  winds'  eternal  sway. 
Open  to  rovers  fierce  as  they. 
Which  could  twelve  hundred  years  with- 
stand 
Winds,     waves,    and    northern    pirates' 

hand. 
Not  but  that  portions  of  the  pile, 
Rebuilded  in  a  later  style, 
Show'd  where   the   spoiler's    hand    hnd 

been; 
Not  but  the  wasting  sea-breeze  keen 
Had  worn  the  pillar's  carving  quaint. 
And  moulder'd  in  his  niche  the  saint. 
And  rounded,  with  consuming  power. 
The  pointed  angles  of   each  tower; 


66 


MARMION. 


Canto  II. 


Yet  still  entire  the  Abbey  stood, 
Like  veteran,  worn,  but  unsubdued. 


Soon  as  they  near'd  his  turrets  strong, 
The  maidens  raised  Saint  Hilda's  song, 
And  with  the  sea-wave  and  the  wind, 
Their  voices,  sweetly  shrill,  combined, 

And  made  harmonious  close; 
Then,  answering  from  the  sandy  shore. 
Half  drown'd  amid  the  breakers'  roar, 

According  chorus  rose : 
Down  to  the  haven  of  the  Isle, 
The  monks  and  nuns  in  order  file. 
From  Cuthbert's  cloisters  grim; 
Banner,  and  cross,  and  relics  there. 
To  meet  St.  Hilda's  maids,  they  bare; 
And,  as  they  caught  the  sounds  on  air. 

They  echoed  back  the  hymn. 
The  islanders,  in  joyous  mood, 
Kush'd  emulously  through  the  flood. 

To  hale  the  bark  to  land; 
Conspicuous  by  her  veil  and  hood, 
Signing  the  cross,  the  Abbess  stood. 
And  bless'd  them  with  her  hand. 


Suppose  we  now  the  welcome  said. 
Suppose  the  Convent  banquet  made : 

All  through  the  holy  dome. 
Through  cloister,  aisle,  and  gallery 
Wherever  vestal  maid  might  pry, 
Nor  risk  to  meet  unhallow'd  eye. 

The  stranger  sisters  roam; 
Till  fell  the  evening  damp  with  dew. 
And  the  sharp  sea-breeze  coldly  blew, 
For  there,  even  summer  night  is  chill. 
Then,  having  stray'd  and  gazed  their  fill. 

They  closed  around  the  fire ; 
And  all,  in  turn,  essay'd  to  paint 
The  rival  merits  of  their  saint, 

A  theme  that  ne'er  can  tire 
A  holy  maid;    for,  be  it  known, 
That  their  saint's  honor  is  their  own. 


Then  Whitby's  nuns  exulting  told, 
How  to  their  house  three  Barons  bold 

Must  menial  service  do; 
While  horns  blow  out  a  note  of  shame, 
And  monks  cry  "  Fie  upon  j'our  name ! 
In  wrath,  for  loss  of  sylvan  game. 

Saint  Hilda's  priest  ye  slew  "  - 


"  This,  on  Ascension-day,  each  year. 
While  laboring  on  our  harbor-pier. 
Must  Herbert,  Bruce,  and  Percy  hear." 
They  told,  how  in  their  convent  cell 
A  Saxon  princess  once  did  dwell, 

The  lovely  Edelfled;  25 
And  how,  of  thousand  snakes,  each  one 
Was  changed  into  a  coil  of  stone. 

When  holy  Hilda  pray'd  ! 
Themselves,  within  their  holy  bound. 
Their  stony  folds  had  often  found. 
They  told,  how  sea-fowls'  pinions  fail 
As  over  Whitby's  towers  they  sail,'-^ 
And,  sinking  down,  with  flutterings  faint, 
They  do  their  homage  to  the  saint. 


Nor  did  St.  Cuthbert's  daughters  fail 
To  vie  with  these  in  holy  tale; 
His  body's  resting-place,  of  old, 
How    oft    their    patron    changed,    they 

told;  -^7 
How,  when  the  rude  Dane  burn'd  their 

pile. 
The  monks  fled  forth  from  Holy  Isle; 
O'er    northern     mountain,    marsh,    and 

moor, 
F'rom  sea  to  sea,  from  shore  to  shore. 
Seven  years  Saint  Cuthbert's  corpse  they 
bore. 
They  rested  them  in  fair  Melrose; 

But  though,  alive,  he  loved  it  well. 
Not  there  his  relics  might  repose; 

For,  wondrous  tale  to  tell ! 
In  his  stone  coffin  forth  he  rides, 
A  ponderous  bark  for  river  tides, 
Yet  light  as  gossamer  it  glides, 
Downward  to  Tilmouth  cell. 
Nor  long  was  his  abiding  there. 
For  southward  did  the  saint  repair; 
Chcster-le-Street  and  Rippon  saw 
His  holy  corpse,  ere  Wardilaw 

Hail'd  liim  with  joy  and  fear; 
And,  after  many  wanderings  past, 
He  chose  his  lordly  seat  at  last. 
Where  his  cathedral,  huge  and  vast. 

Looks  down  upon  the  Wear: 
There,  deep  in  Durham's  Gothic  shade, 
His  relics  are  in  secret  laid; 

But  none  may  know  the  place, 
Save  of  his  holiest  servants  three. 
Deep  sworn  to  solemn  secrecy. 
Who  share  that  wondrous  grace. 


Canto  It. 


THE   CONVENT. 


67 


Who  may  his  mir.acles  declare  ! 

Even  Scotland's  dauntless  king,  and  heir, 

(Although  with  them  they  led 
Galwegians,  wild  as  ocean's  gale, 
And  Lodon's  knights,   all    sheathed   in 

mail. 
And  the  bold  men  of  Teviotdale,) 

Before  his  standard  fled.^ 
'Twas  he,  to  vindicate  his  reign, 
Edged  Alfred's  falchion  on  the  Dane, 
And  turn'd  the  Q)nqueror  back  again, ^ 
When,  with  his  Norman  bowyer  band, 
He  came  to  waste  Northumberland. 


But  fain  Saint  Hilda's  nuns  would  learn 
If,  on  a  rock  by  Lindisfarne, 
Saint  Cuthbert  sits,  and  toils  to  frame 
The  sea-born  beads  that  bear  his  name :  *^ 
Such  tales  had  Whitby's  fishers  told. 
And  said  they  might  his  shape  behold. 

And  hear  his  anvil  sound; 
A  deaden'd  clang,  —  a  huge  dim  form. 
Seen    but,   and    heard,    when    gathering 
storm 

And  night  were  closing  round. 
But  this,  as  tale  of  idle  fame. 
The  nuns  of  Lindisfarne  disclaim. 


While  round  the  fire  such  legends  go. 
Far  different  was  the  scene  of  woe. 
Where,  in  a  secret  aisle  beneath. 
Council  was  held  of  life  and  death. 

It  was  more  dark  and  lone  that  vault. 
Than  the  worst  dungeon  cell : 

Old  Colwulf  31  built  it,  for  his  fault. 
In  penitence  to  dwell. 
When  he,  for  cowl  and  beads,  laid  down 
The  Saxon  battle-axe  and  crown. 
This  den,  which,  chilling  every  sense 

Of  feeling,  hearing,  sight, 
Was  call'd  the  Vault  of  Penitence, 

Excluding  air  and  light. 
Was,  by  the  prelate  Sexhelm,  made 
A  place  of  burial  for  such  dead, 
As,  having  died  in  mortal  sin. 
Might  not  be  laid  the  church  within. 
'Twas  now  a  place  of  punishment; 
Whence  if  so  loud  a  shriek  were  sent. 


As  reach'd  the  upper  air, 
The  hearers  bless'd  themselves,  and  said, 
The  spirits  of  the  sinful  dead 

Bemoan'd  their  torments  there. 


But  though,  in  the  monastic  pile, 
Did  of  this  penitential  aisle 

Some  vague  tradition  go. 
Few  only,  save  the  Ablx>t,  knew 
Where  the  place  lay;   and  still  more  few 
Were  those,  who  had  from  him  the  clew 

To  that  dread  vault  to  go. 
Victim  and  executioner 
Were  blindfold  when  transported  there. 
In  low  dark  rounds  the  arches  hung, 
From  the  rude  rock  the  side- walls  sprung; 
The  grave-stones,  rudely  sculptured  o'er. 
Half  sunk  in  earth,  by  time  half  wore. 
Were  all  the  pavement  of  the  floor: 
The  mildew-drops  fell  one  by  one. 
With  tinkling  plash,  upon  the  stone. 
A  cresset,*  in  an  iron  chain. 
Which  served  to  light  this  drear  domain, 
With  damp  and  darkness  seem'd  to  strive. 
As  if  it  scarce  might  keep  alive; 
And  yet  it  dimly  served  to  show 
The  awful  conclave  met  below. 


There,  met  to  doom  in  secrecy. 
Were  placed  the  heads  of  convents  three : 
All  servants  of  St.  Benedict, 
The  statutes  of  whose  orders  strict 

On  iron  table  lay; 
In  long  black  dress,  on  seats  of  stone. 
Behind  were  these  three  judges  shown 

By  the  pale  cresset's  ray: 
The  Abbess  of  Saint  Hilda's,  there. 
Sat  for  a  space  with  visage  bare. 
Until,  to  hide  her  bosom's  swell. 
And  tear-drops  that  for  pity  fell. 

She  closely  drew  her  veil : 
Yon  shrouded  figure,  as  I  gness. 
By  her  proud  mien  and  flowing  dress, 
Is  Tynemouth's  haughty  Prioress,*^ 

And  she  with  awe  looks  pale : 
And  he,  that  Ancient  Man,  whose  sight 
Has  long  been  quench'd  by  age's  night. 
Upon  whose  wrinkled  brow  alone. 
Nor  ruth,  nor  mercy's  trace,  is  shown, 

*  Antique  chandelier. 


68 


MARMION. 


Canto  II. 


Whose  look  is  hard  and  stern,  — 
Saint  Cuthbert's  Abbot  is  his  style; 
For  sanctity  call'd,  through  the  isle, 

The  Saint  of  Lindisfarne. 


Before  them  stood  a  guilty  pair; 

But,  though  an  equal  fate  they  share, 

Yet  one  alone  deserves  our  care. 

Her  sex  a  page's  dress  belied; 

The  cloak  and  doublet,  loosely  tied. 

Obscured  her  charms,  but  could  not  hide. 

Her  cap  down  o'er  her  face  she  drew; 
And,  on  her  doublet  breast, 

She  tried  to  hide  the  badge  of  blue, 
Lord  Marmion's  falcon  crest. 
But,  at  the  prioress'  command, 
A  Monk  undid  the  silver  band. 

That  tied  her  tresses  fair, 
And  raised  the  bonnet  from  her  head, 
And  down  her  slender  form  they  spread. 

In  ringlets  rich  and  rare. 
Constance  de  Beverley  they  know. 
Sister  profess'd  of   Fontevraud, 
Whom    the    church    nuniber'd   with  the 

dead. 
For  broken  vows,  and  convent  fled. 


When  thus  her  face  was  given  to  view, 

(Although  so  jiallid  was  her  hue. 

It  did  a  ghastly  contrast  bear 

To  those  bright  ringlets  glistering  fair,) 

Her  look  composed,  and  steady  eye. 

Bespoke  a  matchless  constancy; 

And  there  she  stood  so  calm  and  pale. 

That,  but  her  breathing  did  not  fail, 

And  motion  slight  of  eye  and  head. 

And  of  her  bosom,  warranted 

That  neither  sense  nor  pulse  she  lacks. 

You  might  have  thought  a  form  of   wax, 

Wrought  to  the  very  life,  was  there; 

So  still  she  was,  so  pale,  so  fair. 

XXII. 
Her  comrade  was  a  sordid  soul, 

Such  as  does  murder  for  a  meed; 
Who,  but  of  fear,  knows  no  control. 
Because  his  conscience,  sear'd  and  foul. 

Feels  not  the  import  of  his  deed; 
One,  whose  brute-feeling  ne'er  aspires 
Beyond  his  own  more  brute  desires. 


Such  tools  the  Tempter  ever  needs. 
To  do  the  savagest  of  deeds; 
For  them  no  vision'd  terrors  daunt, 
Their  nights  no  fancied  spectres  haunt, 
One  fear  with  them,  of  all  most  base. 
The  fear  of  death,  —  alone  finds  place. 
This  wretch  was  clad  in  frock  and  cowl. 
And  shamed  not  loud  to  moan  and  howl, 
His  body  on  the  floor  to  dash, 
And  crouch,  like  hound  beneath  the  lash. 
While  his  mute  partner,  standing  near, 
Waited  her  doom  without  a  tear. , 


Yet  well  the  luckless  wretch  might  shriek. 
Well  might  her  paleness  terror  speak  ! 
For  there  were  seen  in  that  dark  wall. 
Two  niches,  narrow,  deep,  and  tall;  — 
Who  enters  at  such  grisly  door. 
Shall  ne'er,  I  ween,  find  exit  more. 
In  each  a  slender  meal  was  laid. 
Of  roots,  of  water,  and  of  bread: 
By  each,  in  Benedictine  dress. 
Two  haggard  monks  stood  motionless; 
Who,  holding  high  a  V)lazing  torch, 
Show'd  the  grim  entrance  of  the  porch: 
Reflecting  back  the  smoky  beam, 
The  dark-red  walls  and  arches  gleam. 
Hewn  stones  and  cement  were  display 'd, 
And  building  tools  in  order  laid. 


These  executioners  were  chose. 
As  men  who  were  with  mankind  foes. 
And  with  despite  and  envy  fired. 
Into  the  cloister  had  retired; 

Or  who,  in  desperate  doubt  of  grace, 
Strove,  by  deep  penance,  to  efface 

Of  some  foul  crime  the  stain; 
For,  as  the  vassals  of  her  will. 
Such  men  the  Church  selected  still. 
As  either  joy'd  in  doing  ill. 

Or  thought  more  grace  to  gain. 
If,  in  her  cause,  they  wrestled  down. 
Feelings  their  nature  strove  to  own. 
By   strange   device   were   they   brought 

there. 
The)'  knew  not  how,  nor  knew  not  where. 


And  now  that  blind  old  Abbot  rose, 
To  speak  the  Chapter's  doom, 


Canto  II. 


THE    CONVENT. 


69 


On  those  the  wall  was  to  enclose, 
Alive,  within  the  tomb,'^ 

But  stopp'd,  because  that  woful  Maid, 

Gathering  her  powers,  to  speak  essay'd. 

Twice  she  essay'd,  and  twice  in  vain; 

Her  accents  might  no  utterance  gain; 

Naught  but  imperfect  murmurs  slip 

From  her  convulsed  and  quivering  lip; 
'Twixt  each  attempt  all  was  so  still, 
You  seem'd  to  hear  a  distant  rill  — 

'Twas  ocean's  swells  and  falls; 
For  though  this  vault  of  sin  and  fear 
Was  to  the  sounding  surge  so  near, 
A  tempest  there  you  scarce  could  hear, 
So  massive  were  the  walls. 


At  length,  an  effort  sent  apart 

The  blood  that  curdled  to  her  heart, 

And  light  came  to  her  eye, 
And  color  dawn'd  upon  her  cheek, 
A  hectic  and  a  flutter'd  streak. 
Like  that  left  on  the  Cheviot  peak, 

By  Autumn's  stormy  sky; 
And  when  her  silence  broke  at  length. 
Still  as  she  spoke  she  gather'd  strength. 

And  arm'd  herself  to  bear. 
It  was  a  fearful  sight  to  see 
Such  high  resolve  and  constancy. 

In  form  so  soft  and  fair. 


"  I  speak  not  to  implore  your  grace; 
Well  know  I,  for  one  minute's  space 

Successless  might  I  sue: 
Nor  do  I  speak  your  prayers  to  gain; 
For  if  a  death  of  lingering  pain. 
To  cleanse  my  sins,  be  penance  vain. 

Vain  are  your  masses  too.  — 
I  listen'd  to  a  traitor's  tale, 
I  left  the  convent  and  the  veil; 
For  three  long  years  I  bow'd  my  pride, 
A  horse-boy  in  his  train  to  ride; 
And  well  my  folly's  meed  he  gave. 
And  forfeited,  to  be  his  slave. 
All  here,  and  all  beyond  the  grave.  — 
He  saw  young  Clara's  face  more  fair, 
He  knew  her  of  broad  lands  the  heir. 
Forgot  his  vows,  his  faith  forswore. 
And  Constance  was  beloved  no  more.  - 

'Tis  an  old  tale,  and  often  told; 
But  did  my  fate  and  wish  agree, 


Ne'er  had  been  read,  in  story  old. 
Of  maiden  true  betray'd  for  gold. 
That  loved,  or  was  avenged,  like  me. 


"The  King  approved  his  favorite's  aim; 
In  vain  a  rival  barr'd  his  claim. 

Whose  fate  with  Clare's  was  plight. 
For  he  attaints  that  rival's  fame 
With  treason's  charge  — and  on  they  came 

In  mortal  lists  to  fight. 
Their  oaths  are  said. 
Their  prayers  are  pray'd. 
Their  lances  in  the  rest  are  laid. 

They  meet  in  mortal  shock; 
And,  hark  !  the  throng,  with  thundering 

cry. 
Shout  '  Marmion,  Marmion  !  to  the  sky, 

De  Wilton  to  the  block !  ' 
Say  ye,  who  preach  Heaven  shall  decide 
When  in  the  lists  two  champions  ride, 

Say,  was  Heaven's  justice  here  ! 
When,  loyal  in  his  love  and  faith, 
Wilton  found  overthrow  or  death. 

Beneath  a  traitor's  spear? 
How  false  the  charge,  how  true  he  fell, 
This  guilty  packet  best  can  tell."  — 
Then  drew  a  packet  from  her  breast. 
Paused,  gather'd  voice,  and  spoke    the 
rest :  — 


"Still  was  false  Marmion's  bridal  staid; 
To  Whitby's  convent  fled  the  maid. 

The  hated  match  to  shun. 
'  Ho  !  shifts  she  thus  ?  '  King  Henry  cried, 
'  Sir  Marmion,  she  shall  be  thy  bride. 

If  she  were  sworn  a  nun.' 
Onewayremain'd  —  the  King's  command 
Sent  Marmion  to  the  Scottish  land : 
I  linger'd  here,  and  rescue  plann'd 

For  Clara  and  for  me : 
This  caitiff  Monk,  for  gold,  did  swear. 
He  would  to  Whitby's  shrine  repair. 
And,  by  his  drugs,  my  rival  fair 

A  saint  in  heaven  should  be. 
But  ill  the  dastard  kept  his  oath. 
Whose  cowardice  has  undone  us  both. 


"And  now  my  tongue  the  secret  tells. 
Not  that  remorse  my  bosom  swells. 


TO 


MARMION. 


Canto  II. 


But  to  assure  my  soul  that  none 
Shall  ever  wed  with  Marmion. 
Had  fortune  my  last  hope  betray'd, 
This  packet,  to  the  King  convey'd, 
Had  given  him  to  the  headsman's  stroke, 
Although  my  heart  that  instant  broke.  — 
Now,  men   of   death,  work    forth   your 

will, 
For  I  can  suffer,  and  be  still; 
And  come  he  slow,  or  come  he  fast, 
It  is  but  Death  who  comes  at  last. 


"  Yet  dread  me,  from  my  living  tomb, 

Ye  vassal  slaves  of  bloody  Rome ! 

If  Marmion's  late  remorse  should  wake, 

Full  soon  such  vengeance  will  he  take. 

That  you  shall  wish  the  fiery  Dane 

Had  rather  been  your  guest  again. 

Behind,  a  darker  hour  ascends  ! 

The  altars  quake,  the  crosier  bends. 

The  ire  of  a  despotic  King 

Rides  forth  upon  destruction's  wing; 

Then  shall  these  vaults,  so  strong  and 

deep, 
Burst  open  to  the  sea- winds'  sweep; 
Some  traveller  then  shall  find  my  bones 
Whitening  amid  disjointed  stones. 
And,  ignorant  of  priests'  cruelty. 
Marvel  such  relics  here  should  be." 


Fix'd  was  her  look,  and  stern  her  air: 
Back   from   her  shoulders  stream'd  her 

hair; 
The  locks,  that  wont  her  brow  to  shade. 
Stared  up  erectly  from  her  head; 
Her  figure  seem'd  to  rise  more  high; 
Her  voice,  despair's  wild  energy 
Had  given  a  tone  of  prophecy. 
Appall'd  the  astonish'd  conclave  sate; 
With  stupid  eyes,  the  men  of  fate 
Gazed  on  the  light  inspired  form, 
And  listen'd  for  the  avenging  storm; 
The  judges  felt  the  victim's  dread; 
No  hand  was  moved,  no  word  was  said, 
1  ill  thus  the  Abbot's  doom  was  given. 
Raising  his  sightless  lialls  to  heaven :  — 
"  Sister,  let  thy  sorrows  cease; 
Sinful  brother,  part  in  peace!  " 

From  that  dire  dungeon,  place  of  doom, 
Of  execution  too,  and  tomb. 


Paced  forth  the  judges  three; 
Sorrow  it  were,  and  shame,  to  tell 
The  butcher-work  that  there  befell. 
When  they  had  glided  from  the  cell 

Of  sin  and  misery. 


A  hundred  winding  steps  convey 
That  conclave  to  the  upper  day; 
But,  ere  they  breathed  the  fresher  air, 
They  heard  the  shriekings  of  despair, 

And  many  a  stifled  groan : 
With  speed  their  upward  way  they  take, 
(Such  speed  as  age  and  fear  can  make,) 
And  cross'd  themselves  for  terror's  sake. 

As  hurrying,  tottering  on : 
Even  in  the  vesper's  heavenly  tone. 
They  seem'd  to  hear  a  dying  groan. 
And  bade  the  passing  knell  to  toll 
For  welfare  of  a  parting  soul. 
Slow  o'er  the  midnight  wave  it  swung, 
Northumbrian  rocks  in  answer  rung; 
To  Warkworth  cell  the  echoes  roll'd, 
His  lieads  the  wakeful  hermit  told, 
Ihe  Bamborough  peasant  raised  his  head, 
But  slept  ere  half  a  prayer  he  said; 
So  far  was  heard  the  mighty  knell, 
The  stag  sprung  up  on  Cheviot  Fell, 
Spread  his  broad  nostril  to  the  wind, 
Listed  before,  aside,  behind. 
Then  couch'd  him  down  beside  the  hind, 
And  quaked  among  the  mountain  fern. 
To  hear  that  sound  so  dull  and  stern. 


INTRODUCTION  TO   CANTO 
THIRD. 

TO    WILLIAM    ERSKINE,  ESQ.* 

AshestUl,  Eitrick  Forest 
Like  April  morning  clouds,  that  pass, 
With  varying  shadow,  o'er  the  grass. 
And  imitate,  on  field  and  furrow. 
Life's  chequer'd  scene  of  joy  and  sorrow; 
Like  streamlet  of  the  mountain  north, 
Now  in  a  torrent  racing  forth. 
Now  winding  slow  its  silver  train. 
And  almost  slumbering  on  the  plain; 

*  A  Judge  of  the  Court  of  Sessions,  after- 
wards, by  title.  Lord  Kinnedder.  He  died  in 
1822 


INTRODUCTION   TO    CANTO  III. 


71 


Like  breezes  of  the  autumn  day, 

Whose  voice  inconstant  dies  away, 

And  ever  swells  again  as  fast, 

When  the  ear  deems  its  murmur  past; 

Thus  various,  my  romantic  theme 

Flits,  winds,  or  sinks,  a  morning  dream. 

Yet  pleased,  our  eye  pursues  the  trace 

Of  Light  and  Shade's  inconstant  race; 

Pleased,  views  the  rivulet  afar. 

Weaving  its  maze  irregular ; 

And  pleased,  we  listen  as  the  breeze 

Heaves   its  wild  sigh  through   Autumn 

trees; 
Then,  wild  as  cloud,  or  stream,  or  gale, 
Flow  on,  flow  unconfined,  my  Tale ! 

Need  I  to  thee,  dear  Erskine,  tell 
I  love  the  license  all  too  well. 
In  sounds  now  lowly,  and  now  strong. 
To  raise  the  desultory  song?  — 
Oft,  when  mid  such  capricious  chime, 
Some  transient  fit  of  lofty  rhyme 
To  thy  kind  judgment  seem'd  excuse 
For  many  an  error  of  the  muse. 
Oft  hast  thou  said,  "  If,  still  misspent, 
Thine  hours  to  poetry  are  lent, 
Go,  and  to  tame  thy  wandering  course, 
Quaff  from  the  fountain  at  the  source; 
Approach  those  masters,  o'er  whose  tomb 
Immortal  laurels  ever  bloom. 
Instructive  of  the  feebler  bard. 
Still  from  the  grave  their  voice  is  heard, 
From    them,   and    from   the   paths  they 

show'd. 
Choose  honor 'd  guide  and  practised  road; 
Nor  ramble  on  through  brake  and  maze, 
With  harpers  rude,  of  barbarous  days. 

"Or  deem'st  thou  not  our  later  time 
Yields  topic  meet  for  classic  rhyme? 
Hast  thou  no  elegiac  verse 
For  Brunswick's  veneraV)le  hearse?* 
What,  not  a  line,  a  tear,  a  sigh. 
When  valor  bleeds  for  liberty?  — 
Oh,  hero  of  that  glorious  time, 
When,  with  unrivall'd  light  sublime, — 
Though  martial  Austria,  and  though  all 
The  might  of  Russia,  and  the  Gaul, 
Though  banded  Europe  stood  her  foes  — 
The  star  of  Brandenburgh  arose  ! 
Thou  could'st  not  live  to  see  her  beam 
Forever  quench'd  in  Jena's  stream. 

*  Killed  at  Auerstadt,  1806. 


Lamented  chief !  —  ft  was  not  given 
To  thee  to  change  the  doom  of  Heaven, 
And  crush  that  dragon  in  its  birth. 
Predestined  scourge  of  guilty  earth. 
Lamented  chief !  —  not  thine  the  power, 
To  save  in  that  presumptuous  hour, 
When  Prussia  hurried  to  the  field. 
And  snatch'd  the  spear,  but  left  the  shield ; 
Valor  and  skill  'twas  thine  to  try. 
And,  tried  in  vain,  'twas  thine  to  die. 
Ill  had  it  seem'd  thy  silver  hair 
The  last,  the  bitterest  pang  to  share, 
For  princedoms  re  ft,  and  scutcheons  riven. 
And  birthrights  to  usurpers  given ; 
Thy  land's,  thy  children's  wrongs  to  feel, 
And  witness  woes  thou  could'st  not  heal. 
On  thee  relenting  Heaven  bestows 
For  honor'd  life  an  honor'd  close; 
And  when  revolves,  in  time's  sure  change. 
The  hour  of  Germany's  revenge. 
When,  breathing  fury  for  her  sake, 
Some  new  Armenius  shall  awake, 
Her  champion,  ere  he  strike,  shall  come 
To  whet  his  sword  on  Brunswick's  tomb. 

"  Or  of  the  Red-Cross  hero  t  teach, 
Dauntless  in  dungeon  as  on  breach: 
Alike  to  him,  the  sea,  the  shore. 
The  brand,  the  bridle,  or  the  oar: 
Alike  to  him  the  war  that  calls 
Its  votaries  to  the  shatter'd  walls. 
Which   the   grim  Turk,  besmear'd  with 

blood. 
Against  the  Invincible  made  good; 
Or  that,  whose  thundering  voice  would 

wake 
The  silence  of  the  polar  lake, 
When     stubborn     Russ,    and     metall'd 

Swede, 
On   the   warp'd  wave   their  death-game 

play'd; 
Or  that,  where  Vengeance  and  Affright 
Howl'd  round  the  father  of  the  fight, 
Who  snatch'd,  on  Alexandria's  sand. 
The  conqueror's  wreath  with  dying  haiid.l 

"  Or,  if  to  touch  such  cord  be  thine. 
Restore  the  ancient  tragic  line. 
And  emulate  the  notes  that  rung 
From  the  wild  harp,  which  silent  hung 
By  silver  Avon's  holy  shore, 
Till  twice  an  hundred  years  roU'd  o'er; 

t  Sir  Sidney  Smith. 

X  Sir  Ralph  Abercromby. 


72 


MARMION. 


When  she,  the  bold  Enchantress,*  came. 
With  fearless  hand  and  heart  on  flame ! 
From  the  pale  willow  snatch'd  the  treas- 
ure. 
And  swept  it  with  a  kindred  measure, 
Till  Avon's  swans,  while  rung  the  grove 
With  Montfort's  hate  and  Basil's  love. 
Awakening  at  the  inspired  strain, 
Deem'd    their    own    Shakespeare    lived 
again." 
Thy    friendship    thus    thy    judgment 
wronging, 
With  praises  not  to  me  belonging, 
In  task  more  meet  for  mightiest  powers, 
Wouldst  thou  engage  my  thriftless  hours. 
But  say,  my  Erskine,  hast  thou  weigh'd 
That  secret  power  by  all  obey'd, 
Which  warps  not  less  the  passive  mind. 
Its  source  conceal'd  or  undefined; 
Whether  an  impulse,  that  has  birth 
Soon  as  the  infant  wakes  on  earth. 
One  with  our  feelings  and  our  powers, 
And  rather  part  of  us  than  ours; 
Or  whether  fitlier  term'd  the  sway 
Of  habit  form'd  in  early  day? 
Howe'er  derived,  its  force  confest 
Rules  with  despotic  sway  the  breast, 
And  drags  us  on  by  viewless  chain. 
While  taste  and  reason  plead  in  vain. 
Look  east,  and  ask  the  Belgian  why. 
Beneath  Batavia's  sultry  sky. 
He  seeks  not  eager  to  inhale 
The  freshness  of  the  mountain  gale. 
Content  to  rear  his  whiten'd  wall 
Beside  the  dank  and  dull  canal? 
He'll  say,  from  youth  he  loved  to  see 
The  white  sail  gliding  by  the  tree. 
Or  see  yon  weatherbeaten  hind, 
Whose  sluggish  herds  before  him  wind. 
Whose  tatter'd  plaid  and  rugged  cheek 
His  northern  clime  and  kindred  speak; 
Through  England's  laughing  meads   he 

goes. 
And  England's  wealth  around  him  flows; 
Ask,  if  it  would  content  him  well. 
At  ease  in  those  gay  plains  to  dwell, 
Where    hedge-rows    spread    a    verdant 

screen, 
And  spires  and  forests  intervene, 
And  the  neat  cottage  peeps  between  ? 
No !  not  for  these  will  he  exchange 
His  dark  Lochaber's  boundless  range: 
*  Joanna  Baillie. 


Not  for  fair  Devon's  meads  forsake 
Bennevis  gray,  and  Garry's  lake. 

Thus,  while  I  ape  the  measure  wild 
Of  tales  that  charm'd  me  yet  a  child, 
Rude  though  they  be,  still  with  the  chime 
Return  the  thoughts  of  early  time; 
And  feelings,  roused  in  life's  first  day. 
Glow  in  the  line,  and  prompt  the  lay. 
Then   rise    those   crags,    that   mountain 

tower. 
Which  charm'd  myfancy's  wakening  hour. 
Though  no  broad  river  swept  along. 
To  claim,  perchance,  heroic  song; 
Though  sigh'd  no  groves  in  summer  gale, 
To  prompt  of  love  a  softer  tale : 
Though  soarce  a  puny  streamlet's  speed 
Claim'd  homage  from  a  shepherd's  reed; 
Yet  was  poetic  impulse  given, 
By  the  green  hill  and  clear  blue  heaven. 
It  was  a  barren  scene,  and  wild. 
Where  naked  cliffs  were  rudely  piled; 
But  ever  and  anon  between 
Lay  velvet  tufts  of  loveliest  green; 
And  well  the  lonely  infant  knew 
Recesses  where  the  wall-flower  grew, 
And  honey-suckle  loved  to  crawl 
Up  the  low  crag  and  ruin'd  wall. 
I  deem'd  such  nooks  the  sweetest  shade 
The  sun  in  all  its  round  survey 'd; 
And  still  I  thought  that  shatter'd  tower* 
The  mightiest  work  of  human  power; 
And  marvell'd  as  the  aged  hind 
With    some  strange   tale   bewitch'd    my 

mind. 
Of  forayers,  who,  with  headlong  force, 
Down    from   that    strength    had    spurr'd 

their  horse, 
Their  southern  rapine  to  renew, 
Far  in  the  distant  Cheviots  blue. 
And,  home  returning,  fill'd  the  hall 
With  revel,  wassail-rout,  and  brawl. 
Methought  that  still  with  trump  and  clang 
The  gateway's  broken  arches  rang; 
Methought    grim   features,   seam'd   with 

scars. 
Glared  through  the  window's  rusty  bars, 
And  ever,  by  the  winter  hearth. 
Old  tales  I  heard  of  woe  or  mirth, 
Of  lovers'  slights,  of  ladies'  charms, 
Of  witches'  spells,  of  warriors'  arms; 

t  Sinailholm  tower,  in  Berwickshire. 


Canto  III. 


THE  HOSTEL,    OR  INN. 


73 


Of  patriot  battles,  won  of  old 
By  Wallace  wight  and  Bruce  the  bold; 
Of  later  fields  of  feud  and  fight, 
When,    pouring     from     their    Highland 

height. 
The  Scottish  clans,  in  headlong  sway, 
Had  swept  the  scarlet  ranks  away. 
While  stretch'd  at  length  upon  the  floor, 
Again  I  fought  each  combat  o'er, 
Pebbles  and  shells,  in  order  laid, 
The  mimic  ranks  of   war  display 'd; 
And  onward  still  the  Scottish  Lion  bore, 
And  still  the  scatter 'd  Southron  fled  before. 

Still,  with  vain  fondness,  could  I  trace. 
Anew,  each  kind  familiar  face. 
That  brighten'd  at  our  evening  fire! 
From  the  thatch'd  mansion's  gray-hair'd 

Sire,* 
Wise  without  learning,  plain  and  good, 
And  sprung  of  Scotland's  gentler  blood; 
Whose  eye,  in  age,  quick,  clear,  and  keen, 
Show'd  what  in  youth  its  glance  had  been; 
Whose  doom  discording  neighbors  sought. 
Content  with  equity  unbought; 
To  him  the  venerable  Priest, 
Our  frequent  and  familiar  guest. 
Whose  life  and  manners  well  could  paint 
Alike  the  student  and  the  saint; 
Alas !  whose  speech  too  oft  I  broke 
With  gamlxjl  rude  and  timeless  joke: 
For  I  was  wayward,  bold,  and  wild, 
A  self-will'd  imp,  a  grandame's  child; 
But  half  a  plague,  and  half  a  jest, 
Was  still  endured,  beloved,  caress'd. 

For  me,  thus  nurtured,  dost  thou  ask 
The  classic  poet's  well-conn'd  task? 
Nay,  Erskine,  nay.  — ■  On  the  wild  hill 
Let  the  wild  heath-bell  flourish  still; 
Cherish  the  tulip,  prune  the  vine, 
But  freely  let  the  woodbine  twine, 
And  leave  untrimm'd  the  eglantine; 
Nay,    my    friend,  nay.  —  Since    oft    thy 

praise 
Hath  given  fresh  vigor  to  my  lays; 
Since  oft  thy  judgment  could  refine 
My  flatten'd  thought,  or  cumbrous  line; 
Still  kind,  as  is  thy  wont,  attend. 
And  in  the  minstrel  spare  the  friend. 

*  Roliert   Scott  of  Sandyknows,   the  grand- 
father of  the  poet. 


Though  wild  as  cloud,  as  stream,  as  gale. 
Flow  forth,  flow  unrestrain'd,  my  Tale ! 


CANTO  THIRD. 

THE   HOSTEL,    OR    INN. 
I. 

The  lifelong  day  Lord  Marmion  rode : 
The  mountain  path  the  Palmer  show'd. 
By  glen  and  streamlet  winded  still, 
Where  stunted  birches  hid  the  rill. 
They  might  not  choose  the  lowland  road. 
For  the  Merse  foraycrs  were  abroad, 
Who,  fired  with  hate  and  thirst  of  prey, 
Had  scarcely  fail'd  to  bar  their  way. 
Oft  on  the  trampling  band,  from  crown 
Of  some  tall  cliff,  the  deer  look'ddown; 
On  wing  of  jet,  from  his  repose 
In  the  deep  heath,  the  black-cock  rose; 
Sprung  from  the  gorse  the  timid  roe, 
Nor  waited  for  the  bending  bow; 
And  when  the  stony  path  began. 
By  which  the  naked  peak  they  wan. 
Up  flew  the  snowy  ptarmigan. 
The  noon  had  long  been  pass'd  before 
They  gain'd  the  height  of  Lammermoor; 
Thence  winding  down  the  northern  way 
Before  them,  at  the  close  of  day. 
Old  Gifford's  towers  and  hamlet  lay. 


No  summons  calls  them  to  the  tower. 

To  spend  the  hospitable  hour. 

To  .Scotland's  camp  the  Lord  was  gone; 

His  cautious  dame,  in  bower  alone. 

Dreaded  her  castle  to  unclose, 

So  late,  to  unknown  friends  or  foes. 

On  through  the  hamlet  as  they  paced. 

Before  a  porch,  whose  front  was  graced 

With  bush  and  flagon  trimly  placed. 

Lord  Marmion  drew  his  rein : 
The    village    inn    seem'd    large,   though 

rude;  ^ 
Its  cheerful  fire  and  hearty  fo»d 

Might  well  relieve  his  train. 
Down    from    their    seats    the    horsemen 

sprung. 
With  jingling  spurs  the  court-yard  rung; 


74 


MARMION. 


Canto  III. 


They  bind  their  horses  to  the  stall, 
For  forage,  food,  and  firing  call, 
And  various  clamor  fills  the  hall : 
Weighing  the  labor  with  the  cost. 
Toils  everywhere  the  bustling  host. 


Soon,  by  the  chimney's  merry  blaze. 
Through  the  rude  hostel  might  you  gaze; 
Might  see,  where,  in  dark  nook  aloof. 
The  rafters  of  the  sooty  roof 

Bore  wealth  of  winter  cheer; 
Of  sea-fowl  dried,  and  solands  store, 
And  gammons  of  the  tusky  boar. 

And  savory  haunch  of  deer. 
The  chimney  arch  projected  wide; 
AVjove,  around  it,  and  beside. 

Were  tools  for  housewives'  hand; 
Nor  wanted,  in  that  martial  day, 
The  implements  of  Scottish  fray. 

The  buckler,  lance,  and  brand. 
Beneath  its  shade,  the  place  of  state, 
On  oaken  settle  Marmion  sate, 
And  view'd  around  the  blazing  liearlh. 
His  followers  mix  in  noisy  mirth; 
Whom  with  brown  ale,  in  jolly  tide, 
From  ancient  vessels  ranged  aside. 
Full  actively  their  host  supplied. 


Theirs  was  the  glee  of  martial  breast, 
Antl  laughter  theirs  at  little  jest; 
And  oft  Lord  Marmion  deign'd  to  aid, 
And  mingle  in  the  mirth  they  made; 
For  though  with  men  of  high  degree, 
The  proudest  of  the  proud  was  he. 
Yet,  train'd  in  camps,  he  knew  the  art 
To  win  the  soldier's  hardy  heart. 
They  love  a  captain  to  obey. 
Boisterous  as  March,  yet  fresh  as  May; 
With  open  hand  and  brow  as  free. 
Lover  of  wine  and  minstrelsy; 
Ever  the  first  to  scale  a  tower. 
As  venturous  in  a  lady's  bower:  — 
Such  buxom  chief  shall  lead  his  host 
From  India's  fires  to  Zembla's  frost. 


Resting  upon  his  pilgrim  staff. 
Right  opposite  the  Palmer  stood; 

His  thin  dark  visage  seen  but  half, 
Half  hidden  by  his  hood. 


Still  fix'd  on  Marmion  was  his  look. 
Which  he,  who  ill  such  gaze  could  brook, 

Strove  by  a  frown  to  quell; 
But  not  for  that,  though  more  than  once 
Full  met  their  stern  encountering  glance. 

The  Palmer's  visage  fell. 


By  fits  less  frequent  from  the  crowd 
Was  heard  the  burst  of  laughter  loud; 
For  still,  as  squire  and  archer  stared 
On  that  dark  face  and  matted  beard, 

Their  glee  and  game  declined. 
All  gazed  at  length  in  silence  drear, 
Unbroke,  save  when  in  comrade's  ear 
Some  yeoman,  wondering  in  his  fear. 

Thus  whisper'd  forth  his  mind:  — 
"  Saint  Mary  !  saw'st  thou  e'er  such  sight  ? 
How  pale  his  cheek,  his  eye  how  bright, 
Whene'er  the  firebrand's  fickle  light. 

Glances  beneath  his  cowl ! 
Full  on  our  Lord  he  sets  his  eye; 
For  his  best  palfrey,  would  not  I 

Endure  that  sullen  scowl." 


But  Marmion,  as  to  chase  the  awe 
Which  thus  had  quell'd  their  hearts,  whc 

saw 
The  ever-varying  firelight  show 
That  figure  stern  and  face  of  woe, 

Now  call'd  upon  a  squire:  — 
"  Fitz-Eustace,  know'st  thou  not    some 

lay, 
To  speed  the  lingering  night  away? 

We  slumber  by  the  fire."  — 


"  So  please  you,"  thus  the  youth  rejoin'd, 
"  Our  choicest  minstrel's  left  behind. 
Ill  may  we  hope  to  please  your  ear, 
Accustom'd  Constant's  strain  to  hear. 
The  harp  full  deftly  can  he  strike. 
And  wake  the  lover's  lute  alike; 
To  dear  Saint  Valentine,  no  thrush 
Sings  livelier  from  a  spring-tide  bush, 
No  nightingale  her  lovelorn  tune 
More  sweetly  warbles  to  the  moon. 
Woe  to  the  cause,  whate'er  it  be. 
Detains  from  us  his  melody, 
Lavish'd  on  rocks,  and  liillows  stern. 
Or  duller  monks  of  Lindisfarne. 


Canto  III. 


TIIE^  HOSTEL,    OR  INN. 


75 


Now  must  I  venture,  as  I  may, 
To  sing  his  favorite  roundelay." 


A  mellow  voice  Fitz-Eustace  had, 
The  air  he  chose  was  wild  and  sad; 
Such  have  I  heard,  in  Scottish  land. 
Rise  from  the  busy  harvest  hand. 
When  falls  before  the  mountaineer. 
On  Lowland  plains  the  ripen'd  ear. 
Now  one  shrill  voice  the  notes  prolong. 
Now  a  wild  chorus  swells  the  song: 
Oft  have  I  listen'd  and  stood  still, 
As  it  came  soften'd  up  the  hill. 
And  deeni'd  it  the  lament  of  men 
Who  langnish'd  for  their  native  glen; 
And   thought   how  sad    would    Vx;    such 

sound 
On  Susquehanna's  swampy  ground, 
Kentucky's  wood-encumber'd  brake. 
Or  wild  Ontario's  boundless  lake, 
Where  heart-sick  exiles,  in  the  strain, 
Recall'd  fair  Scotland's  hills  again! 


Where  shall  the  lover  rest, 

Whom  the  fates  sever 
From  his  true  maiden's  breast, 

Parted  forever? 
Where,  through  groves  deep  and  high. 

Sounds  the  far  billow, 
Where  early  violets  die. 

Under  the  willow. 

CHORUS. 

Elcu  loro,  etc.     Soft  shall  be  his  pillow. 

There,  through  the  summer  day, 

Cool  streams  are  laving; 
There,  while  the  tempests  sway. 

Scarce  are  boughs  waving; 
There,  thy  rest  shalt  thou  take, 

Parted  forever. 
Never  again  to  wake, 

Never,  O  never ! 

CHORUS. 

Eleti  loro,  etc.     Never,  O  never  ! 


Where  shall  the  traitor  rest, 

He,  the  deceiver, 
Who  could  win  maiden's  breast. 

Ruin,  and  leave  her? 
In  the  lost  battle, 

Borne  down  by  the  flying, 
Where  mingles  war's  rattle 

With  groans  of  the  dying. 

CHORUS. 

Elc'u  loro,  etc.     There  shall  he  be  lying. 

Her  wing  shall  the  eagle  flap 

O'er  the  false-hearted; 
His  warm  blood  the  wolf  shall  lap. 

Ere  life  be  parted. 
Shame  and  dishonor  sit 

By  his  grave  ever. 
Blessing  shall  hallow  it,  — 

Never,  O  never ! 

CHORUS. 

Eieu  loro,  etc.     Never,  O  never ! 


It  ceased,  the  melancholy  sound; 
And  silence  sunk  on  all  around. 
The  air  was  sad;    but  sadder  still 

It  fell  on  Marmion's  ear. 
And  plain'd  as  if  disgrace  and  ill. 

And  shameful  death,  were  near. 
He  drew  his  mantle  past  his  face. 

Between  it  and  the  band, 
And  rested  with  his  head  a  space. 

Reclining  on  his  hand. 
His  thoughts  I  scan  not;   but  I  ween. 
That,  could  their  import  have  been  seen. 
The  meanest  groom  in  all  the  hall, 
That  e'er  tied  courser  to  a  stall. 
Would  scarce  have  wish'd  to  be  their  prey, 
For  Lutterward  and  Fontenaye. 


High  minds,  of  native  pride  and  force. 
Most  deeply  feel  thy  pangs.  Remorse! 
Fear,  for  their  scourge,  mean  villains  have. 
Thou  art  the  torturer  of  the  brave ! 
Yet  fatal  strength  they  boast  to  steel 
Their  minds  to  bear  the  wounds  they  feel. 


76 


MARMION. 


Canto  III. 


Even  while  they  writhe  beneath  the  smart 
Of  civil  conflict  in  the  heart. 
For  soon  Lord  Marmion  raised  his  head, 
And,  smiling,  to  Fitz- Eustace  said,  — 
"  Is  it  not  strange,  that,  as  ye  sung, 
Seem'd  in  mine  ear  a  death-peal  rung, 
Such  as  in  nunneries  they  toll 
For  some  departing  sister's  soul? 

Say,  what  may  this  portend?  "  — 
Then  first  the  Palmer  silence  broke, 
(The  livelong  day  he  had  not  spoke,) 

"  The  death  of  a  dear  friend."  ^ 


Marmion,  whose  steady  heart  and  eye 
Ne'er  changed  in  worst  extremity; 
Marmion,  whose  soul  could  scantly  brook. 
Even  from  his  King,  a  haughty  look; 
Whose  accent  of  command  controll'd, 
In  camps,  the  boldest  of  the  bold  — 
Thought,  look,  and  utterance  fail'd  him 

now, 
Fall'n  was  hisglance,andflush'dhis  brow; 

For  either  in  the  tone. 
Or  something  in  the  Palmer's  look, 
So  full  upon  his  conscience  strook. 

That  answer  he  found  none. 
Thus  oft  it  haps,  that  when  within 
They  shrink  at  sense  of  secret  sin, 

A  feather  daunts  the  brave; 
A  fool's  wild  speech  confounds  the  wise, 
And  proudest  princes  vail  their  eyes 

Before  their  meanest  slave. 


Well  might  he  falter !  —  By  his  aid 
Was  Constance  Beverley  betray'd. 
Not  that  he  augur'd  of  the  doom. 
Which  on  the  living  closed  the  tomb: 
But,  tired  to  hear  the  desperate  maid 
Threaten  by  turns,  beseech,  upbraid; 
And  wroth,  because,  in  wild  despair. 
She  practised  on  the  life  of  Clare; 
Its  fugitive  the  Church  he  gave. 
Though  not  a  victim,  but  a  slave; 
And  deem'd  restraint  in  convent  strange 
Would  hide  her  wrongs,  and  her  revenge. 
Himself,  proud  Henry's  favorite  peer. 
Held  Romish  thunders  idle  fear. 
Secure  his  pardon  he  might  hold, 
For  some  slight  mulct  of  penance-gold. 
This  judging,  he  gave  secret  way, 
Whe  n  the  stern  priests  surprised  their  prey. 


His  train  but  deem'd  the  favorite  page 
Was  left  behind,  to  spare  his  age; 
Or  other  if  they  deem'd,  none  dared 
To  mutter  what  he  thought  and  heard : 
Woe  to  the  vassal,  who  durst  pry 
Into  Lord  Marmion's  privacy  ! 


His  conscience   slept  —  he   deem'd   her 

well. 
And  safe  secured  in  distant  cell : 
But,  waken'd  by  her  favorite  lay. 
And  that  strange  Palmer's  boding  say, 
That  fell  so  ominous  and  drear. 
Full  on  the  object  of  his  fear. 
To  aid  remorse's  venom'd  throes. 
Dark  tales  of  convent-vengeance  rose; 
And  Constance,  late  betray'd  and  scorn'd. 
All  lovely  on  his  soul  return 'd; 
Lovely  as  when,  at  treacherous  call. 
She  left  her  convent's  peaceful  wall 
Crimson'd  with  shame,  with  terror  mute, 
Dreading  alike  escape,  pursuit. 
Till  love,  victorious  o'er  alarms. 
Hid  fears  and  blushes  in  his  arms. 


"  Alas  !  "  he  thought,  *'  how  changed  that 

mien ! 
How  changed  these  timid  looks  have  been. 
Since  years  of  guilt,  and  of  disguise. 
Have  steel'd  her  brow,  and  arm'd  her 

eyes ! 
No  more  of  virgin  terror  speaks 
The  blood  that  mantles  in  her  cheeks; 
Fierce,  and  unfeminine,  are  there, 
Frenzy  for  joy,  for  grief  despair; 
And  I  the  cause  —  for  whom  were  given 
Her  peace  on  earth,  her  hopes  in  heaven ! — 
Would,"  thought  he,  as  the  picture  grows, 
"  I  on  its  stalk  had  left  the  rose  ! 
Oh,  why  should  man's  success  remove 
The  very  charms  that  wake  his  love ! 
Her  convent's  peaceful  solitude 
Is  now  a  prison  harsh  and  rude. 
And,  pent  within  the  narrow  cell. 
How  will  her  spirit  chafe  and  swell ! 
How  brook  the  stern  monastic  laws ! 
The  penance  how  —  and  I  the  cause  ! 
Vigil     and     scourge  —  perchance     even 

worse !  "  — 
And  twice  he  rose  to  cry,  "  To  horse  !  "  — • 


Canto  III, 


Tim  HOSTEL,    OR  INN. 


77 


And  twice  his  Sovereign's  mandate  came, 
Like  damp  upon  a  kindling  flame; 
And  twice  he  thought,  "  Gave  I  not  charge 
She  should  be  safe,  though  not  at  large? 
They  durst  not,  for  their  island,  shred 
One  golden  ringlet  from  her  head." 


While  thus  in  Marmion's  bosom  strove 

Repentance  and  reviving  love, 

Like  whirlwinds,  whose  contending  sway 

I've  seen  Loch  Vennachar  obey. 

Their  Host  the  Pal mer  's  speech  had  heard , 

And,  talkative,  took  up  the  word: 

"  Ay,  reverend  Pilgrim,  you,  who  stray 

From  Scotland's  simple  land  away, 

To  visit  realms  afar. 
Full  often  learn  the  art  to  know 
Of  future  weal,  or  future  woe, 

By  word,  or  sign,  or  star; 
Yet  might  a  knight  his  fortune  hear, 
If,  knight-like,  he  despises  fear, 
Not  far  from  hence;  — if  fathers  old 
Aright  our  hamlet  legend  told."  — 
These  broken  words  the  menials  move, 
(For  marvels  still  the  vulgar  love,) 
And,  Marmion  giving  license  cold, 
His  tale  the  host  thus  gladly  told:  — 


THE    host's   tale. 

"  A  Clerk  could  tell  what  years  have  flown 

Since  Alexander  fill'd  our  throne, 

(Third  monarch  of  that  warlike  name,) 

And  eke  the  time  when  here  he  came 

To  seek  Sir  Hugo,  then  our  lord: 

A  braver  never  drew  a  sword; 

A  wiser  never,  at  the  hour 

Of  midnight,  spoke  the  word  of  power: 

The  same,  whom  ancient  records  call 

The  founder  of  the  Goblin-Hall.*^ 

I  would,  Sir  Knight,  your  longer  stay 

Gave  you  that  cavern  to  survey. 

Of  lofty  roof,  and  ample  size, 

Beneath  the  castle  deep  it  lies: 

To  hew  the  living  rock  profound, 

The  floor  to  pave,  the  arch  to  round. 

There  never  toil'd  a  mortal  arm, 

It  all  was  wrought  by  word  and  charm; 

And  I  have  heard  my  grandsire  say, 

That  the  wild  clamor  and  affray 

Of  those  dread  artisans  of  hell, 

Who  labor'd  under  Hugo's  spell, 


Sounded  as  loud  as  ocean's  war. 
Among  the  caverns  of  Dunbar. 


"  The  King  Lord  Gifford's  castle  sought, 
Deep  laboring  with  uncertain  thought ; 
Even  then  he  muster'd  all  his  host. 
To  meet  upon  the  western  coast: 
For  Norse  and  Danish  galleys  plied 
Their  oars  within  the  frith  of  Clyde. 
There  floated  Haco's  banner  trim,^ 
Above  Norweyan  warriors  grim. 
Savage  of  heart,  and  large  of  limb; 
Threatening  both  continent  and  isle, 
Bute,  Arran,  Cunninghame,  and  Kyle. 
Lord  Gifford,  deep  beneath  the  ground, 
Heard  Alexander's  bugle  sound. 
And  tarried  not  his  garb  to  change. 
But,  in  his  wizard  habit  strange. 
Came  forth,  —  a  quaint  and  fearful  sight; 
His  mantle  lined  with  fox-skins  white; 
His  high  and  wrinkled  forehead  bore 
A  pointed  cap,  such  as  of  yore 
Clerks  say  that  Pharaoh's  Magi  wore : 
His  shoes  were  mark'd  with  cross  and 

spell. 
Upon  his  breast  a  pentacle;  ** 
His  zone,  of  virgin  parchment  thin, 
Or,  as  some  tell,  of  dead  man's  skin, 
Bore  many  a  planetary  sign. 
Combust,  and  retrograde,  and  trine; 
And  in  his  hand  he  held  prepared, 
A  naked  sword  without  a  guard. 


"  Dire  dealings  with  the  fiendish  race 
Had  mark'd  strange  lines  upon  his  face; 
Vigil  and  fast  had  worn  him  grim, 
His  eyesight  dazzled  se^fri'd  and  dim, 
As  one  unused  to  upper  day; 
Even  his  own  menials  with  dismay 
Beheld,  Sir  Knight,  the  grisly  Sire, 
In  his  unwonted  wild  attire; 
Unwonted,  for  traditions  run, 
He  seldom  thus  beheld  the  sun.  — 
'  I  know,'  he  said  —  his  voice  was  hoarse, 
And  broken  seem'd  its  hollow  force,  — 
'  I  know  the  cause,  although  untold. 
Why  the  King  seeks  his  vassal's  hold : 
Vainly  from  me  my  liege  would  know 
His  kingdom's  future  weal  or  woe; 
But  yet,  if  strong  his  arm  and  heart, 
His  courage  may  do  more  than  art. 


78 


MARMION. 


Canto  III, 


"  '  Of  middle  air  the  demons  proud, 
Who  ride  upon  the  racking  cloud, 
Can  read,  in  fix'd  or  wandering  star, 
The  issue  of  events  afar; 
But  still  their  sullen  aid  withhold. 
Save  when  by  mightier  force  rontrolPd. 
Such  late  I  summon'd  to  my  hall; 
And  though  so  potent  was  the  call, 
That  scarce  the  deepest  nook  of  hell 
I  deem'd  a  refuge  from  the  spell, 
Vet,  obstinate  in  silence  still, 
The  haughty  demon  mocks  my  skill. 
But  lliou  — wh(5  little  know'st  thy  migiit. 
As  born  upon  that  blessed  night  ^ 
When  yawning  graves,  and  dying  groan, 
Proclaim'd  hell's  empire  overthrown,  — 
With  untaught  valor  shall  compel 
Response  denied  to  magic  spell.' 
'Gramercy,'  quoth  our  Monarch  free, 
*  Place  him  but  front  to  front  with  me. 
And,  by  this  good  and  honor'd  brand. 
The  gift  of  CcEur-de-Lion's  hand, 
Soothly  I  swear,  that,  tide  what  tide, 
The  demon  shall  a  buffet  bide.'  — 
His  bearing  bold  the  wizard  view'd. 
And  thus,  well  pleased,  his  speech  re- 
new'd:  — 
'  There  spoke  the  blood  of  Malcolm  !  — 

mark: 
Forth  pacing  hence,  at  midnight  dark. 
The  rampart  seek,  whose  circling  crown 
Crests  the  ascent  of  yonder  down : 
A  southern  entrance  shall  thou  find; 
There  halt,  and  there  thy  bugle  wind, 
And  trust  thine  elfin  foe  to  see, 
In  guise  of  thy  worst  enemy : 
Couch  then  thy  lance,  and  spur  thy  steed. 
Upon  him  !  and  Saint  George  to  speed  ! 
If  he  go  down,  thou  soon  shall  know 
Whate'er  these  airy  sprites  can  show;  — 
If  tliy  heart  fail  thee  in  the  strife, 
I  am  no  warrant  for  thy  life.' 


"  Soon  as  the  midnight  bell  did  ring. 
Alone,  and  arm'd,  forth  rode  the  King 
To  that  old  camp's  deserted  round: 
Sir    Knight,   you   well    might   mark  the 

mound, 
Left  hand  the  town,  —  the  Pictish  race. 
The  trench,  long  since,  in  blood  did  trace; 


The  moor  around  is  brown  and  bare, 
The  space  within  is  green  and  fair. 
The  spot  our  village  children  know. 
For  there  the  earliest  wild-flowers  grow; 
But  woe  betide  the  wandering  wight, 
That  treads  its  circle  in  the  night ! 
ITie  breadth  across,  a  bowshot  clear. 
Gives  ample  space  for  full  career : 
Opposed  to  the  four  points  of  heaven. 
By  four  deep  gaps  are  entrance  given. 
The  southernmost  our  Monarch  past. 
Halted,  and  blew  a  gallant  blast; 
And  on  the  north,  within  the  ring, 
Appear'd  the  form  of  England's  King, 
Who  then,  a  thousand  leagues  afar, 
In  Palestine  wagetl  holy  war: 
Yet  arms  like  England's  did  he  wield. 
Alike  the  leopards  in  the  shield, 
Alike  his  Syrian  courser's  frame. 
The  rider's  length  of  limb  the  same : 
Long  afterwards  did  Scotland  know. 
Fell  Edward  *  was  her  deadliest  foe. 


"The  vision  made  our  Monarch  start, 
But  soon  he  niann'd  his  noble  heart. 
And  in  the  first  career  they  ran, 
The  Elfin  Knight  fell,  horse  and  man; 
Yet  did  a  splinter  of  his  lance 
Through  Alexander's  visor  glance. 
And  razed  the  skin  —  a  puny  wound. 
The  King,  light  leaping  to  the  ground. 
With  naked  blade  his  phantom  foe 
Compell'd  the  future  war  to  show. 
Of  Largs  he  saw  the  glorious  plain, 
Where  still  gigantic  bones  remain. 

Memorial  of  the  Danish  war; 
Himself  he  saw,  amid  the  field. 
On  high  his  brandish'd  war-axe  \yield. 

And  strike  proud  Haco  from  his  car, 
While  all  around  the  shadowy  Kings 
Denmark's   grim    ravens   cower'd    their 

wings. 
'Tis  said,  that,  in  that  awful  night, 
Remoter  visions  met  his  sight. 
Foreshowing  future  conquests  far, 
When    our    sons'    sons    wage    northern 

war; 
A  royal  city,  tower  and  spire, 
Redden'd  the  midnight  sky  with  fire, 

*  Edward  I.   of  England,  sumamed   "  Long- 
shanks." 


Canto  III. 


THE  HOSTEL,    OR  INN. 


79 


And  shouting  crews  her  navy  Ixirc, 
'I'riiiniph.int,  to  the  victor  shore.* 
Such  signs  may  learned  clerks  explain, 
They  pass  the  wit  of  simple  swain. 


"The  joyful  King  turn'd  home  again. 
Headed  his  host,  and  quell'd  the  Dane; 
But  yearly,  when  return'd  the  night 
Of  his  strange  combat  with  the  sprite, 

His  wound  must  bleed  and  smart; 
Lord  Gifford  then  would  gibing  say, 
'  Bold  as  ye  were,  my  liege,  ye  pay 

The  penance  of  your  start.' 
Long  since,  tjenealh  Dunfermline's  nave. 
King  Alexander  fills  his  grave, 

Our  Lady  give  him  rest ! 
Yet  still  the  knightly  spear  and  shield 
The  Elfin  Warrior  doth  wield. 

Upon  the  brown  hill's  breast;  ^ 
And    many    a    knight    hath    proved    his 

chance. 
In  the  charm'd  ring  to  break  a  lance. 

But  all  have  foully  sped; 
Save  two,  as  legends  tell,  and  they 
Were  Wallace  wight,  and  Gilbert  Hay.  — 

Gentles,  my  tale  is  said." 


The    quaighs  t    were    deep,    the    liquor 

strong, 
And  on  the  tale  the  yeoman-throng 
Had  made  a  comment  sage  and  long. 

But  Marmion  gave  a  sign : 
And,  with  their  lords,  the  squires  retire; 
The  rest,  around  the  hostel  fire. 

Their  drowsy  limbs  recline : 
For  pillow,  underneath  each  head, 
The  quiver  and  the  targe  were  laid. 
Deep  slumbering  on  the  hostel  floor, 
Oppress'd  with  toil  and  ale,  they  snore: 
The  dying  flame,  in  fitful  change. 
Threw  on  the  group  its  shadows  strange. 

XXVII. 

Apart,  and  nestling  in  the  hay 
Of  a  waste  loft,  Fitz-Eustace  lay; 
Scarce,  by  the  pale  moonlight,  were  seen 
The  foldings  of  his  mantle  green : 

•  An  allusion   to   the   battle  of   Copenhagen, 
iSoi. 

t  Quai^h,  a  wooJen  cup. 


Lightly  he  dreamt,  as  youth  will  dream 
Of  sport  by  thicket,  or  by  stream. 
Of  hawk  or  hound,  of  ring  or  glove, 
Or,  lighter  yet,  of  lady's  love. 
A  cautious  tread  his  slumber  broke. 
And,  close  beside  him,  when  he  woke. 
In  moonbeam  half,  and  half  in  gloom, 
.Stood  a  tall  form,  with  nodding  plume; 
But,  ere  his  dagger  Eustace  drew. 
His  master  Marmion's  voice  he  knew. 


—  "  Fitz-Eustace  !  rise,  I  cannot  rest; 
Von    churl's    wild    legend    haunts    my 

breast, 
And   graver    thoughts   have    chafed   my 

mood: 
The  air  must  cool  my  feverish  blood; 
And  fain  would  I  ride  forth,  to  see 
The  scene  of  Elfin  chivalry. 
Arise,  and  saddle  me  my  steed; 
And,  gentle  Eustace,  take  good  heed 
Thou  dost  not  rouse  these  drowsy  slaves; 
I  would  not,  that  the  prating  knaves 
Had  cause  for  saying,  o'er  their  ale. 
That  I  could  credit  such  a  tale."  — 
Then  softly  down  the  stejis  they  slid, 
Eustace  the  stable-door  undid. 
And,  darkling,  Marmion's  steed  array'd. 
While,  whispering,  thus  the  Baron  said : — 


"  Did'st    never,    good    my   youth,    hear 
tell. 

That  on  the  hour  when  I  was  born. 
Saint  George,  who  graced  my  sire's  cha- 

pelle, 
Down  from  his  steed  of  marble  fell, 

A  weary  wight  forlorn? 
The  flattering  chaplains  all  agree. 
The  champion  left  his  steed  to  me. 
I  would,  the  omen's  truth  to  show. 
That  I  could  meet  this  Elfin  Foe  ! 
Blithe  would  I  battle,  for  the  right 
To  ask  one  question  at  the  sprite :  — 
Vain  thought  I   for  elves,  if  elves  there 

be. 
An  empty  race,  by  fount  or  sea. 
To  dashing  waters  dance  and  sing, 
Orround  the  green  oak  wheel  their  ring.'" 
Thus  speaking,  he  his  steed  bestrode, 
And  from  the  hostel  slowly  rode. 


8o 


MARMION. 


Fitz-Eustace  foUow'd  him  abroad, 
And     mark'd     him     pace     the     village 
road, 

And  listen'd  to  his  horse's  tramp. 
Till,  by  the  lessening  sound, 

He  judged  that  of  the  Pictish  camp 
Lord  Marmion  sought  the  round. 
Wonder     it     scom'd,     in     the     squire's 

eyes, 
That  one,  so  wary  held,  and  wise,  — 
Of  whom  'twas  said,  he  scarce  received 
For  gospel,  what  the  church  believed,  — 

Should,  stirr'd  by  idle  tale. 
Ride  forth  in  silence  of  the  night, 
As  hoping  half  to  meet  a  sprite, 

Array'd  in  plate  and  mail. 
For  little  did  Fitz-Eustace  know. 
That  passions  in  contending  flow, 

Unfix  the  strongest  mind; 
Wearied  from  doubt  to  doubt  to  flee. 
We  welcome  fond  credulity. 

Guide  confident,  though  blind. 


Litlle  for  this  Fitz-Eustace  cared. 
Rut,  patient,  waited  till  he  heard. 
At  distance,  prick'd  to  utmost  speed. 
The  foot-tramp  of  a  flying  steed, 

Come  town- ward  rushing  on; 
First,  dead,  as  if  on  turf  it  trode. 
Then,  clattering  on  the  village  road,  — 
In  other  pace  than  forth  he  yode,* 

Return'd  Lord  Marmion. 
Down  hastily  he  sprung  from  selle. 
And,  in  his  haste,  wellnigh  he  fell; 
To     the     squire's     hand    the    rein     he 

threw. 
And  spoke  no  word  as  he  withdrew : 
But  yet  the  moonlight  did  betray. 
The  falcon-crest  was  soil'd  with  clay; 
And  plainly  might  Fitz-Eustace  see, 
Ky  stains  upon  the  charger's  knee, 
And  his  left  side,  that  on  the  moor 
He  had  not  kept  his  footing  sure. 
Long  musing  on  these  wondrous  signs. 
At  length  to  rest  the  squire  reclines. 
Broken  and  short;    for  still,  between, 
Would  dreams  of  terror  intervene: 
Eustace  did  ne'er  so  blithely  mark 
The  first  notes  of  the  morning  lark. 

*  Yode,  used  by  old  poets  for  nvent. 


INTRODUCTION   TO   CANTO 
FOURTH. 

TO   JAMES   SKENE,    ESQ.t 

A  sheitjel,  Ettrick  Forest. 
An  ancient  Minstrel  sagely  said, 
"  Where  is  the  life  which  late  we  led?  " 
That  motley  clown  in  Arden  wood, 
Whom    humorous    Jacques    with    envy 

view'd, 
Not  even  that  clown  could  amplify, 
On  this  trite  text,  so  long  as  I. 
Eleven  years  we  now  may  tell. 
Since  we  have  known  each  other  well; 
Since,  riding  side  by  side,  our  hand 
First  drew  the  voluntary  brand, 
And  sure,  through  many  a  varied  scene, 
Unkindness  never  came  between. 
Away  these  winged  years  have  flown. 
To  join  the  mass  of  ages  gone'; 
And  though  deep  mark'd,  like  all  below, 
With  chequer'il  shades  of  joy  and  woe; 
Though  thou  o'er   realms  and  seas  hast 

ranged, 
Mark'd  cities  lost,  and  empires  changed. 
While  here,  at  home,  my  narrower  ken 
.Somewhat  of  manners  saw,  and  men; 
Though  varying  wishes,  hopes,  and  fears, 
Fever'd  the  progress  of  these  years. 
Yet  now,  days,  weeks,  and  months,  but 

seem 
The  recollection  of  a  dream. 
So  still  we  glide  down  to  the  sea 
Of  fathomless  eternity. 

Even  now  it  scarcely  seems  a  day. 
Since  first  I  tuned  this  idle  lay; 
A  task  so  often  thrown  aside. 
When  leisure  graver  cares  denied. 
That  now,  November's  dreary  gale, 
Whose  voice  inspired  my  oju'ning  tale, 
That  same  November  gale  once  more 
Whirls  the  dry  leaves  on  Yarrow  shore. 
Their  vex'd  boughs  streaming  to  the  sky. 
Once  more  our  naked  birches  sigh, 
And  lilackhouse  heights,  and  Ettrick  I'en, 
Have  donn'd  their  wintry  shrouds  again  : 
And  mountain  dark,  and  flooded  mead, 
Bid  us  forsake  the  banks  of  Tweed. 
Earlier  than  wont  along  the  sky, 
Mix'd  with  the  rack,  the  snow  mists  fly: 

t  James  Skene,  Esq.,  of  Rubislaw,  Aberdeen 
shire. 


INTRODUCTION  TO    CANTO  IV. 


8i 


The  shepherd,  who  in  summer  sun, 
Mad  something  of  our  envy  won. 
As  thou  with  pencil,  I  with  pen. 
The  features  traced  of  hill  and  glen;  — 
He  who,  outstretch'd  the  live-long  day, 
At  ease  among  the  heath-flowers  lay, 
View'd  the  light  clouds  with  vacant  look. 
Or  sluniber'd  o'er  his  tatter'd  book. 
Or  idly  busied  him  to  guide 
His  angle  o'er  the  lessen'd  tide,  — 
At  midnight  now,  the  snowy  plain 
Finds  sterner  labor  for  the  swain. 

When  red  hath  set  the  beamless  sun. 
Through  heavy  vapors  dark  and  dun; 
When  the  tired  ploughman,  dry  and  warm. 
Hears,  half  asleep,  the  rising  storm 
Hurling  the  hail,  and  sleeted  rain. 
Against  the  casement's  tinkling  pane; 
The  sounds  that  drive  wild  deer,  and  fox, 
To  shelter  in  the  brake  and  rocks, 
Are  warnings  which  the  shepherd  ask 
To  dismal  and  to  tlangerous  task. 
Oft  he  looks  forth,  and  hopes,  in  vain, 
The  blast  may  sink  in  mellowing  rain; 
Till,  dark  above,  and  white  below. 
Decided  drives  the  flaky  snow. 
And  forth  the  hardy  swain  must  go. 
Long,  with  dejected  look  and  whine, 
To  leave  his  hearth  his  dogs  repine; 
Whistling  and  cheering  them  to  aid. 
Around  his  back  he  wreathes  the  plaid : 
His  flock  he  gathers,  and  he  guides, 
To  open  downs,  and  mountain  sides, 
Where,  fiercest  though  the  tempest  blow, 
Least  deeply  lies  the  drift  below. 
The  blast,  that  whistles  o'er  the  fells, 
Stiffens  his  locks  to  icicles; 
Oft  he  looks  back,  while  streaming  far. 
His  cottage  window  seems  a  star,  — 
Loses  its  feeble  gleam,  —  and  then 
furns  patient  to  the  blast  again. 
And,  facing  to  the  tempest's  sweep. 
Drives   through    the    gloom    his    lagging 

sheep. 
If  fails  his  heart,  if  his  limbs  fail. 
Benumbing  death  is  in  the  gale : 
His  paths,  his  landmarks,  all  unknown 
Close  to  the  hut,  no  more  his  own, 
Close  to  the  aid  he  sought  in  vain. 
The  morn  may  find  the  stiffen'd  swain  ;*^ 
The  widow  sees,  at  dawning  pale. 
His  orphans  raise  their  feeble  wailj 


And,  close  beside  him,  in  the  snow, 
Poor  Yarrow,  partner  of  their  woe. 
Couches  upon  his  master's  breast. 
And  licks  his  cheek  to  break  his  rest. 


Who  envies  now  the  shepherd's  lot. 
His  healthy  fare,  his  rural  cot. 
His  summer  couch  by  greenwood  tree. 
His  rustic  kirn's  *  loud  revelry, 
His  native  hill-notes,  tuned  on  high, 
To  Marion  of  the  blithesome  eye; 
His  crook,  his  scrip,  his  oaten  reed, 
And  all  Arcadia's  golden  creed? 

Changes  not  so  with  us,  my  Skene, 
Of  human  life  the  varying  scene  ? 
Our  youthful  summer  oft  we  see 
Dance  by  on  wings  of  game  and  glee. 
While  the  dark  storm  reserves  its  rage, 
Against  the  winter  of  our  age : 
As  he,  the  ancient  Chief  of  Troy, 
His  manhood  spent  in  peace  and  joy; 
But  Grecian  fires,  and  loud  alarms, 
Call'd  ancient  Priam  forth  to  arms. 
Then  happy  those,  since  each  must  drain 
His  share  of  pleasure,  share  of  pain,  — 
Then  happy  those,  beloved  of  Heaven, 
To  whom  the  mingled  cup  is  given; 
Whose  lenient  sorrows  find  relief. 
Whose  joys  are  chasten'd  by  their  grief. 
And  such  a  lot,  my  Skene,  was  thine. 
When  thou  of  late,  wert  doom'd  to  twine. 
Just  when  thy  bridal  hour  was  by,  — 
The  cypress  with  the  myrtle  tie. 
Just  on  thy  bride  her  Sire  had  smiled. 
And  bless'd  the  union  of  his  child, 
When  love  must  change  its  joyous  cheer 
And  wipe  affection's  filial  tear. 
Nor  did  the  actions  next  his  end. 
Speak  more  the  father  than  the  friend. 
Scarce  had  lamented  Forbes  *^  paid 
The  tribute  to  his  Minstrel's  shade; 
The  tale  of  friendship  scarce  was  told, 
Ere  the  narrator's  heart  was  cold  — 
Far  may  we  search  before  we  find 
A  heart  so  manly  and  so  kind ! 
But  not  around  his  honor'd  urn. 
Shall  friends  alone  and  kindred  mourn; 
The  thousand  eyes  his  care  had  dried, 
Pour  at  his  name  a  bitter  tide; 

*  Scottish  harvest-home. 


82 


MARMION. 


Canto  IV. 


And  frequent  falls  the  grateful  dew, 
For  benefits  the  world  ne'er  knew. 
If  mortal  charity  dare  claim 
The  Almighty's  attributed  name, 
Inscribe  above  his  mouldering  clay, 
"  The  widow's  shield,  the  orphan'sstay." 
Nor,  though  it  wake  thy  sorrow,  deem 
My  verse  intrudes  on  this  sad  theme; 
For  sacred  was  the  pen  that  wrote, 
"Thy  father's  friend  forget  thou  not:" 
And  grateful  title  may  I  plead, 
For  many  a  kindly  word  and  deed, 
To  bring  my  tribute  to  his  grave: — 
'Tis  little  —  but  'tis  all  I  have. 

To  thee,  perchance,  this  rambling  strain 
Recalls  our  summer  walks  again; 
When,  doing  naught, — and,  tospeak  true. 
Not  anxious  to  find  aught  to  do,  — 
The  wild  unbounded  hills  we  ranged. 
While  oft  our  talk  its  topic  changed. 
And,  desultory  as  our  way. 
Ranged,  unconfincd,  from  grave  to  gay. 
Even  when  it  flagg'd,  as  oft  will  chance. 
No  effort  made  to  break  its  trance. 
We  could  right  pleasantly  pursue 
Our  sports  in  social  silence  too; 
Thou  bravely  laljoring  to  portray 
The  blighted  oak's  fantastic  spray; 
I  spelling  o'er,  with  much  delight. 
The  legend  of   that  antique  knight, 
Tirante  by  name,  yclep'd  the  White. 
At  cither's  feet  a  trusty  squire, 
Pandour  and  Camp,*  with  eyes  of  fire, 
Jealous,  each  other's  motions  view'd. 
And  scarce  suppress'd  their  ancient  feud. 
The  laverock  t  whistled  from  the  cloud; 
The  stream  was  lively,  but  not  loud; 
From  the  whitethorn  the  May- flower  shed 
Its  dewy  fragrance  round  our  head: 
Not  Ariel  lived  more  merrily 
Under  the  blossom'd  bough,  than  we. 

And  blithesome  nights,  too,  have  been 
ours. 
When  Winter  stript  the  summer's  bowers. 
Careless  we  heard,  what  now  I  hear. 
The  wild  blast  sighing  deep  and  drear,  ■ 
When  fires  were  bright,  and  lamps  beam'd 

And  ladies  tuned  the  lovely  lay; 

*  A  favorite  bull-terrier  of  Sir  Walter's, 
t  Laverock,  the  lark. 


And  he  was  held  a  laggard  soul, 
Who  shunn'd  to  quaff  the  sparkling  Ijowl. 
Then  he,  whose  absence  we  deplore,  t 
Who  breathes  the  gales  of  Devon's  shore, 
The  longer  miss'd,  bewail'd  the  more; 

And  thou,  and  I,  and  dear  loved  R ,§ 

And  one  whose  name  I  may  not  say, —  II 

For  not  mimosa's  tender  tree 

Shrinks  sooner  from  the  touch  than  he, — 

In  merry  chorus  well  combined. 

With  laughterdrown'd  the  whistling  wind. 

Mirth  was  within;  and  Care  without 

Might  gnaw  her  nails  to  hear  our  shout. 

Not  but  amid  the  buxom  scene 

Some  grave  discourse  night  intervene  — 

Of  the  good  horse  that  bore  him  best. 

His  shoulder,  hoof,  and  arching  crest: 

For,  like  mad  Tom's, If  our  chiefest  care. 

Was  horse  to  ride,  and  weapon  wear. 

Such  nights  we've  had:    and,  though  the 

game 
Of  manhood  be  more  sober  tame. 
And  though  the  field-day,  or  the  drill. 
Seem  less  important  now  —  yet  still 
Such  may  we  hope  to  share  again. 
The  sprightly  thought  inspires  my  strain  ! 
And  mark,  how,  like  a  horseman  true. 
Lord  Marmion's  march  I  thus  renew. 


CANTO   FOURTH. 

THE   CAMP. 
I. 

Eustace,  I  said,  did  blithely  mark 
The  first  notes  of  the  merry  lark. 
The  lark  sang  shrill,  the  cock  he  crew, 
And  loudly  Marmion's  bugles  blew. 
And  with  their  light  and  lively  call. 
Brought  groom  and  yeomen  to  the  stall. 

Whistling  they  came,  and  free  of  heart. 
But  soon  their  mood  was  changed; 

Complaint  was  heard  on  every  part. 
Of  something  disarranged. 

X  Colin  Mackenzie,  of  Portmore. 

§  Sir  William  Rae,  Bart.,  of  St.  Catharine's. 

II  Sir  William  Forbes,  Bart.,  of  Pitsligo.  Son 
of  the  author  of  the  life  of  Beattie  and  brother- 
in-law  of  James  Skene. 

H  Common  name  for  an  idiot;  assumed  by 
Edgar  in  King  Lear. 


Canto  IV. 


THE   CAMP. 


83 


Some  clamor 'd  loud  for  armor  lost; 
Some  brawl'd  and  wrangled  with  the  host ; 
"  By    Becket's    bones,"    cried  one,   "  I 

fear. 
That    some    false    Scot    has    stolen    my 

spear !  " — 
Young  Blount,  Lord  Marmion's  second 

squire, 
Found  his  steed  wet  with  sweat  and  mire; 
Although  the  rated  horse-l)oy  sware. 
Last  night  he  dressed  him  sleek  and  fair. 
While  chafed  the  impatient  squire,  like 

thunder 
Old  Hubert  shouts,  in  fear  and  wonder, — 
"Help, gentle  Blount !  help, comrades  all ! 
Bevis  lies  dying  in  his  stall:" 
To  Marmion  who  the  plight  dare  tell, 
Of  the  good  steed  he  loves  so  well  ? 
Gaping  for  fear  and  ruth,  they  saw 
The  charger  panting  on  his  straw; 
Till  one, who  would  seem  wisest,  cried :  — 
"  What  else  but  evil  could  betide. 
With  that  cursed  Palmer  for  our  guide? 
Better  we  had  through  mire  and  bush 
Been  lantern-led  by  Friar  Rush."  *'^ 


Fitz-Eustace,     who     the     cause     but 
guess'd, 
Nor  wholly  understood. 
His  comrades'  clamorous  plaints  sup- 
press'd; 
He  knew  Lord  Marmion's  mood. 
Him,  ere  he  issued  forth,  he  sought. 
And  found    deep  plunged    in  gloomy 
thought, 
And  did  his  tale  display 
Simply  as  if  he  knew  of  naught 
To  cause  such  disarray. 
Lord  Marmion  gave  attention  cold, 
Nor  marvell'd  at  the  wonders  told,  — 
Pass'd  them  as  accidents  of  course, 
And  bade  his  clarions  sound  to  horse. 


Young  Henry  Blount,  meanwhile,  the  cost 
Had  reckon'd  with  their  Scottish  host; 
And,  as  the  charge  he  cast  and  paid, 
"  111  thou  deserv'st  thy  hire,"  he  said  ; 
"  Dost    see,    thou    knave,    my    horse's 

plight  ? 
Fairies  have  ridden  him  all  the  night. 


And  left  him  in  a  foam ! 
I  trust  that  soon  a  conjuring  band. 
With  English  cross  and  blazing  brand, 
Shall  drive  the  devils  from  this  land. 

To  their  infernal  home: 
For  in  this  haunted  den,  I  trow, 
All  night  they  trample  to  and  fro." 
The  laughing  host  look'd  on  the  hire :  — 
"  Gramercy,  gentle  southern  squire. 
And  if  thou  comest  among  the  rest, 
With  Scottish  broadsword  to  l>e  blest, 
Sharp  be  the  brand,  and  sure  the  blow. 
And  short  the  pang  to  undergo." 
Here  stay'd  their  talk, —  for  Marmion 
Gave  now  a  signal  to  set  on. 
The  Palmer  showing  forth  the  way, 
They  journey'd  all  the  morning  day. 


The  green-sward  way  was  smooth   and 

good. 
Through  Humbie's  and  through  Saltoun's 

wood; 
A  forest  glade,  which,  varying  still. 
Here  gave  a  view  of  dale  and  hill. 
There  narrower  closed,  till  over-head 
A  vaulted  screen  the  branches  made. 
"  A  pleasant  path,"  Fitz-Eustace  said; 
"  Such   as   where    errant-knights   might 

see 
Adventures  of  high  chivalry; 
Might  meet  some  damsel  flying  fast. 
With  hair  unbound  and  looks  aghast; 
And  smooth  and  level  course  were  here. 
In  her  defence  to  break  a  spear. 
Here,  too,  are  twilight  nooks  and  dells; 
And  oft,  in  such,  the  story  tells. 
The  damsel  kind,  from  danger  freed, 
Did  grateful  pay  her  champion's  meed." 
He  spoke  to  cheer  Lord  Marmion's  mind: 
Perchance  to  show  his  lore  design'd; 

For  Eustace  much  had  pored 
Upon  a  huge  romantic  tome. 
In  the  hall  window  of  his  home. 
Imprinted  at  the  antique  dome 

Of  Caxton,  or  De  Worde.* 
Therefore    he    spoke,  —  but    spoke    in 

vain, 
For  Marmion  answer'd  naught  again. 

»  William  Caxton  was  the  earliest  English 
printer;  bom  in  Kent,  a.d.  1412,  died  i4<)i ; 
Wynken  de  Worde  was  his  successor. 


MARMION. 


Canto  IV 


Now  sudden,  distant  trumpets  shrill, 
In  notes  prolong'd  by  wood  and  hill, 

Were  heard  to  echo  far; 
Each  ready  archer  grasp'd  his  bow. 
But  by  the  flourish  soon  they  know, 

They  breathed  no  point  of  war. 
Yet  cautious,  as  in  foeman's  land. 
Lord  Marmion's  order  speeds  the  band, 

Some  opener  ground  lo  gain; 
And  scarce  a  furlong  had  they  rode. 
When  thinner  trees,  receding,  show'd 

A  little  woodland  plain. 
Just  in  that  advantageous  glade, 
The  halting  troop  a  line  had  made, 
As  forth  from  the  opposing  shade 

Issued  a  gallant  train. 


First  came  the  trumpets  at  whose  clang 
So  late  the  forest  echoes  rang; 
On  prancing  steeds  they  forward  press'd, 
With  scarlet  mantle,  azure  vest; 
Each  at  his  trump  a  banner  wore. 
Which  Scotland's  royal  scutcheon  bore: 
Heralds  and  pursuivants,  by  name 
Bute,  Islay,  Marchmount,  Rothsay,  came, 
In  painted  tabards,  proudly  showing 
Gules,  Argent,  Or,  and  Azure  glowing. 

Attendant  on  a  King-at-arms, 
Whose  hand  the  armorial  truncheon  held 
That  feudal  strife  had  often  quell'd. 

When  wildest  its  alarms. 

VII. 

He  was  a  man  of  middle  age; 
In  aspect  manly,  grave,  and  sage, 

As  on  King's  errand  come; 
But  in  the  glances  of  his  eye, 
A  penetrating,  keen,  and  sly 

Expression  found  its  home; 
The  flash  of  that  satiric  rage. 
Which,  bursting  on  the  early  stage. 
Branded  the  vices  of  the  age. 

And  broke  the  keys  of  Rome. 
On  milk-white  palfrey  forth  he  paced; 
His  cap  of  maintenance  was  graced 

With  the  proud  heron-plume. 
From    his    steed's    shoulder,    loin,    and 
breast, 

Silk  housings  swept  the  ground. 
With  Scotland's  arms,  device,  and  crest, 

Embroider'd  round  and  round. 


The  double  tressure  might  you  see. 

First  by  Achaius  borne, 
The  thistle  and  the  fleur-de-lis, 

And  gallant  unicorn. 
So  bright  the  King's  armorial  coat, 
That  scarce  the  dazzled  eye  could  note, 
In  living  colors,  blazon'd  brave. 
The  Lion,  which  his  title  gave; 
A  train  which  well  beseem'd  his  state, 
Rut  all  unarm'd,  around  him  wait. 

Still  is  thy  name  in  high  account, 
And  still  thy  verse  has  charms. 

Sir  David  Lindesay  of  the  Mount, 
Lord  Lion  King-at-arms  !"*•* 


Down  from  his  horse  did  Marmion  spring. 

Soon  as  he  saw  the  Lion-King; 

For  well  the  stately  Baron  knew 

To  him  such  courtesy  was  due. 

Whom  royal  James  himself  had  crown'd. 

And  on  his  temples  placed  the  round 

Of  Scotland's  ancient  diadem  : 
And  wet  his  brow  with  hallow'd  wine. 
And  on  his  finger  given  to  shine 

The  emblematic  gem. 
Their  mutual  greetings  duly  made. 
The  Lion  thus  his  message  said:  — 
"  Though  Scotland's  King  hath  deeply 

swore 
Ne'er  to  knit  faith  with  Henry  more. 
And  strictly  hath  forbid  resort 
From  England  to  his  royal  court; 
Yet,  for  he  knows  Lord  Marmion's  name. 
And  honors  much  his  warlike  fame, 
My  liege  hath  deem'd  it  shame,  and  lack 
Of  courtesy,  to  turn  him  back; 
And,  by  his  order,  I,  your  guide, 
Must  lodging  fit  and  fair  provide. 
Till  finds  King  James  meet  time  to  see 
The  flower  of  English  chivalry." 


Though  inly  chafed  at  this  delay, 
Lord  Marmion  bears  it  as  he  may. 
The  Palmer,  his  mysterious  guide, 
Beholding  thus  his  place  supplied. 

Sought  to  take  leave  in  vain; 
Strict  was  the  Lion  King's  command, 
That  none,  who  rode  in  Marmion's  band. 

Should  sever  from  the  train :  — 
"  England  has  here  enow  of  spies 
In  Lady  Heron's  witching  eyes  ;  " 


Canto  IV. 


THE   CAMP. 


85 


To  Marchmount  thus,  apart,  he  said, 
But  fair  pretext  to  Marmion  made. 
The  right-hand  path  they  now  decline, 
And  trace  against  the  stream  the  Tyne. 


At  length  up  that  wild  dale  they  wind. 

Where  Crichtoun  Castle^''  crowns  the 
bank; 
For  there  the  Lion's  care  assign'd 

A  lodging  meet  for  Marmion's  rank. 
That  Castle  rises  on  the  steep 

Of  the  green  vale  of  Tyne : 
And  far  beneath,  where  slow  they  creep, 
From  pool  to  eddy,  dark  and  deep. 
Where  alders  moist,  and  willows  weep. 

You  hear  her  streams  repine. 
The  towers  in  different  ages  rose; 
Their  various  architecture  shows 

The  builders'  various  hands; 
A  mighty  mass,  that  could  oppose,   • 
When  deadliest  hatred  fired  its  foes. 

The  vengeful  Douglas  bands. 


Crichtoun  !   though  now  thy  miry  court 
But  pens  the  lazy  steer  and  sheep. 
Thy  turrets  rude,  and  totter'd  Keep, 
Have  been  the  minstrel's  loved  resort. 
Oft  have  I  traced,  within  thy  fort, 

Of  mouldering  shields  the  mystic  sense, 
.Scutcheons  of  honor,  or  pretence, 
Quarter'd  in  old  armorial  sort, 

Remains  of  rude  magnificence. 
Nor  wholly  yet  had  time  defaced 

Thy  lordly  gallery  fair; 
Nor  yet  the  stony  cord  unbraced. 
Whose  twisted  knots,  with  roses  laced. 

Adorn  thy  ruin'd  stair; 
Still  rises  unimpair'd  below. 
The  court-yard's  graceful  portico: 
Above  its  cornice,  row  and  row 
Of  fair  hewn  facets  richly  show 

Their  pointed  diamond  form. 
Though  there  Init  houseless  cattle  go, 
To  shield  them  from  the  storm. 
And,  shuddering,  still  may  we  explore, 
Where  oft  whilom  werecaptives  pent. 
The  darkness  of  thy  Massy  More; 
Or,  from  thygrass-grown  battlement. 
May  trace,  in  undulating  line. 
The  sluggish  mazes  of  the  Tyne. 


Another  aspect  Crichtoun  show'd. 

As  through  its  portals  Marmion  rode; 

But  yet  'twas  melancholy  state 

Received  him  at  the  outer  gate; 

For  none  were  in  the  Castle  then, 

But  women,  boys,  or  aged  men. 

With  eyes  scarce  dried,  the   sorrowing 

dame. 
To  welcome  noble  Marmion,  came; 
Her  son,  a  stripling  twelve  years  old, 
Proffer'd  the  Baron's  rein  to  hold; 
For  each  man  that  could  draw  a  sword 
Had  march'd  that  morning  with  their  lord. 
Earl  Adam  Hepburn,'"' he  who  died 
On  Flodden,  by  his  sovereign's  side. 
Long  may  his  Lady  look  in  vain ! 
She  ne'er  shall  see  his  gallant  train 
Come  sweeping  back  through  Crichtoun- 

Dean, 
'Twas  a  brave  race,  Ijefore  the  name 
Of  hated  Bothwell  stain'd  their  fame. 


And  here  two  days  did  Marmion  rest, 

With  every  rite  that  honor  claims. 
Attended  as  the  King's  own  guest :  — 

Such  the  command  of  royal  James, 
Who  marshall'd  then  his  land's  array. 
Upon  the  Borough-moor  that  lay. 
Perchance  he  would  not  foeman's  eye 
Upon  his  gathering  host  should  pry. 
Till  full  prepared  was  every  band 
To  march  against  the  English  land. 
Here  while  they  dwelt,  did  Lindesay's  wit 
Oft  cheer  the  Baron's  moodier  fit; 
And,  in  his  turn,  he  knew  to  prize 
Lord  Marmion's  powerful  mind,  and  wise, 
Train'd  in  the  lore  of  Rome  and  Greece, 
And  policies  of  war  and  peace. 


It  chanced,  as  fell  the  second  night. 

That  on  the  battlements  they  walk'd. 
And,  by  the  slowly  fading  light, 

Of  varying  topics  talk'd; 
And,  unaware,  the  Herald-bard 
Said,  Marmion  might  his  toil  have  spared. 

In  travelling  so  far; 
For  that  a  messenger  from  heaven 
In  vain  to  James  had  counsel  given 

Against  the  English  war;  *'' 


86 


M ARM  ION. 


Canto  IV. 


And,  closer  question'd,  thus  he  told 
A  tale,  which  chronicles  of  old 
In  Scottish  story  have  enroU'd:  — 

XV. 
SIR    DAVID    LINDKSAY'S   TALE. 

"  Of  all  the  palaces  so  fair, 

Built  for  the  royal  dwelling. 
In  Scotland,  far  beyond  compare 

Linlithgow  is  excelling; 
And  in  its  park  in  jovial  June, 
How  sweet  the  merry  linnet's  tune. 

How  blithe  the  blackbird's  lay  ! 
The  wild-buck  bells***  from  ferny  brake. 
The  coot  dives  merry  on  the  lake,     , 
The  saddest  heart  might  pleasure  take 

To  see  all  nature  gay. 
But  June  is  to  our  sovereign  dear 
The  heaviest  month  in  all  the  year: 
Too  well  his  cause  of  grief  you  know, 
June  saw  his  father's  overthrow.*** 
Woe  to  the  traitors,  who  could  bring 
The  princely  boy  against  his  King ! 
Still  in  his  conscience  burns  the  sting. 
In  offices  as  strict  as  Lent, 
King  James's  June  is  ever  spent. 


"  When  last  this  ruthful  month  was  come, 
And  in  Linlithgow's  holy  dome 

The  King,  as  wont,  was  praying; 
While,  for  his  royal  fatiier's  soul. 
The  chanters  sung,  the  bells  did  toll, 

The  Bishop  mass  was  saying  — • 
For  now  the  year  lirought  round  again 
The  day  the  luckless  king  was  slain  — 
In  Katharine's  aisle  the  Monarch  knelt. 
With  sackcloth-shirt,  and  iron  belt, 

And  eyes  with  sorrow  streaming; 
Around  him  in  their  stalls  of  state. 
The  Thistle's  Knight-Companions  sate, 

Their  banners  o'er  them  beaming. 
I  too  was  there,  and,  sooth  to  tell, 
Bedeafen'd  with  the  jangling  knell, 
Was  watching  where  the  sun1)eams  fell. 

Through  thestain'tl  casementgleaming; 
But,  while  I  mark'd  what  next  befell, 

It  seem'd  as  I  were  dreaming. 
Stcpp'd  from  the  crowd  a  ghostly  wight, 
In  azure  gown,  with  cincture  white; 
His  forehead  bald,  his  head  was  bare, 
Down  hung  at  length  his  yellow  hair,  — 


Now,  mock  me  not,  when,  good  my  Lord, 
I  pledge  to  you  my  knightly  word. 
That,  when  I  saw  his  placid  grace, 
His  simj)le  majesty  of  face, 
His  solemn  bearing,  and  his  pace 

So  stately  gliding  on,  — 
Seem'd  to  me  ne'er  did  limner  paint 
So  just  an  image  of  the  Saint, 
Who  propp'd  the  V-'irgin  in  her  faiit,  — 

The  loved  Apostle  John  ! 


''  He  stepp'd  before  the  Monarch's  chair. 
And  stood  with  rustic  plainness  there, 

And  little  reverence  made; 
Nor  head,  nor  body,  bow'd  nor  bent, 
But  on  the  desk  his  arm  he  leant. 

And  words  like  these  he  said. 
In  a  low  voice,  but  never  tone 
So  thrill'd  through  vein,  and  nerve  and 

bone : — 
'  My 'mother  sent  me  from  afar. 
Sir  King,  to  warn  thee  not  to  war,  — 

Woe  waits  on  thine  array; 
If  war  thou  wilt,  of  woman  fair. 
Her  witching  wiles  and  wanton  snare, 
James  Stuart,  doubly  warn'd,  beware: 
God  keep  thee  as  he  may  !  ' 

The  wondering  Monarch  seem'd  to 
seek 
For  answer,  and  found  none; 
And   when   he    raised    his    head   to 
speak. 
The  monitor  was  gone; 
The  Marshal  and  myself  had  cast 
To  stop  him  as  he  outward  pass'd; 
But,  lighter  than  the  whirlwind's  blast, 

He  vanish'd  from  our  eyes. 

Like  sunlieam  on  the  billow  cast. 

That  glances  but,  and  dies." 

XVIII. 

While  Lindesay  told  his  marvel  strange, 

The  twilight  was  so  pale. 
He  mark'd  not  Marmion's  color  change, 

While  listening  to  the  tale; 
But,  after  a  suspended  pause. 
The  Baron  spoke : — "  Of  Nature's  laws 

So  strong  I  held  the  force. 
That  never  superhuman  cause 
Could  e'er  control  their  course. 
And, three  days  since,  had  judged  your  aim 
Was  but  to  make  your  guest  your  game. 


Canto  IV. 


THE    CAMP. 


87 


But  I  have  seen,  since  past  the  Tweed, 
What  much  has  changed  my  skeptic  creed, 
And  made  me  credit  aught."  —  He  staid, 
And  seem'd  to  wish  his  words  unsaid: 
But,  by  that  strong  emotion  press'd. 
Which  prompts  us  to  unload  our  breast. 

Even  when  discovery's  pain, 
To  Lindesay  did  at  length  unfold 
The  tale  his  village  host  had  told. 

At  Gifford,  to  his  train. 
Naught  of  the  Palmer  says  he  there. 
And  naught  of  Constance  or  of  Clare; 
The  thoughts,  which  broke  his  sleep,  he 

seems 
To  mention  but  as  feverish  dreams. 


"  In  vain,"  said  he,  "  to  rest  I  spread 
My  burning  limbs,  and  couch'd  my  head: 

Fantastic  thoughts  return 'd; 
And,  by  their  wild  dominion  led. 

My  heart  within  me  burn'd. 
So  sore  was  the  delirious  goad, 
I  took  my  steed,  and  forth  I  rode. 
And,  as  the  moon  shone  bright  and  cold, 
Soon  reach'd  the  camp  upon  the  wold. 
The  southern  entrance  I  pass'd  through. 
And  halted,  and  my  bugle  blew. 
Methought  an  answer  met  my  ear,  — 
Yet  was  the  blast  so  low  and  drear, 
So  hollow,  and  so  faintly  blown, 
It  might  be  echo  of  my  own. 


"Thus  judging,  for  a  little  space 
I  listen'd,  ere  I  left  the  place; 

But  scarce  could  trust  my  eyes. 
Nor  yet  can  think  they  served  me  true. 
When  sudden  in  the  ring  I  view. 
In  form  distinct  of  shape  and  hue, 

A  mounted  champion  rise.  — 
I've  fought,  Lord-Lion,  many  a  day. 
In  single  fight,  and  mix'd  affray, 
And  ever,  I  myself  may  say. 

Have  borne  me  as  a  knight; 
But  when  this  unexpected  foe 
Seem'd  starting  from  the  gulf  below,  — 
I  care  not  though  the  truth  I  show,  — 

I  trembled  with  affright; 
And  as  I  placed  in  rest  my  spear, 
My  hand  so  shook  for  very  fear, 

I  scarce  could  coucb  '*^  right. 


"  Why  need  my  tongue  the  issue  tell? 
We  ran  our  course,  —  my  charger  fell :  — 
What  could  he  'gainst  the  shock  of  hell  ?  — 

I  roll'd  upon  the  plain. 
High   o'er   my   head,  with   threatening 

hand, 
The  spectre  shook  his  naked  brand,  — 

Yet  did  the  worst  remain: 
My  dazzled  eyes  I  upward  cast.. — 
Not  opening  hell  itself  could  blast 

Their  sight,  like  what  I  saw  ! 
Full  on  his  face  the  moonbeam  strook,  — 
A  face  could  never  be  mistook ! 
I  kn^w  the  stern  vindictive  look, 

And  held  my  breath  for  awe. 
I  saw  the  face  of  one  who,  fled 
To  foreign  climes,  has  long  been  dead,  — 

I  well  believe  the  last; 
For  ne'er,  from  vizor  raised,  did  stare 
A  human  warrior,  with  a  glare. 

So  grimly  and  so  ghast. 
Thrice  o'er  my  head  he  shook  the  blade; 
But  when  to  good  Saint  George  I  pray'd, 
(The  first  time  e'er  I  ask'd  his  aid,) 

He  plunged  it  in  the  sheath; 
And,  on  his  courser  mounting  light. 
He  seem'd  to  vanish  from  my  sight: 
The    moonbeam    droop'd,    and    deepest 
night 

Sunk  down  upon  the  heath.  — 

'Twere  long  to  tell  what  cause  I  have 
To  know  his  face,  that  met  me  there, 

Caird  by  his  hatred  from  the  grave. 
To  cumber  upper  air: 
Dead  or  alive,  good  cause  had  he 
To  be  my  mortal  enemy." 


Marveird  Sir  David  of  the  Mount; 
Then,  learn'd  in  story,  'gan  recount 

Such  chance  had  happ'd  of  old. 
When    once,    near    Norham,    there    did 

fight 
A  spectre  fell  of  fiendish  might 
In  likeness  of  a  Scottish  knight, 

W^ith  Brian  Bulmer  bold. 
And  train'd  him  nigh  to  disallow 
The  aid  of  his  baptismal  vow. 
"And  such  a  phantom,  too,  'tis  said. 
With  Highland  broadsword,  targe,  and 
plaid. 


MARMION. 


Canto  IV. 


And  fingers,  red  with  gore, 
Is  seen  in  Rothiemurcus  glade, 
Or  where  the  sable  pine-trees  shade 
Dark  Toniantoul,  and  Auchnaslaid, 

Uromouchty,  or  Glenmore.* 
And  yet,  whate'er  such  legends  say. 
Of  warlike  demon,  ghost,  or  fay, 

On  mountain,  moor,  or  plain, 
Spotless  in  faith,  in  bosom  bold, 
True  son  of  chivalry  should  hold 

These  midnight  terrors  vain; 
For  seldom  have  such  spirits  power 
To  harm,  save  in  the  evil  hour. 
When  guilt  we  meditate  within. 
Or  harbor  unrepented  sin  "  — 
Lord  Marmion  turn'd  him  half  aside, 
And  twice  to  clear  his  voice  he  tried. 

Then  press'd  Sir  David's  hand,  — 
But  naught,  at  length,  in  answer  said; 
And  here  their  farther  converse  staid, 

Each  ordering  that  his  band 
Jphould  boune  them  with  the  rising  day. 
To  Scotland's  camp  to  take  their  way.  — 

Such  was  the  King's  command. 


Early  they  took  Dun-Edin's  road. 
And  I  could  trace  each  step  they  trode. 
Hill,  brook,  nor  dell,  nor  rock,  nor  stone, 
Lies  on  the  path  to  me  unknown. 
Much  might  it  boast  of  storied  lore; 
But,  passing  such  digression  o'er, 
Suffice  it  that  the  route  was  laid 
Across  the  furzy  hills  of  Braid. 
They  pass'd  the  glen  and  scanty  rill. 
And  climb'd  the  opposing  bank,  until 
They  gain'd  the  top  of  Blackford  Hill. 


Blackford  !  on  whose  uncultured  breast. 
Among  the  broom,  and  thorn,  and 
whin, 

A  truant-boy,  I  sought  the  nest, 

Or  listed,  as  I  lay  at  rest. 
While  rose,  on  breezes  thin. 

The  murmur  of  the  city  crowd, 

And,  from  his  steeple  jangling  loud. 
Saint  Giles's  mingling  din. 

Now,  from  the  summit  to  the  plain. 

Waves  all  the  hill  with  yellow  grain; 

•  See  note  40. 


And  o'er  the  landscape  as  I  look. 
Naught  do  I  see  unchanged  remain, 
Save  the  rude  cliffs  and  chimingbrook. 
To  me  they  make  a  heavy  moan, 
Of  early  friendships  past  and  gone. 


But  different  far  the  change  has  l)een. 

Since  Marmion,  from  the  crown 
Of  Blackford,  saw  that  martial  scene 

Upon  the  bent  so  brown: 
Thousand  pavilions,  white  as  snow. 
Spread  all  the  Borough -moor  ^'  below. 

Upland,  and  dale,  and  down:  — 
A  thousand  did  I  say?     I  ween. 
Thousands  on  thousands  there  were  seen. 
That  chequer'd  all  the  heath  lx;tween 

The  streamlet  and  the  town; 
In  crossing  ranks  extending  far. 
Forming  a  canij)  irregular; 
Oft  giving  way,  where  still  there  stood 
Some  relics  of  the  old  oak  wood, 
That  darkly  huge  did  intervene. 
And  tamed  the  glaring  white  with  green: 
In  these  extended  lines  there  lay 
A  martial  kingdom's  vast  array. 


For  from  nebudes,^^  dark  with  rain, 
To  eastern  Lodon's  fertile  plain. 
And  from  the  Southern  Redswire  edge. 
To  farthest  Rosse's  rocky  ledge; 
From  west  to  east,  from  south  to  north, 
Scotland  sent  all  her  warriors  forth. 
Marmion  might  hear  the  mingled  hum 
Of  myriads  up  the  mountain  ct)me; 
The  horses'  tramp,  and  tingling  clank. 
Where  chiefs  review'd  their  vassal  rank, 

And  charger's  shrilling  neigh; 
And  see  the  shifting  lines  advance, 
While  frequent  flash'd,  from  shield  and 
lance. 

The  sun's  reflected  ray. 


Thin  curling  in  the  morning  air. 
The  wreaths  of  failing  smoke  declare 
To  embers  now  the  brands  decay 'd. 
Where    the    night-watch  their  fires  had 
made. 

t  The  ancient  name  of  the  Hebrides. 


Canto  IV. 


THE   CAMP. 


89 


They  saw,  slow  rolling  on  the  plain, 

Full  many  a  baggage-cart  and  wain, 

And  dire  artillery's  clumsy  car, 

By  sluggish  oxen  tugg'd  to  war; 

And    there    were     Borthwick's     Sisters 

Seven,* 
And  culverins  which  France  had  given. 
Ill-omen'd  gift !  the  guns  remain 
The  conqueror's  spoil  on  Flodden  plain. 


Nor  mark'd  they  less,  where  in  the  air 
A  thousand  streamers  flaunted  fair; 

Various  in  shape,  device,  and  hue. 

Green,  sanguine,  purple,  red,  and  blue. 
Broad, narrow,  swallow-tail'd,  and  square, 
Scroll,  pennon,  pensil,  bandrol,  there 

O'er  the  pavilions  flew. 
Highest  and  midmost,  was  descried 
The  royal  banner  floating  wide; 

The    staff,    a    pine-tree,    strong    and 
straight, 
Pitch'd  deeply  in  a  massive  stone, 
Which  still  in  memory  is  shown. 

Yet  bent  lieneath  the  standard's  weight 
Whene'er  the  western  wind  unroll'd. 

With  toil,  the  huge  and  cuml)rous  fold. 
And  gave  to  view  the  dazzling  field. 
Where,  in  proud  Scotland's  royal  shield. 

The  ruddy  lion  ramp'd  in  gold.^* 


Lord    Marmion    view'd    the    landscape 

bright,  — 
He  view'd  it  with  a  chief's  delight,  — 

Until  within  him  burn'd  his  heart, 

And  lightning  from  his  eye  did  part, 
As  on  the  battle-day; 

Such  glance  did  falcon  never  dart. 
When  stooping  on  his  prey. 
"Oh!  well,  Lord-Lion,  hast  thou  said, 
Thy  King  from  warfare  to  dissuade 

Were  but  a  vain  essay : 
For,  V)y  St.  George,  were  that  host  mine, 
Not  power  infernal  nor  divine. 
Should  once  to  peace  my  soul  incline. 
Till  I  had  dimm'd  their  armor's  shine 

In  glorious  battle-fray  !  " 
Answer'd  the  Bard,  of  milder  mood: 
"  Fair  is  the  sight,  —  and  yet  'twere  good, 

*  Seven   culverins,  so   called   from   him   who 
cast  them. 


That  kings  would  think  withal. 
When  peace  and  wealth  their  land  has 

bless'd, 
'Tis  better  to  sit  still  at  rest, 

Than  rise,  perchance  to  fall." 


Still  on  the  spot  Lord  Marmion  .stay'd. 
For  fairer  scene  he  ne'er  survey'd. 

When  sated  with  the  martial  show 

That  peopled  all  the  plain  below. 

The  wandering  eye  could  o'er  it  go 

And  mark  the  distant  city  glow 
With  gloomy  splendor  red; 

For  on  the  smoke-wreaths,  huge  and 
slow, 

That  round  her  sable  turrets  flow. 
The  morning  beams  were  shed, 

And  tinged  them  with  a  lustre  proud. 

Like    that    which  streaks    a    thunder- 
cloud. 
Such  dusky  grandeur  clothed  the  height. 
Where  the  huge  Castle  holds  its  state, 

And  all  the  steep  slope  down. 
Whose  ridgy  back  heaves  to  the  sky, 
Piled  deep  and  massy,  close  and  high, 

Mine  own  romantic  town  ! 
But  northward  far,  with  purer  blaze, 
On  Ochil  mountains  fell  the  rays. 
And  as  each  heathy  top  they  kiss'd. 
It  gleam'd  a  purple  amethyst. 
Yonder  the  shores  of  Fife  you  saw; 
Here  Preston-Bay  and  Berwick-Law  : 

And,  broad  between  them  roU'd, 
The  gallant  Frith  the  eye  might  note 
Whose  islands  on  its  bosom  float. 

Like  emeralds  chased  in  gold. 
Fitz-Eustace'  heart  felt  closely  pent; 
As  if  to  give  his  rapture  vent. 
The  spur  he  to  his  charger  lent. 

And  raised  his  bridle  hand. 
And,  making  demi-volte  in  air, 
Cried,  "  Where's  the  coward  that  would 
not  dare 

To  fight  for  such  a  land?  " 
The  Lindesay  smiled  his  joy  to  see; 
Nor     Marmion's    frown     repressed     his 
glee. 


Thus  while  they  look'd,  a  flourish  ]iroud, 
Where  mingled  trump  and  clarion  loud. 


90 


MARMION. 


Canto  IV. 


And  fife,  and  kettle-drum, 
And  sackbut  deep,  and  psaltery, 
And  war-pipe  with  discordant  cry, 
And  cymbal  clattering  to  the  sky. 
Making  wild  music  bold  and  high, 

Did  up  the  mountain  come; 
The  whilst  the  bells,  with  distant  chime. 
Merrily  told  the  hour  of  prime. 
And  thus  the  Lindesay  spoke :  — 
"  Thus  clamor  still  the  war-notes  when 
The  king  to  mass  his  way  has  ta'en. 
Or  to  St.  Katharine's  of  Sienne, 

Or  Chapel  of  Saint  Rocque. 
To  you  they  speak  of  martial  fame; 
But  me  remind  of  peaceful  game, 

When  blither  was  their  cheer. 
Thrilling  in  Falkland-woods  the  air, 
In  signal  none  his  steed  should  spare, 
But  strive  which  foremost  might  repair 

To  the  downfall  of  the  deer. 


"  Nor  less,"  he  said,  —  "  when  looking 

forth, 
I  view  yon  Empress  of  the  North 

Sit  on  her  hilly  throne; 
Her  palace's  imperial  bowers. 
Her  castle,  proof  to  hostile  powers. 
Her  stately  halls  and  holy  towers  — 

Nor  less,"  he  said,  "  1  moan, 
To  think  what  woe  mischance  may  bring, 
And  how  these  merry  bells  may  ring 
The  death-dirge  of  our  gallant  king; 

Or  with  the  'larum  call 
The  burghers  forth  to  watch  and  ward, 
'Gainst  southern  sack  and  fires  to  guard 

Dun-Edin's  leaguer'd  wall.  — 
But  not  for  my  presaging  thought. 
Dream  conquest  sure,  or  cheaply  bought ! 

Lord  Marmion,  I  say  nay : 
God  is  the  guider  of  the  field, 
He    Ijreaks    the    champion's    spear    and 
shield,  — 

But  thou  thyself  shalt  say, 
When  joins  yon  host  in  deadly  stowre, 
That    England's    dames    must    weep   in 
bower. 

Her  monks  the  death-mass  sing; 
For  never  saw'st  thou  such  a  power 

Led  on  by  such  a  King." — 
And  now,  d<jwn  winding  to  the  plain. 
The  barriers  of  the  camp  they  gain, 


And  there  they  made  a  stay.  — 
There  slays  the  Minstrel  till  he  fling 
His  hand  o'er  every  Border  string. 
And  fit  his  harp  the  pomp  to  sing. 
Of  Scotland's  ancient  Court  and  King, 

In  the  succeeding  lay. 


INTRODUCTION   TO   CANTO 
FIFTH. 

TO   GEORGE    EU.IS,    ESQ.* 

Edinburgh. 

When  dark  December  glooms  the  day. 
And  takes  our  autumn  joys  away; 
When    short    and    scant    the    sunbeam 

throws. 
Upon  the  weary  waste  of  snows, 
A  cold  and  profitless  regard, 
Like  patron  on  a  needy  bard; 
When  silvan  occupation's  done. 
And  o'er  the  chimney  rests  the  gun. 
And  hang,  in  idle  trophy,  near. 
The  game-pouch,  fishing-rod,  and  spear; 
When  wiry  terrier,  rougli  and  grim. 
And  greyhound,  with  his  length  of  limb. 
And  pointer,  now  employ'd  no  more. 
Cumber  our  parlor's  narrow  floor; 
When  in  his  stall  the  impatient  steed 
Is  long  condemned  to  rest  and  feed; 
When  from  our  snow-encircled  home. 
Scarce  cares  the  hardiest  step  to  roam. 
Since  path  is  none,  save  that  to  bring 
The  needful  water  from  the  spring; 
When  wrinkled  news-page,  thrice  conn'd 

o'er. 
Beguiles  the  dreary  hour  no  more. 
And  darkling  politician,  cross'd. 
Inveighs  against  the  lingering  post, 
And  answering  housewife  sore  complains 
Of  carriers'  snow-impeded  wains; 
When  such  the  country  cheer,  I  come. 
Well  pleased,  to  seek  our  city  home: 
For  converse,  and  for  books,  to  change 
The  Forest's  melancholy  range, 
And  welcome,  with  ronew'il  delight. 
The  busy  day  and  social  night. 

*  The  learned  editor  of  the  "  Specimens  of 
Ancient  English  Romances."  He  died  April 
Jo,  1.S15,  aged  70. 


INTRODUCTION   TO    CANTO    V. 


91 


Not  here  need  my  desponding  rhyme 
Lament  the  ravages  of  time, 
As  erst  by  Newark's  riven  towers, 
And  Ettrick  stripp'd  of  forest  bowers. 
True, — Caledonia's  Queen  is  changed,^'^ 
Since  on  her  dusky  summit  ranged, 
Within  its  steepy  limits  pent, 
By  bulwark,  line,  and  battlement. 
And  flanking  towers,  and  laky  flood, 
Guarded  and  garrison'd  she  stood, 
Denying  entrance  or  resort. 
Save  at  each  tall  embattled  port; 
Above  whose  arch,  suspended,  hung 
Portcullis  spiked  with  iron  prong. 
That  long  is  gone,  —  but  not  so  long 
Since,  early  closed,  and  opening  late, 
Jealous  revolved  the  studded  gate. 
Whose  task,  from  eve  to  morning  tide, 
A  wicket  churlishly  supplied. 
Stern,  then,  and  steel-girt  was  thy  brow, 
Dun-Edin  !  O,  how  alter'd  now. 
When  safe  amid  thy  mountain  court 
Thou  sit'st,  like  Empress  at  her  sport. 
And  liberal,  unconfined,  and  free. 
Flinging  thy  white  arms  to  the  sea. 
For  thy  dark  cloud,  with  umber'd  lower. 
That  hung  o'er  cliff,  and  lake,  and  tower, 
Thou  gleam'st  against  the  western  ray 
Ten  thousand  lines  of  brighter  day. 

Not  she,  the  Championess  of  old. 
In  Spenser's  magic  tale  enroll'd. 
She,  for  the  charmed  spear  renown'd, 
Which    forced    each  knight   to   kiss  the 

ground,  ■ — - 
Not  she  more  changed,  when,  placed  at 

rest. 
What  time  she  was  Malbecco's  guest. 
She  gave  to  flow  her  maiden  vest; 
When  from  the  corslet's  grasp  relieved, 
Free  to  the  sight  her  bosom  heaved; 
Sweet  was  her  blue  eye's  modest  smile. 
Erst  hidden  by  the  aventayle; 
And  down  her  shoulders  graceful  roU'd, 
Her  locks  profuse,  of  paly  gold. 
They  who  whilom,  in  midnight  fight. 
Had  marvell'd  at  her  matchless  might, 
No  less  her  maiden  charms  approved. 
But  looking  liked,  and  liking  loved. 
The  sight  could  jealous  pangs  beguile, 
And  charm  Malbecco's  cares  a  while; 
And  he,  the  wandering  Squire  of  Dames, 
Forgot  his  Columbella's  claims, 


And  passion,  erst  unknown,  could  gain 

The  breast  of  blunt  Sir  Satyrane; 

Nor  durst  light  Paridel  advance. 

Bold  as  he  was,  a  looser  glance. 

She    charm'd   at   once,    and    tamed    the 

heart, 
Incomparable  Britomarte !  * 

So  thou,  fair  City  !  disarray 'd 
Of  battled  wall,  and  rampart's  aid, 
As  stately  seem'st,  but  lovelier. far 
Than  in  that  panoply  of  war. 
Nor  deem  that  from  thy  fenceless  throne 
Strength  and  security  are  flown ; 
Still,  as  of  yore.  Queen  of  the  North  ! 
Still  canst  thou  send  thy  children  forth. 
Ne'er  readier  at  alarm-bell's  call 
Thy  burghers  rose  to  man  thy  wall. 
Than  now,  in  danger,  shall  be  thine, 
Thy  dauntless  voluntary  line; 
For  fosse  and  turret  proud  to  stand, 
Their  breasts  the  bulwarks  of  the  land. 
Thy  thousands,  trained  to  martial  toil. 
Full  red  would  stain  their  native  soil, 
Ere  from  thy  mural  crown  there  fell 
The  slightest  knosp  or  pinnacle. 
And  if  it  come,  —  as  come  it  may, 
Dun-Edin  !  that  eventful  day,  — 
Renown'd  for  hospitable  deed. 
That  virtue  much  with  Heaven  may  plead, 
In  patriarchal  times  whose  care 
Descending  angels  deign'd  to  share; 
That  claim  may  wrestle  blessings  down 
On  those  who  fight  for  The  Good  Town, 
Destined  in  every  age  to  be 
Refuge  of  injured  royalty; 
Since  first,  when  conquering  York  arose. 
To  Henry  meek  she  gave  repose, t 
Till  late,  with  wonder,  grief,  and  awe. 
Great  Bourbon's  relics,  sad  she  saw.t 

*  The  Maiden  Knight  in  Spenser's  "  Faerie 
Queen,"  book  iii.  canto  9. 

t  Henry  VI.  of  England,  who  with  his  Queen, 
his  heir,  and  the  chiefs  of  his  family,  sought 
refuge  in  Scotland  after  the  fatal  battle  of  Tow- 
ton.     "  The  Meek  Usurper,"  see  Gray. 

+  In  Januar)',  1796,  the  exiled  Comte  d'Artois, 
afterwards  Charles  X.  of  France,  took  up  his 
residence  at  Holy-Rood,  where  he  remained  till 
August,  1799.  When  again  driven  from  his  coun- 
try bv  the  Revolution  of  1830,  the  same  unfortu- 
nate Prince,  with  all  the  immediate  members  of 
his  family,  sought  refuge  once  more  in  the  ancient 
palace  of  the  Stuarts,  and  remained  there  till 
Sept.  18.  18+2. 


92 


MAKMION. 


Canto  V. 


Truce  to  these  thoughts !  —  For,  as  they 
rise, 
How  gladly  I  avert  mine  eyes, 
Bodings,  or  true  or  false,  to  change, 
For  Fiction's  fair  romantic  range. 
Or  for  Tradition's  dubious  light, 
That  hovers  'twixt  the  day  and  night: 
Dazzling  alternately  and  dim, 
Her  wavering  lamp  I'd  rather  trim, 
Knights,   squires,  and    lovely  dames   to 

see, 
Creation  of  my  fantasy. 
Than  gaze  abroad  on  reeky  fen, 
And  make  of  mists  invading  men. 
Who  loves  not  more  the  night  of  June 
Than  dull  December's  gloomy  noon  ? 
The  moonlight  than  the  fog  of  frost? 
And  can  we  say,  which  cheats  the  most? 

But  who  shall  teach  my  harp  to  gain 
A  sound  of  the  romantic  strain. 
Whose  Anglo-Norman  tones  ,whilere 
Could  win  the  royal  Henry's  ear, 
Famed  Beauclerc  call'd,  for  that  he  loved 
The  minstrel  *  and  his  lay  approved  ? 
Who  shall  these  lingering  notes  redeem. 
Decaying  on  Oblivion's  stream; 
Such  notes  as  from  the  Breton  tongue 
Marie  t  translated,  Blondel  sung?  — 
O !  born,  Time's  ravage  to  repair. 
And  make  the  dying  Muse  thy  care; 
Who,  when  his  scythe  her  hoary  foe 
Was  poising  for  the  final  blow. 
The  weapon  from  his  hand  could  wring. 
And  Ijreak  his  glass,  and  shear  his  wing. 
And  bid,  reviving  in  his  strain. 
The  gentle  poet  live  again; 
Thou,  who  canst  give  to  lightest  lay 
An  unpedantic  moral  gay, 
Nor  less  the  dullest  theme  bid  flit 
On  wings  of  unexpected  wit; 
In  letters  as  in  life  approved. 
Example  honor'd,  and  beloved,  — 
Dear  Ellis!   to  the  bard  impart 
A  lesson  of  thy  magic  art. 
To  win  at  once  the  head  and  heart.  — - 
At  once  to  charm,  instruct,  and  mend. 
My  guide,  my  pattern,  and  my  friend ! 

*  Philip  de  Than. 

t  Marie  of  France,  who  translated  the  "  Lais  " 
of  Hrittany  into  French.  She  resided  at  the 
Court  of  Henry  III.  of  England,  to  whom  she 
dedicated  her  book. 


Such  minstrel  lesson  to  bestow 
Be  long  thy  pleasing  task, — but,  O! 
No  more  by  thy  example  teach, 
—  What     few    can     practise,     all    can 

preach, — 
With  even  patience  to  endure 
Lingering  disease,  and  painful  cure. 
And  boast  affliction's  pangs  subdued 
By  mild  and  manly  fortitude. 
Enough,  the  lesson  has  been  given: 
Forbid  the  repetition.  Heaven  ! 

Come  listen,  then  !  for  thou  hast  known, 
And  loved  the  Minstrel's  varying  tone, 
Who,  like  his  Border  sires  of  old, 
Waked  a  wild  measure  rude  and  bold, 
Till  Windsor's  oaks,  and  Ascot  plain, 
With  wonder  heard  the  northern  strain. 
Come  listen  !   lx)ld  in  thy  applause, 
The  liard  shall  scorn  pedantic  laws; 
And,  as  the  ancient  art  could  stain 
Achievements  on  the  storied  pane. 
Irregularly  traced  and  plann'd, 
But  yet  so  glowing  and  so  grand, — 
So  shall  he  strive,  in  changeful  hue. 
Field,  feast,  and  combat,  to  renew. 
And  loves,  and  arms,  and  harpers'  glee, 
And  all  the  pomp  of  chivalry. 


CANTO   FIFTH. 

THE   COURT. 


Thk  train  has  left  the  hills  of   Braid; 
The  Iwrrier  guard  have  open  made 
(So  Lindesay  bade)  the  palisade, 

That  closed  the  tented  ground; 
Their  men  the  warders  backward  drew. 
And  carried  pikes  as  they  rode  through, 

Into  its  ample  bound. 
Fast  ran  the  .Scottish  warriors  there, 
Upon  the  Southern  band' to  stare. 
And  envy  with  their  wo  uler  rose. 
To  see  such  well-appointed  foes; 
Such  length  of  shafts,  such  mighty  bows, 
So  huge,  that  many  simply  thought. 
But  for  a  vaunt  such  weapons  wrought; 
And  little  deem'd  their  force  to  feel, 
Through  links  of  mail,  and  plates  of  steel, 
When  rattling  upon  Flodden  vale, 
The  cloth-yard  arrows  flew  like  hail.^ 


Canto  V. 


THE    COURT. 


93 


Nor  less  did  Marmion's  skilful  view 
Glance  every  line  and  squadron  through, 
And  much  he  marvell'd  one  small  land 
Could  marshal  forth  such  various  band : 

For  men-at-arms  were  here, 
Heavily  sheathed  in  mail  and  plate. 
Like  iron  towers  for  strength  and  weight, 
On  Flemish  steeds  of  bone  and  height, 

With  battle-axe  and  spear. 
Young  knights  and  squires,  a  lighter  train. 
Practised  their  chargers  on  the  plain. 
By  aid  of  leg,  of  hand,  and  rein, 

F]ach  warlike  feat  to  show, 
To  pass,  to  wheel,  the  croupe  to  gain. 
And  high  curvett,  that  not  in  vain 
The  sword  sway  might  descend  amain 

On  foeman's  casque  below. 
He  saw  the  hardy  burghers  there 
March  arm'd,  on  foot,  with  faces  bare,*^ 

For  vizor  they  wore  none. 
Nor  waving  plume,  nor  crest  of  knight; 
But  burnished  were  their  corslets  bright. 
Their  brigantines,  and  gorgets  light. 

Like  very  silver  shone. 
Long  pikes  they  had  for  standing  fight, 

Two-handed  swords  they  wore. 
And  many  wielded  mace  of  weight. 

And  bucklers  bright  they  bore. 


On  foot  the  yeoman  too,  but  dress'd 
In  his  steel-jack,  a  swarthy  vest. 

With  iron  quilted  well; 
Each  at  his  back  (a  slender  store) 
His  forty  days'  prcjvision  bore, 

As  feudal  statutes  tell. 
His  arms  were  halbert,  axe,  or  spear, ^ 
A  crossbow  there,  a  hagbut  here, 

A  dagger-knife,  and  brand. 
Sober  he  seem'd,  and  sad  of  cheer. 
As  loth  to  leave  his  cottage  dear, 

.\nd  march  to  foreign  strand; 
Or  musing,  who  would  guide  his  steer, 

To  till  the  fallow  land. 
Yet  deem  not  in  his  thoughtful  eye 
Did  aught  of  dastard  terror  lie; 

More  dreadful  far  his  ire. 
Than    theirs,    who,    scorning    danger's 

name. 
In  eager  mood  to  battle  came, 
Their  valor  like  light  strar.  on  flame, 

A  fierce  but  fading  fire. 


Not  so  the  Borderer:  — bred  to  war. 
He  knew  the  battle's  din  afar, 

And  joy'd  to  hear  it  swell. 
His  peaceful  day  was  slothful  ease; 
Nor  harp,  nor  pipe,  his  ear  could  please 

Like  the  loud  slogan  yell. 
On  active  steed,  with  lance  and  blade. 
The  light-arm'd  pricker  plied  his  trade,  — 

Let  nobles  fight  for  fame; 
Let  vassals  follow  where  they  lead. 
Burghers  to  guard  their  townships  bleed, 

But  war's  the  Borderer's  game. 
Their  gain,  their  glory,  their  delight, 
To  sleep  the  day,  maraud  the  night. 

O'er  mountain,  moss,  and  moor; 
Joyful  to  fight  they  took  their  way. 
Scarce  caring  who  might  win  the  day. 

Their  booty  was  secure. 
These,  as  Lord  Marmion's  train  pass'd  by, 
Look'd  on  at  first  with  careless  eye. 
Nor  marvell'd  aught,  well  taught  to  know 
The  form  and  force  of  English  bow. 
But  when  they  saw  the  Lord  array'd 
In  splendid  arms  and  rich  brocade. 
Each  Borderer  to  his  kinsman  said;  — 

"  Hist,  Ringan  !  seest  thou  there  ! 
Canst  guess  which  road  they'll  homeward 

ride  ?  — 
O !  could  we  but  on  Border  side. 
By  Eusedale's  glen,  or  Liddell's  tide, 

Beset  a  prize  so  fair  ! 
That  fangless  Lion,  too,  their  guide, 
Might  chance  to  lose  his  glistering  hide; 
Brown  Maudlin,  of  that  doublet  pied. 

Could  make  a  kirtle  rare." 


Next,  Marmion  mark'd  the  Celtic  race, 
Of  different  language,  form,  and  face, 

A  various  race  of  man; 
Just  then  the  Chiefs  their  tribes  array'd, 
And  wild  and  garish  semblance  made. 
The  chequer'd  trews,  and  lielted  plaid, 
And  varying  notes  the  war-pipes  bray'd 

To  every  varying  clan; 
Wild  through  their  red  or  sable  hair 
Look'd  out  their  eyes  with  savage  stare. 

On  Marmion  as  he  pass'd; 
Their  legs  above  the  knee  were  bare; 
Their  frame  was  sinewy,  short,  and  spare 

And  harden'd  to  the  blast; 


94 


MARMION. 


Canto  V. 


Of  taller  race,  the  chiefs  they  own 
Were  by  the  eagle's  plumage  known. 
The  hunted  red  deer's  undress'd  hide 
Their  hairy  buskins  well  supplied; 
The  graceful  bonnet  deck'd  their  head: 
Back  from  their  shoulders  hung  the  plaid; 
A  broadsword  of  unwieldy  length, 
A  dagger  proved  for  edge  and  strength, 

A  studded  targe  they  wore, 
And  quivers,  bows,  and  shafts,  — but,  O  ! 
Short  was  the  shaft,  and  weak  the  bow. 

To  that  which  England  bore. 
The  Isles-men  carried  at  their  backs 
The  ancient  Danish  battle-axe. 
They  raised  a  wild  and  wondering  cry, 
As  with  his  guide  rode  Marmion  by. 
Loud  were  their  clamoring  tongues,  as 

when 
The  clanging  sea-fowl  leave  the  fen. 
And,  with  their  cries  discordant  mix'd. 
Grumbled  and  yell'd  the  pipes  betwixt. 


Thus    through    the   Scottish    camp    they 

pass'd, 
.And  reach'd  the  City  gate  at  last. 
Where  all  around,  a  wakeful  guard, 
.Arm'd    burghers    kept   their   watch    and 

ward. 
Well  had  they  cause  of  jealous  fear, 
When  lay  encamp'd,  in  field  so  near, 
The  Borderer  and  the  Mountaineer. 
.\s    through    the    bustling    streets    they 

go, 
All  was  alive  with  martial  show : 
At  every  turn,  with  dinning  clang, 
The  armorer's  anvil  clash'd  and  rang; 
Or  loil'd  the  swarthy  smith,  to  wheel 
The  bar  that  arms  the  charger's  heel; 
Or  axe,  or  falchion,  to  the  side 
Of  jarring  grindstone  was  applied. 
Page,  groom,  and  squire,  with  hurrying 

pace. 
Through  street,   and  lane,   and   market- 
place, 
Bore  lance,  or  casque,  or  sword; 
While  burghers,  with  important  face, 

Described  each  new-come  lord, 
Discuss'd  his  lineage,  told  his  name. 
His  following,  and  his  warlike  fame. 
The  Lion  led  to  lodging  meet. 
Which    high     o'erlook'd     the    crowded 
street ; 


There  must  the  Baron  rest, 
Till  past  the  hour  of  vesper  tide, 
And  then  to  Holy-Rood  must:  ride,  — 

Such  was  the  King's  behest. 
Meanwhile  the  Lion's  care  assigns 
A  banquet  rich,  and  costly  wines, 

To  Marmion  and  his  train;  "*' 
And  when  the  appointed  hour  succeeds. 
The  Baron  dons  his  peaceful  weeds. 
And  following  Lindesay  as  he  leads, 

The  palace-halls  they  gain. 


Old  Holy-Rood  rung  merrily 
That  night,  with  wassail,  mirth,  and  glee; 
King  James  within  her  princely  bower, 
Feasted  the  Chiefs  of  Scotland's  power, 
Summon'd  to  spend  the  parting  hour; 
For  he  had  charged,  that  his  array 
Should   southward   march   by   break    of 

day. 
Well  loved  that  splendid  monarch  aye 

The  banquet  and  the  song. 
By  day  the  tourney,  and  by  night 
The  merry  dance,  traced  fast  and  light, 
The  maskers  quaint,  the  pageant  bright. 

The  revel  loud  and  long. 
This  fe.ast  outshone  his  banquets  past. 
It  was  his  blithest  —  and  his  last. 
The  dazzling  lamps,  from  gallery  gay. 
Cast  on  the  Court  a  dancing  ray; 
Here  to  the  harp  did  minstrels  sing; 
There  ladies  touch'd  a  softer  string; 
With  long-ear'd  cap,  and  motley  vest 
The  licensed  fool  retail'd  his  jest; 
His  magic  tricks  the  juggler  plied; 
At  dice  and  draughts  the  gallants  vied; 
While  some,  in  close  recess  apart, 
Courted  the  ladies  of  their  heart. 

Nor  courted  them  in  vain; 
For  often,  in  the  parting  hour. 
Victorious  Love  asserts  his  power 

O'er  coldness  and  disdain; 
And  flinty  is  her  heart,  can  view 
To  battle  march  a  lover  true  — 
Can  hear,  perchance,  his  last  adieu, 

Nor  own  her  share  of  pain. 


Through   this   mix'd   crowd  of   glee  and 

game. 
The  King  to  greet  Lord  Marmion  came. 


Canto  V. 


THE    COURT. 


95 


While,  reverent,  all  made  room. 
An  easy  task  it  was,  I  trow, 
King  James's  manly  form  to  know. 
Although,  his  courtesy  to  show. 
He  doff' d  to  Marmion  bending  low, 

His  broider'd  cap  and  plume. 
For  royal  was  his  garb  and  mien, 

His  cloak,  of  crimson  velvet  piled, 

Trimm'd  with  the  fur  of  marten  wild; 
His  vest  of  changeful  satin  sheen. 

The  dazzled  eye  beguiled; 
His  gorgeous  collar  hung  adown, 
Wrought  with  the  badge   of   Scotland's 

crown, 
The  thistle  brave,  of  old  renown : 
His  trusty  blade,  Toledo  right. 
Descended  from  a  baldric  bright ; 
White  were  his  buskins,  on  the  heel 
I  lis  spurs  inlaid  of  gold  and  steel; 
His  bonnet,  all  of  crimson  fair, 
Was  button'd  with  a  ruby  rare: 
And  Marmion  deem'd  he  ne'er  had  seen 
A  prince  of  such  a  noble  mien. 


The  monarch's  form  was  middle  size; 
For  feat  of  strength,  or  exercise. 

Shaped  in  proportion  fair; 
And  hazel  was  his  eagle  eye. 
And  auburn  of  the  darkest  dye. 

His  short  curl'd  beard  and  hair. 
Light  was  his  footstep  in  the  dance, 

And  firm  his  stirrup  in  the  lists; 
And,  oh  !  he  had  that  merry  glance. 

That  seldom  lady's  heart  resists. 
Lightly  from  fair  to  fair  he  flew. 
And  loved  to  plead,  lament,  and  sue;  - 
.Suit  lightly  won,  and  short-lived  pain. 
For  monarchs  seldom  sigh  in  vain. 

I  said  he  joy'd  in  banquet  Iwwer; 
But  mid  his  mirth,  'twas  often  strange, 
How  suddenly  his  cheer  would  change, 

His  look  o'ercast  and  lower. 
If,  in  a  sudden  turn,  he  felt 
The  pressure  of  his  iron  belt, 
That  bound  his  breast  in  penance-pain. 
In  memory  of  his  father  slain.-^" 
Even  so  'twas  strange  how  evermore, 
Soon  as  the  passing  pang  was  o'er 
Forward  he  rush'd,  with  double  glee, 
Into  the  stream  of  revelry: 
Thus,  dim-seen  object  of  affright 
Startles  the  courser  in  his  flight. 


And  half  he  halts,  half  springs  aside; 
But  feels  the  quickening  spur  applied, 
And,  straining  on  the  tighten'd  rein. 
Scours  doubly  swift  o'er  hill  and  plain. 


O'er  James's  heart,  the  courtiers  say, 
Sir  Hugh  the  Heron's  wife  held  sway:  ^ 

To  Scotland's  Court  she  came, 
To  be  a  hostage  for  her  lord, 
Who  Cessford's  gallant  heart  had  gored, 
And  with  the  King  to  make  accord. 

Had  sent  his  lovely  dame. 
Nor  to  that  lady  free  alone 
Did  the  gay  King  allegiance  own^ 

For  the  fair  Queen  of  France 
Sent  him  a  turquois  ring  and  glove. 
And  charged  him,  as  her  knight  and  love, 

For  her  to  break  a  lance;  *® 
And    strike  three  strokes  with   Scottish 

brand, 
And  march  three  miles  on  Southron  land. 
And  bid  the  banners  of  his  band 

In  English  breezes  dance. 
And  thus,  for  France's  Queen  he  drest 
His  manly  limbs  in  mailed  vest; 
And  thus  admitted  English  fair 
His  inmost  counsels  still  to  share; 
And  thus  for  both,  he  madly  plann'd 
The  ruin  of  himself  and  land ! 

And  yet,  the  sooth  to  tell, 
Nor  England's  fair,  nor  France's  Queen, 
Were  worth  one  pearl-drop,  bright   and 
sheen. 

From  Margaret's  eyes  that  fell,  — 
His  own  Queen  Margaret,  who,  in  Lith- 

gow's  bower. 
All  lonely  sat,  and  wept  the  weary  hour. 


The  Queen  sits  lone  in  Lithgow  pile. 

And  weeps  the  weary  day. 
The  war  against  her  native  soil, 
Her  monarch's  risk  in  battle  broil:  — 
And  in  gay  Holy-Rood,  the  while. 
Dame  Heron  rises  with  a  smile 

Upon  the  harp  to  play. 
Fair  was  her  rounded  arm,  as  o'er 

The  strings  her  fingers  flew; 
And  as  she  touch'd  and  tuned  them  all, 
Even  her  bosom's  rise  and  fall 

Was  plainer  given  to  view; 


96 


MARMION. 


Canto  V. 


For,  all  for  heat,  was  laid  aside 
Her  wimple,  and  her  hood  untied. 
And  first  she  pitch'd  her  voice  to  sing, 
Then  glanced  her  dark  eye  on  the  King, 
And  then  around  the  silent  ring; 
And  laugh'd,  and  blush'd,  and  oft  did 

say 
Her  pretty  oath,  by  Yea  and  Nay, 
.She  could  not,  would  not,  durst  not  play  ! 
At  length,  upon  the  harp,  with  glee. 
Mingled  with  arch  simplicity, 
A  soft,  yet  lively  air  she  rung, 
While  thus  the  wily  lady  sung:  — 

XII. 

LOCHINVAR.* 

LADY    HERON'S    SONG. 

O,  young  Lochinvar  is  come  out  of  the 
west. 

Through  all  the  wide  Border  his  steed  was 
the  best; 

And  save  his  good  broadsword  he  wea- 
pons had  none, 

lie  rode  all  unarm'd,  and  he  rode  all 
alone. 

So  faithful  in  love,  and  so  dauntless  in 
war. 

There  never  was  knight  like  the  young 
Lochinvar. 

rie  staid  not  for  brake,  and  he  stopp'd 
not  for  stone, 

He  swam  the  Esk  river  where  ford  there 
was  none; 

But  ere  he  alighted  at  Nelherby  gate. 

The  bride  had  consented,  the  gallant  came 
late: 

For  a  laggard  in  love,  and  a  dastard  in 
war. 

Was  to  wed  the  fair  Ellen  of  brave  Loch- 
invar. 

So  boldly  he  cnter'd  the  Netherby  Hall, 
Among  bride's-men,  and  kinsmen,  and 

brothers,  and  all : 
Then  spoke  the  bride's  father,  his  hand 

on  his  sword, 
(For   the  poor   craven  bridegroom  said 

never  a  word,) 

*  See  the  ballad  called  "  Kalharine  Janfarie," 
ill  "  Minstrelsy  of  the  Scottish  Border,"  vol.  iii. 


"  O  come  ye  in  peace  here,  or  come  ye  in 

war, 
Or  to  dance  at  our  bridal,  young  Lord 

Lochinvar  ?  "  — 

"  I  long  woo'd  your  daughter,  my  suit 
you  denied;  — 

Love  swells  like  the  Solway,  but  ebbs  like 
its  tide  — 

And  now  am  I  come,  with  this  lost  love 
of  mine, 

To  lead  but  one  measure,  drink  one  cup  of 
wine. 

There  are  maidens  in  Scotland  more  love- 
ly by  far. 

That  would  gladly  be  bride  to  the  young 
Lochinvar." 

The  bride  kiss'd  the  goblet :    the  knight 

took  it  up, 
He  quaff'd  off   the  wine,  and  he  threw 

down  the  cup. 
She  look'd  down  toblush,  and  she  look'd 

up  to  sigh. 
With  a  smile  on  her  lips,  and  a  tear  in  her 

eye. 
He  took  her  soft  hand,  ere  her  mother 

could  bar,  — 
"  Now  tread  we  a  measure  !  "  said  young 

Lochinvar. 

So  stately  his   form,  and  so  lovely  her 

face. 
That  never  a    hall    such  a    galliard  did 

grace; 
While  her  mother  did  fret,  and  her  father 

did  fume, 
And  the  bridegroom  stood  dangling  his 

bonnet  and  plume; 
And      the      bride-maidens      whisper'd, 

"  'Twere  better  by  far. 
To  have  match'd  our    fair    cousin    with 

young  Lochinvar." 

One  touch  to  her  hand,  and  one  word  in 

her  car, 
When  they  reach'd  the  hall-door,  and  the 

charger  stood  near; 
So  light  to  the  croupe  the  fair  lady  he 

swung. 
So    light    to    the   saddle  before    he>    he 

sprung ! 


Canto  V. 


THE    COURT, 


9'/ 


"  She  is  won!  we  are  gone,  over  bank, 

bush,  and  scaur; 
They'll  have   fleet  steeds  that   follow," 

quoth  young  Lochinvar. 

There  was  mounting  'niong  Groemes  of 

the  Netherby  clan; 
Forsters,  Fenwicks,  and  Musgraves,  they 

rode  and  they  ran; 
There  was  racing  and  chasing,  on  Canno- 

bie  Lee, 
But  the  lost  bride  of  Netherby  ne'er  did 

they  see. 
So  daring  in  love,  and  so  dauntless  in  war, 
Have  ye  e'er  heard  of  gallant  like  young 

Lochinvar? 


The  Monarch  o'er  the  siren  hung 
And  beat  the  measure  as  she  sung; 
And,  pressing  closer,  and  more  near. 
He  whisper'd  praises  in  her  car. 
In  loud  applause  the  courtiers  vied; 
And  ladies  wink'd,  and  spoke  aside. 
The  witching  dame  to  Marmion  threw 

A  glance,  where  seem'd  to  reign 
The  pride  that  claims  applauses  due. 
And  of  her  royal  con(|uest  too, 
A  real  or  f eign'd  disdain : 
Familiar  was  tlie  look,  and  told, 
Marmion  and  she  were  friends  of  old. 
The  King  observed  their  meeting  eyes. 
With  something  like  displeased  surprise; 
For  monarchs  ill  can  rivals  brook. 
Even  in  a  word,  or  smile,  or  look. 
Straight    took   he    forth    the    parchment 

broad 
Which      Marmion's      high     commission 

show'd: 
"  Our  Borders  sack'd  by  many  a  raid, 
Our  peaceful  liege-men  robb'd,"  he  said  : 
"  On  day  of  truce  our  Warden  slain. 
Stout  Barton  kill'd,  his  vassals  ta'en  — 
Unworthy  were  we  here  to  reign, 
Should  these  for  vengeance  cry  in  vain; 
Our  full  defiance,  hate,  and  scorn. 
Our  herald  has  to  Henry  borne." 


He  paused,  and  led  where  Douglas  stood, 
And  with  stern  eye  the  pageant  view'd: 
I  mean  that  Douglas,  sixth  of  yore, 
Who  coronet  of  Angus  bore, 


And,  when   his    blood    and    heart    were 

high, 
Did  the  third  James  in  camp  defy, 
And  all  his  minions  led  to  die 

On  Lauder's  dreary  flat : 
Princes  and  favorites  long  grew  tame, 
And  trembled  at  the  homely  name 

Of  Archibald  Bell-the-cat;  80 
The  same  who  left  the  dusky  vale 
Of  Hermitage  in  Liddisdale, 

Its  dungeons,  and  its  towers. 
Where  Bothwell's  turrets  brave  the  air. 
And  Bothwell  bank  is  blooming  fair. 

To  fix  his  princely  bowers. 
Though  now,  in  age,  he  had  laid  down 
His  armor  for  the  peaceful  gown. 

And  for  a  staff  his  brand. 
Yet  often  would  flash  forth  the  fire. 
That  could,  in  youth,  a  monarch's  ire 

And  minion's  pride  withstand: 
And  even  that  day,  at  council  board. 

Unapt  to  soothe  his  sovereign's  mood. 

Against  the  war  had  Angus  stood, 
And  chafed  his  royal  lord.*"^ 


His  giant-form,  like  ruin'd  tower. 
Though  fall'n  its  muscles'  brawny  vaunt, 
Huge-boned,    and   tall,    and   grim,    and 
gaunt, 

Seem'd  o'er  the  gaudy  scene  to  lower : 
His  locks  and  beard  in  silver  grew; 
His  eyebrows  kept  their  sable  hue. 
Near  Douglas  when  the  Monarch  stood. 
His  bitter  speech  he  thus  pursued:  ■ — 
"  Lord  Marmion,  since  these  letters  say 
That  in  the  North  you  needs  must  stay, 

While  slightest  hopes  of  peace  remain, 
Uncourteous  speech  it  were,  and  stern. 
To  say  —  Return  to  Lindisfarne, 

Until  my  herald  come  again.  — 
Then  rest  you  in  Tantallon  Hold;''^ 
Your  host  shall  be  the  Douglas  bold,  — 
A  chief  unlike  his  sires  of  old. 
He  wears  their  motto  on  his  blade,*^ 
Their  blazon  o'er  his  towers  display'd; 
Yet  loves  his  sovereign  to  oppose. 
More  than  to  face  his  country's  foes 
And,  I  bethink  me,  by  St.  Stephen, 
But  e'en  this  morn  to  me  was  given 
A  prize,  the  first-fruits  of  the  war, 
Ta'en  by  a  galley  from  Dunliar, 

A  bevy  of  the  maids  of  Heaven. 


MARMION. 


Canto  V. 


Under  your  guard,  these  holy  maids 
Shall  safe  return  to  cloister  shades, 
And,  while  they  at  Tantallon  stay, 
Requiem  for  Cochran's  soul  may  say." 
And,  with  the  slaughter'd  favorite's  name. 
Across  the  Monarch's  brow  there  came 
A  cloud  of  ire,  remorse,  and  shame. 


In  answer  naught  could  Angus  speak; 
His  proudheartswell'd  wellnigh  to  break : 
He  turn'd  aside,  and  down  his  cheek 

A  burning  tear  there  stole. 
His  hand  the  Monarch  sudden  took, 
That  sight  his  kind  heart  could  not  brook : 

"Now,  by  the  Bruce's  soul, 
Angus,  my  hasty  speech  forgive ! 
For  sure  as  doth  his  spirit  live. 
As  he  said  of  the  Douglas  old, 

I  well  may  say  of  you,  — 
That  never  king  did  subject  hold. 
In  speech  more  free,  in  war  more  bold, 

More  tender  and  more  true : 
Forgive  mc,  Douglas,  once  again." 
And,  while  the  King  his  hand  did  strain. 
The  old  man's  tears  fell  down  like  rain. 
To  seize  the  moment  Marmion  tried, 
And  whisper'd  to  the  King  aside: 
"Oh!   let  such  tears  unwonted  plead 
For  respite  short  from  dubious  deed  ! 
A  child  will  weep  a  bramble  smart, 
A  maid  to  see  her  sparrow  part, 
A  stripling  for  a  woman's  heart; 
But  woe  awaits  a  country,  when 
She  sees  the  tears  of  bearded  men. 
Then,  oh  !   what  omen,  dark  and  high, 
When  Douglas  wets  his  manly  eye  !  " 


Displeased    was    James,     that    stranger 

view'd 
And  tamper'd  with  his  changing  mood. 
"  Laugh  those  that  can,  weep  those  that 

may," 
Thus  did  the  fiery  Monarch  say, 
"  Southward  I  march  by  break  of  day; 
And  if  within  Tantallon  strong. 
The  good  Lord  Marmion  tarries  long. 
Perchance  our  meeting  next  may  fall 
At  Tamworth,  in  his  castle-hall."  — 
The  haughty  Marmion  felt  the  taunt, 
And  answer'd,  grave,  the  royal  vaunt:  — 


"  Much  honor'd  were  my  humble  home, 
If  in  its  halls  King  James  should  come; 
But  Nottingham  has  archers  good, 
And  Yorkshire  men  are  stern  of  mood; 
Northuml)rian  prickers  wild  and  rude. 
On  Derby  Mills  the  paths  are  steep; 
In  Ouse  and  Tyne  the  fords  are  deep; 
And  many  a  banner  will  be  torn. 
And  many  a  knight  to  earth  be  borne, 
And  many  a  sheaf  of  arrows  spent, 
Ere  Scotland's  King  shall  cross  the  Trent. 
Yet  pause,  brave  Prince,  while  yet  you 

may !  "  — 
The  Monarch  lightly  turn'd  away, 
And  to  his  nobles  loud  did  call,  — 
"Lords,  to  the  dance,  — a  hall !  a  hall !  "* 
Himself  his  cloak  and  sword  flung  by. 
And  led  Dame  Heron  gallantly; 
And  minstrels,  at  the  royal  order. 
Rung   out  —  "  Blue    Bonnets   o'er    the 

Border." 


Leave  we  these  revels  now,  to  tell 
What  to  Saint  Hilda's  maids  befell. 
Whose  galley,  as  they  sail'd  again 
To  Whitby,  by  a  Scot  was  ta'en. 
Now  at  Dun-Edin  did  they  bide. 
Till  James  should  of  their  fate  decide; 

And  soon,  by  his  command. 
Were  gently  sumnion'd  to  prepare 
To  journey  under  Marmion's  care. 
As  escort  honor'd,  safe,  and  fair. 

Again  to  English  land. 
The  Abbess  told  her  chaplet  o'er, 
Nor  knew  which  saint  she  should  implore, 
For,    when    she   thought    of   Constance, 
sore 

She  feared  Lord  Marmion's  mood. 
And  judge  what  Clara  must  have  felt ! 
The  sword,  that  hung  in  Marmion's  belt. 

Had  drunk  De  Wilton's  blood. 
Unwittingly,  King  James  had  given, 

As  guard  to  Whitliy's  shades. 
The  man  most  dreaded  under  Heaven 

By  these  defenceless  maids : 
Yet  what  petition  could  avail. 
Or  who  would  listen  to  the  tale 
Of  woman,  prisoner,  and  nun, 
Mid  bustle  of  a  war  begun? 

*  Tlie  ancient  cry  to  make  room  for  a  daate, 
or  pageant. 


Canto  V. 


THE    COURT. 


99 


They  deem'd  it  hopeless  to  avoid 
The  convoy  of  their  dangerous  guide. 


Their  lodging,  so  the  King  assign'd, 
To  Marmion's,  as  their  guardian,  join'd; 
And  thus  it  fell,  that  passing  nigh, 
The  Palmer  caught  the  Abbess'  eye, 

Who  warn'd  him  by  a  scroll, 
She  had  a  secret  to  reveal. 
That  much  conccrn'd  the  Church's  weal, 

And  health  of  sinner's  soul; 
Anil,  with  deep  charge  of  secrecy, 

She  named  a  place  to  meet, 
Within  an  open  balcony. 
That  hung  from  dizzy  pitch,  and  high, 

AV)Ove  the  stately  street; 
To  which,  as  common  to  each  home, 
At  night  they  might  in  secret  come. 


At  night,  in  secret  there  they  came. 
The  F'alnier  and  the  holy  Dame. 
The  moon  among  the  clouds  rode  high, 
And  all  the  city  hum  was  by. 
Upon  the  street,  where  late  before 
Did  din  of  war  and  warriors  roar. 

You  might  have  heard  a  pebble  fall, 
A  beetle  hum,  a  cricket  sing, 
An  owlet  flap  his  boding  wing 

On  Giles's  steeple  tall. 
The  antique  buildings,  climbing  high. 
Whose  Gothic  frontlets  sought  the  sky. 

Were  here  wrapt  deep  in  shade; 
There    on   their   brows   the    moon-beam 

broke. 
Through    the    faint    wreaths    of    silvery 
smoke. 

And  on  the  casements  play'd. 

And  other  light  was  none  to  see, 
Save  torches  gliding  far, 

Before  some  chieftain  of  degree. 

Who  left  the  royal  revelry 

To  boune  him  for  the  war.  — 
A  solemn  scene  the  Abbess  chose; 
A  solemn  hour,  her  secret  to  disclose. 


"  O,  holy  Palmer  !  "  she  began,  — 
"  For  sure  he  must  be  sainted  man. 
Whose  blessed  feet  have  trod  the  ground 
Where  the  Redeemer's  tomb  is  found,  — 


For  His  dear  Church's  sake,  my  tale 
Attend,  nor  deem  of  light  avail. 
Though  I  must  speak  of  worldly  love,  — ■ 
How  vain  to  those  who  wed  above !  — 
De  Wilton  and  Lord  Marmion  woo'd 
Clara  de  Clare  of  Gloster's  blood; 
(Idle  it  were  of  Whitby's  dame, 
To  say  of  that  same  blood  I  came ;  ) 
And  once,  when  jealous  rage  was  high, 
Lord  Marmion  said  despiteously, 
Wilton  was  traitor  in  his  heart, 
And    had    made     league    with     Martin 

Swart,^ 
When  he  came  here  on  Simnel's  part; 
And  only  cowardice  did  restrain 
His  rel)el  aid  on  .Stokefield's  plain,  — 
And    down   he    threw  his    glove :  —  the 

thing 
Was  tried,  as  wont,  l>efore  the  King; 
Where  frankly  did  De  Wilton  own. 
That  Swart  in  Gueldrcs  he  had  known; 
And  that  between  them  then  there  went 
Some  scroll  of  courteous  compliment. 
For  this  he  to  his  castle  sent; 
But  when  his  messenger  return'd. 
Judge  how  De  Wilton's  fury  burn'd ! 
For  in  his  packet  there  were  laid 
Letters  that  claim'd  disloyal  aid, 
And  proved  King  Henry's  cause  betray'd. 
His  fame,  thus  blighted,  in  the  field 
He  strove  to  clear,  by  spear  and  shield; 
To  clear  his  fame  in  vain  he  strove, 
For  wondrous  are  His  ways  above  ! 
Perchance  some  form  was  unobserved; 
Perchance  in  prayer  or  faith  he  swerved; 
Else  how  could  guiltless  champion  quail, 
Or  how  the  blessed  ordeal  fail  ? 


"  His  squire,  who  now  De  W'ilton  saw 
As  recreant  doom'd  to  suffer  law, 

Repentant,  own'd  in  vain, 
That,  while  he  had  the  scrolls  in  care, 
A  stranger  maiden,  passing  fair, 
Had  drench'd  him  with  a  beverage  rare; 

His  words  no  faith  could  gain. 
With  Clare  alone  he  credence  won. 
Who,  rather  than  wed  Marmion, 
Did  to  Saint  Hilda's  shrine  repair. 
To  give  our  house  her  livings  fair 
And  die  a  vestal  vot'ress  there. 
The  impulse  from  the  earth  was  given. 
But  bent  her  to  the  paths  of  heaven. 


MARMION. 


Canto  V. 


A  purer  heart,  a  lovelier  maid, 
Ne'er  shelter'd  her  in  Whitby's  shade, 
No,  not  since  Saxon  Edelfled; 
Only  one  trace  of  earthly  strain, 

That  for  her  lover's  loss 
She  cherishes  a  sorrow  vain, 

And  murmurs  at  the  cross.  — 
And  then  her  heritage;  it  goes 

Along  the  banks  of  Tame; 
Deep  fields  of  grain  the  reaper  mows. 
In  meadows  rich  the  heifer  lows. 
The  falconer  and  huntsman  knows 
Its  woodlands  for  the  game. 
Shame  were  it  to  Saint  Hilda  dear, 
And  I,  her  humble  vot'ress  here, 

Should  do  a  deadly  sin, 
Her  temple  spoil'd  before  m.ine  eyes, 
If  this  false  Marmion  such  a  prize 

By  my  consent  should  win; 
Yot  hath  our  boisterous  monarch  sworn 
That    Clare    shall    from    our    house    be 

torn, 
And  grievous  cause  have  I  to  fear 
Such  mandate  doth  Lord  Marmion  bear. 

XXIII. 
*'  Now,  prisoner,  helpless,  and  betray'd 
To  evil  power,  I  claim  thine  aid, 

By  every  step  that  thou  hast  trod 
To  holy  shrine  and  grotto  dim, 
By  every  martyr's  tortured  limb. 
By  angel,  saint,  and  seraphim, 

And  by  the  Church  of  (lod! 
For  mark  : —  When  Wilton  was  betray'd. 
And  with  his  squire  forged  letters  laid. 
She  was,  alas !   that  sinful  maid. 

By  whom  the  deed  was  done,  — 
O  !  shame  and  horror  to  be  said  !  — 

She  was  a  perjured  nun  ! 
No  clerk  in  all  the  land,  like  her. 
Traced  quaint  and  varying  char.acter. 
Perchance  you  may  a  marvel  deem. 

That  Marmion's  paramour 
(For  such    vile   thing    she   was)    should 
scheme 

Her  lover's  nuptial  hour; 
But  o'er  him  thus  she  hoped  to  gain 
As  privy  to  his  honor's  stain, 

Illimitable  power : 
For  this  she  secretly  retain'd 

Each  proof  that  might  the  plot  reveal. 

Instructions  with  his  hand  and  seal; 
And  thus  Saint  Hilda  deign'd. 


Through  sinner's  perfidy  impure, 
Her  house's  glory  to  secure, 
And  Clare's  immortal  weal. 


'"Twere  long,  and  needless,  here  to  tell, 
How  to  my  hand  these  papers  fell; 

With  me  they  must  not  stay. 
Saint  Hilda  keep  her  Abbess  true! 
Who  knows  what  outrage  he  might  do. 

While  journeying  by  the  way  ?  — 
O,  blessed  Saint,  if  e'er  again 
I  venturous  leave  thy  calm  domain. 
To  travel  or  by  land  or  main. 

Deep  penance  may  I  pay !  — 
Now,  saintly  Palmer,  mark  my  prayer: 
I  give  this  packet  to  thy  care. 
For  thee  to  stop  they  will  not  dare; 

And  O  !   with  cautious  speed. 
To  Wolsey's  hand  the  papers  bring, 
That  he  may  show  them  to  the  King: 

And,  for  thy  well-earn'd  meed, 
Thou  holy  man,  at  Whitby's  shrine 
A  weekly  mass  shall  still  be  thine. 

While  priests  can  sing  and  read. — . 
What  ail'st  thou  ?  —  Speak  !  "     For  as  he 

took 
The  charge,  a  strong  emotion  shook 

His  frame;  and,  ere  reply. 
They  heard  a  faint,  yet  shrilly  tone. 
Like  distant  clarion  feebly  blown. 

That  f)n  the  breeze  did  die; 
And  loud  the  Abbess  shriek'd  in  fear:  — 
"Saint  Withold,s.aveus  ! — What  is  here  ! 

Look  at  yon  City  Cross ! 
See  on  its  battled  tower  appear 
Phantoms,' that  scutcheons  seem  to  rear. 

And  blazon'il  Ijanners  toss  !  " 

XXV. 

Dun-Edin's  Cross,  a  pillar'd  stone,*""'' 

Rose  on  a  turret  octagon; 

(But  now  is  razed  that  monument, 

Whence  royal  edict  rang. 
And  voice  of  Scotland's  law  was  sent 

In  glorious  trumpet-clang. 
O!  be  his  toml)  as  lead  to  lead. 
Upon  its  dull  destroyer's  head  ! 
A  minstrel's  malison*  is  said.) 
Then  on  its  battlements  they  saw 
A  vision,  passing  Nature's  law, 

*  Curse, 


Canto  V. 


THE    COURT. 


lOI 


Strange,  wild,  and  dimly  seen; 
Figures  that  seem'd  to  rise  and  die, 
Gibber  and  sign,  advance  and  fly. 
While  naught  confirm' d  could  ear  or  eye 

Discern  of  sound  or  mien. 
Yet  darkly  did  it  seem,  as  there 
Heralds  and  Pursuivants  prepare. 
With  trumpet  sound  and  blazon  fair, 

A  summons  to  proclaim; 
But  indistinct  the  pageant  proud, 
As  fancy  forms  of  midnight  cloud. 
When  flings  the  moon  upon  her  shroud 

A  wavering  tinge  of  flame; 
It  flits,  expands,  and  shifts,  till  loud. 
From  midmost  of  the  spectre  crowd. 

This  awful  summons  camc:*^  — 


"  Prince,  prelate,  potentate,  and  peer, 

Whose  names  I  now  shall  call, 
Scottish,  or  foreigner,  give  ear; 
Subjects  of  him  who  sent  me  here, 
At  his  tribunal  to  appear, 

I  summon  one  and  all : 
I  cite  you  by  each  deadly  sin. 
That  e'er  hath  soil'd  your  hearts  within : 
I  cite  you  by  each  brutal  lust, 
That  e'er  defiled  your  earthly  dust,  — 

By  wrath,  by  pride,  by  fear, 
By  each  o'er-mastering  passion's  tone. 
By  the  dark  grave,  and  dying  groan ! 
When  forty  days  are  pass'd  and  gone, 
I  cite  you,  at  your  Monarch's  throne. 

To  answer  and  appear." 
Then  thunder'd  forth  a  roll  of  names : 
The  first  was  thine,  unhappy  James ! 

Then  all  thy  nobles  came; 
Crawford,  Glencairn,  Montrose,  Argyle, 
Ross,  Bothwell,  Forbes,  Lennox,  Lyle,  — 
Why  should  I  tell  their  separate  style? 

Each  chief  of  birth  and  fame. 
Of  Lowland,  Highland,  Border,  Isle, 
Fore-doom'd  to  Flodden's  carnage  pile. 

Was  cited  there  by  name; 
And  Marmion,  Lord  of  Fontenaye, 
Of  Lutterward,  and  Scrivelbaye; 
De  Wilton,  erst  of  Aberley, 
The  self -same  thundering  voice  did  say.  — 

But  then  another  spoke :  — 
"  Thy  fatal  summons  I  deny. 
And  thine  infernal  Lord  defy. 
Appealing  me  to  Him  on  High, 

Who  burst  the  sinner's  yoke." 


At  that  dread  accent,  with  a  scream. 
Parted  the  pageant  like  a  dream, 

The  summoner  was  gone.  ; 

Prone  on  her  face  the  Abbess  fell, 
And  fast,  and  fast,  her  beads  did  tdl; 
Her  nuns  came,  startled  by  the  yell, 

And  found  her  there  alone. 
She  mark'd  not,  at  the  scene  aghast. 
What  time,  or  how,  the  Palmer  pass'd. 

XXVII.  ', 

Shift  we  the  scene.  —  The  camp   doth 
move, 

Dun-Edin's  streets  are  empty  now. 
Save  when,  for  weal  of  those  they  love. 

To  pray  the  prayer,  and  vow  the  vow, 
The  tottering  child,  the  anxious  fair. 
The  gray-hair'd  sire,  with  pious  care, 
To  chapels  and  to  shrines  repair  — 
Where  is  the  Palmer  now  ?  and  where 
The  Abbess,  Marmion,  and  Clare?  — 
Bold  Douglas !  to  Tantallon  fair 

They  journey  in  thy  charge: 
Lord  Marmion  rode  on  his  right  hand. 
The  Palmer  still  was  with  the  band; 
Angus,  like  Lindesay,  did  command, 

That  none  should  roam  at  large. 
But  in  that  Palmer's  altered  mien 
A  wondrous  change  might  now  be  seen, 

Freely  he  spoke  of  war. 
Of  marvels  wrought  by  single  hand. 
When  lifted  for  a  native  land; 
And  still  look'd  high,  as  if  he  plann'd 

Some  desperate  deed  afar. 
His  courser  would  he  feed  and  stroke, 
And,  tucking  up  his  sable  frock. 
Would  first  his  mettle  bold  provoke, 

Then  soothe  or  quell  his  pride. 
Old  Hubert  said,  that  never  one 
He  saw,  except  Lord  Marmion, 

A  steed  so  fairly  ride. 

XXVIII. 

Some   half-hour's   march   behind,  there 
came 

By  Eustace  govern'd  fair, 
A  troop  escorting  Hilda's  Dame, 

With  all  her  nuns,  and  Clare. 
No  audience  had  Lord  Marmion  sought: 

Ever  he  fear'd  to  aggravate 

Clara  de  Clare's  suspicious  hate; 
And  safer  'twas,  he  thought, 


MARMION. 


Canto  V. 


To  wait  till,  from  the  nuns  removed, 
The  influence  of  kinsmen  loved, 
And  suit  by  Henry's  self-approved. 
Her  slow  consent  had  wrought. 

His  was  no  flickering  flame,  that  dies 
Unless  when  fann'd  by  looks  and  sighs. 
And  lighted  oft  at  lady's  eyes; 
He  long'd  to  stretch  his  wide  command 
O'er  luckless  Clara's  ample  land: 
Besides,  when  Wilton  with  him  vied. 
Although  the  pang  of  humbled  pride 
The  |)hice  of  jealousy  supplied, 
Yet  conquest  by  that  meanness  won 
He  almost  loath'd  to  think  upon, 
Led  him,  at  times,  to  hate  the  cause. 
Which  made  him  burst  through  honor's 

laws. 
If  e'er  he  loved,  ,'twas  her  alone, 
Who  died  within  that  vault  of  stone. 

XXIX. 

And  now,  when  close  at  hand  they  saw 
North  Berwick's  town,  and  lofty  Law, 
Fitz-Eustace  bade  them  pause  awhile, 
Before  a  venerable  pile,* 

Whose  turrets  view'd,  afar, 
The  lofty  Bass,  the  Lambie  Isle, 

The  ocean's  peace  or  war. 
At  tolling  of  a  bell,  forth  came 
The  convent's  venerable  Dame, 
And  pray'd  Saint  Hilda's  Abbess  rest 
With  her,  a  loved  and  honor'd  guest. 
Till  Douglas  should  a  bark  prepare 
To  waft  her  back  to  Whitby  fair. 
Glad  was  the  Abbess,  you  may  guess. 
And  thank'd  the  Scottish  Prioress; 
And  tedious  were  to  tell,  I  ween. 
The  courteous  speech  that  pass'd  between. 

O'erjoy'd  the  nuns  their  palfreys  leave; 
But  when  fair  Clara  did  intend. 
Like  them,  from  horseback  to  descend, 

Fitz-Eustace  said,  —  "I  grieve. 
Fair  lady,  grieve  e'en  from  my  heart. 
Such  gentle  company  to  part;  — 

Think  not  discourtesy. 
But  lords'  commands  must  be  obey'd; 
And  Marmion  and  the  Douglas  said. 

That  you  must  wend  with  me. 
Lord  Marmion  hath  a  letter  broad. 
Which  to  the  Scottish  Earl  he  show'd. 
Commanding  that,  beneath  his  care, 

*  A  convent  of  Cistertian  nuns,  founded  by 
Duncan,  Earl  of  Fife,  in  12 16. 


Without  delay,  you  shall  repair 

To  your  good  kinsman,  Lord  Fitz-Clare." 


The  startled  Abbess  loud  exclaim'd; 
But  she,  at  whom  the  blow  was  aim'd. 
Grew  pale  as  death,  and  cold  as  lead,  — 
She  deem'd   she  heard  her  death-doom 

read. 
"Cheer  thee,   my  child!"   the  Abbess 

said, 
"  They  dare  not  tear  thee  from  my  hand, 
To  ride  alone  with  armed  band." 

"  Nay,  holy  mother,  nay," 
Fitz-Eustace  said,  "  the  lovely  Clare 
Will  be  in  Lady  Angus'  care. 

In  Scotland  while  we  stay; 
And,  when  we  move,  an  easy  ride 
Will  bring  us  to  the  English  side. 
Female  attendance  to  provide 

Befitting  Gloster's  heir: 
Nor  thinks  nor  dreams  my  noble  lord, 
By  slightest  look,  or  act,  or  word. 

To  harass  Lady  Clare. 
Her  faithful  guardian  he  will  be. 
Nor  sue  for  slightest  courtesy 

That  e'en  to  stranger  falls. 
Till  he  shall  place  her,  safe  and  free. 

Within  her  kinsman's  halls." 
He   spoke,    and    blush'd    with    earnest 

grace; 
His  faith  was  painted  on  his  face. 

And  Clare's  worst  fear  relieved. 
The  Lady  Abbess  loud  exclaim'd 
On  Henry,  and  the  Douglas  blamed. 

Entreated,  thrcaten'd,  grieved; 
To  martyr,  saint,  and  prophet  pray'd. 
Against  Lord  Marmion  inveigh'd. 
And  call'd  the  Prioress  to  aid. 
To  curse  with  candle,  bell,  and  book. 
Her  head  the  grave  Cistertian  shook: 
"  The  Douglas,  and  the  King,"  she  said, 
"  In  their  commands  will  be  obey'd; 
Grieve  not,  nor  dream  that  harm  can  fall 
The  maiden  in  Tantallon  hall." 

XXXI. 
The  Abbess,  seeing  strife  was  vain, 
Assumed  her  wonted  state  again,  — ; 

For  much  of  state  she  had,  — 
Composed  her  veil,  and  raised  her  head. 
And  —  "  P-i<l,"  in  solemn  voice  she  said, 

"  Thy  master,  bold  and  bad, 


Canto  V. 


THE    COURT. 


103 


The  records  of  his  house  turn  o'er, 
And,    when    he    shall    there    written 

see. 
That  one  of  his  own  ancestry 
Drove  the  Monks  forth  of  Coventry,  ^^ 

Bid  him  his  fate  explore  ! 

Prancing  in  pride  of  earthly  trust. 
His  charger  hurl'd  him  to  the  dust, 
And,  by  a  base  plebeian  thrust. 

He  died  his  band  before. 

God  judge  'twixt  Marmion  and  me; 
He  is  a  Chief  of  high  degree. 

And  I  a  poor  recluse: 

Vet  oft,  in  holy  writ,  we  see 
Even  such  weak  minister  as  me 

May  the  oppressor  bruise : 

For  thus,  inspired,  did  Judith  slay 

The  mighty  in  his  sin. 
And  Jael  thus,  and  Deborah  "  — 
Here  hasty  Blount  broke  in : 

"  Fitz-Eustace,  we  must  march  our  band; 

St.  Anton'  fire  thee!   wilt  thou  stand 

All  day,  with  bonnet  in  thy  hand. 
To  hear  the  lady  preach? 

By  this  good  light !  if  thus  we  stay. 

Lord  Marmion,  for  our  fond  delay, 
Will  sharper  sermon  teach. 

Come,    don    thy    cap,    and    mount    thy 
horse ; 

The  dame  must  patience  take  perforce." 


"  Submit  we  then  to  force,"  said  Clare, 
"  But  let  this  barbarous  lord  despair 

His  purposed  aim  to  win; 
Let  him  take  living,  land,  and  life : 
But  to  be  Marmion's  wedded  wife 

In  me  were  deadly  sin : 
And  if  it  be  the  King's  decree; 
That  I  must  find  no  sanctuary. 
In  that  inviolable  dome. 
Where  even  a  homicide  might  come. 

And  safely  rest  his  head. 
Though  at  its  open  portals  stood. 
Thirsting  to  pour  forth  blood  for  blood. 

The  kinsmen  of  the  dead; 
Yet  one  asylum  is  my  own 

Against  the  dreaded  hour; 
A  low,  a  silent,  and  a  lone. 

Where  kings  have  little  power. 
One  victim  is  before  me  there.  — 
Mother,  your  blessing;    and  in  prayer, 
Remember  your  unhappy  Clare  !  " 


Loud  weeps  the  Abbess,  and  bestows 

Kind  blessings  many  a  one : 
Weeping  and  wailing  loud  arose, 
Round  patient  Clare,  the  clamorous  woes 

Of  every  simple  nun. 
His  eyes  the  gentle  Eustace  dried. 
And  scarce  rude  Blount  the  sight  could  bide. 

Then  took  the  squire  her  rein, 
And  gently  led  away  her  steed. 
And,  by  each  courteous  word  and  deed, 

To  cheer  her  strove  in  vain. , 


But  scant  three  miles  the  band  had  rode 

When  o'er  a  height  they  pass'd. 
And,  sudden,  close  before  them  show'd 

His  towers,  Tantallon  vast; 
Broad,  massive,  high,  and  stretching  far. 
And  held  impregnable  in  war. 
On  a  projecting  rock  they  rose. 
And  round  three  sides  the  ocean  flows. 
The  fourth  did  battled  walls  enclose. 

And  double  mound  and  fosse. 
By  narrow  drawbridge,  outworks  strong. 
Through   studded    gates,    and   entrance 
long. 

To  the  main  court  they  cross. 
It  was  a  wide  and  stately  square : 
Around  were  lodgings,  fit  and  fair, 

And  towers  of  various  form. 
Which  on  the  court  projected  far. 
And  broke  its  lines  quadrangular. 
Here  was  square  keep,  there  turret  high, 
Or  pinnacle  that  sought  the  sky, 
Whence  oft  the  wanderer  could  descry 

The  gathering  ocean-storm. 


Here  did  they  rest.  —  The  princely  care 
Of  Douglas,  why  should  I  declare. 
Or  say  they  met  reception  fair; 

Or  why  the  tidings  say. 
Which,  varying,  to  Tantallon  came. 
By  hurrying  posts  or  fleeter  fame. 

With  every  varying  day? 
And,  first  they  heard  King  James  had  won 

Etall,  and  Wark,  and  Ford:   and  then. 

That  Norham  Castle  strong  was  ta'en. 
At  that  sore  marvell'd  Marmion;  — 
And  Douglas  hoped  his  monarch's  hand 
Would  soon  subdue  Northumterland : 

But  whisper'd  news  there  came. 


I04 


MARMION. 


That,  while  his  host  inactive  lay. 
And  melted  by  degrees  away, 
King  James  was  dallying  off  the  day 

With  Heron's  wily  dame.  — 
Such  acts  to  chronicles  I  yield; 

Go  seek  them  there,  and  see: 
Mine  is  a  tale  of  Flodden  Field, 

And  not  a  history.  — 
At  length  they  heard  the  Scottish  host 
On  that  high  ridge  had  made  their  post, 

Which  frowns  o'er  Millfield  Plain; 
And  that  brave  Surrey  many  a  band 
Had  gather 'd  in  the  Southern  land, 
And  march'd  into  Northumberland, 

And  camp  at  Wooler  ta'en. 
Marmion,  like  charger  in  the  stall, 
That  hears,  without,  the  trumpet-call. 

Began  to  chafe,  and  swear:  — 
"A  sorry  thing  to  hide  my  head 
In  castle,  like  a  fearful  maid, 

When  such  a  field  is  near  ! 
Needs  must  I  see  this  battle-day : 
Death  to  my  fame  if  such  a  fray 
Were  fought,  and  Marmion  away ! 
The  Douglas,  too,  I  wot  not  why, 
Hath  'bated  of  his  courtesy: 
No  longer  in  his  halls  I'll  stay." 
Then  bade  his  band  they  should  array 
For  march  against  the  dawning  day. 


INTRODUCTION    TO    CANTO 
SIXTH. 

TO   RICHARD    HEBER,    ESQ. 

Mertmin  House,*  Christmas. 
Heap  on  more  wood  !  —  the  wind  is  chill ; 
But  let  it  whistle  as  it  will. 
We'll  keep  our  Christmas  merry  still. 
Each  age  has  deem'd  the  new-born  year 
The  fittest  time  for  festal  cheer : 
Even,  heathen  yet,  the  savage  Dane 
At  lol  more  deep  the  mead  did  drain ;  *^ 
High  on  the  beach  his  galleys  drew. 
And  feasted  all  his  pirate  crew; 
Then  in  his  low  and  pine-built  hall. 
Where  shields  and  axes  deck'd  the  wall, 
They  gorged  upon  the  half-dress'd  steer; 
Caroused  in  seas  of  sable  beer ; 

*  Mertoun-House,  the  seat  of  Hugh  Scott, 
Esq.,  of  Harden,  is  beautifully  situated  on  the 
Tweed  about  two  miles  below  Dryburgh  Abbey. 


While  round,  in  brutal  .jest,  were  thrown 
The  half-gnaw'd  rib  and  marrow-bone: 
Or  listen'd  all,  in  grim  delight. 
While  Scalds  yell'd  out  the  joys  of  fight. 
Then  forth,  in  frenzy,  would  they  hie, 
While  wildly-loose  their  red  locks  fly. 
And  dancing  round  the  blazing  pile, 
Theymakesuch  barbarous  mirth.the  while. 
As  best  might  to  the  mind  recall 
The  boisterous  joys  of  Odin's  hall. 

And  well  our  Christian  sires  of  old 
Loved  when  the  year  its  course  had  roll'd, 
And  brought  blithe  Christmas  back  again, 
With  all  his  hospitable  train. 
Domestic  and  religious  rite 
Gave  honor  to  the  holy  night; 
On  Christmas  eve  the  bells  were  rung; 
On  Christmas  eve  the  mass  was  sung; 
That  only  night  in  all  the  year. 
Saw  the  stoled  priest  the  chalice  rear. t 
The  damsel  donn'd  her  kirtle  sheen; 
The  hall  was  dress'd  with  holly  green; 
Forth  to  the  wood  did  merry-men  go, 
To  gather  in  the  mistletoe. 
Then  open'd  wide  the  Baron's  hall 
To  vassal,  tenant,  serf,  and  all; 
Power  laid  his  rod  of  rule  aside. 
And  Ceremony  doff'd  his  pride. 
The  heir  with  roses  in  his  shoes. 
That  night  might  village  partner  choose; 
The  Lord,  underogating,  share 
The  vulgar  game  of  "post  and  pair."t 
All  hail'd  with  uncontroll'd  delight. 
And  general  voice,  the  happy  night. 
That  to  the  cottage,  as  the  crown. 
Brought  tidings  of  salvation  down. 

The  fire,  with  well-dried  logs  supplied, 
Went  roaring  up  the  chimney  wide; 
The  huge  hall-table's  oaken  face, 
Scrubb'd  till  it  shone,  the  day  to  grace. 
Bore  then  upon  its  massive  board 
No  mark  to  part  the  squire  and  lord. 
Then  was  brought  in  the  lusty  brawn, 
By  old  blue-coated  serving  man; 
Then  thegrimboar'sheadfrown'donhigh, 
Crested  with  bays  and  rosemary. 
Well  can  the  green-garb'd  ranger  tell. 
How,  when,  and  where,  the  monster  fell; 

t  In   the   Roman    Catholic   Church    mass    is 
never  said  at  night  except  on  Christmas  Eve. 
X  An  old  game  at  cards. 


INTRODUCTION  TO    CANTO    VI. 


105 


What  dogs  before  his  death  he  tore, 
And  all  the  baiting  of  the  boar. 
The  wasscl  round,  in  good  brown  bowls, 
Garnish'd  with  ribbons,  blithely  trowls. 
There  the  huge  sirloin  reek'd;    hard  by 
Plum-porridge  stood,  and  Christinas  pie; 
Nor  fail'd  old  Scotland  to  produce, 
At  such  high  tide,  her  savory  goose. 
Then  came  the  merry  maskers  in. 
And  carols  roar'd  with  blithesome  din; 
If  unnielodious  was  the  song. 
It  was  a  hearty  note,  and  strong. 
Who  lists  may  in  their  mumming  see 
Traces  of  ancient  mystery ;'"' 
White  shirts  supplied  the  masquerade. 
And  smutted  cheeks  the  visors  made; 
But,  O!  what  maskers,  richly  dight. 
Can  boast  of  bosoms  half  so  light ! 
England  was  merry  England,  when 
Old  Christmas  brought  his  sports  again. 
'Twas  Christmas  broach'd  the  mightiest 

ale; 
'Twas  Christmas  told  the  merriest  tale; 
A  Christmas  gambol  oft  could  cheer 
The  poor  man's  heart  through  half  the 

year. 

Still  linger,  in  our  northern  clime. 
Some  remnants  of  the  good  old  time; 
And  still,  within  our  valleys  here, 
We  hold  the  kindred  title  dear. 
Even   when,    perchance,    its   far-fetch'd 

claim 
To  Southron  ear  sounds  empty  name ; 
For  course  of  blood,  our  proverbs  deem, 
Is  warmer  than  the  mountain-stream.* 
And  thus,  my  Christmas  still  I  hold 
Where  my  great  grandsire  came  of  old, 
With  amber  beard,  and  flaxen  hair, 
And  reverend  apostolic  air  — 
The  feast  and  holy-tide  to  share. 
And  mix  sobriety  with  wine. 
And  honest  mirth  with  thoughts  divine: 
Small  thought  was  his,  in  after  time 
E'er  to  be  hitch'd  into  a  rhyme. 
The  simple  sire  could  only  boast, 
That  he  was  loyal  to  his  cost; 
The  banish'd  race  of  kings  revered. 
And  lost  his  land,  —  but  kept  his  l>eard. 

In  these  dear  halls,  where  welcome  kind 
Is  with  fair  liberty  combined; 

•  "  Blood  is  warmer  tlian  water." 


Where  cordial  friendship  gives  the  hand. 
And  flies  constraint  the  magic  wand 
Of  the  fair  dame  that  rules  the  land.t 
Little  we  heed  the  tempest  drear. 
While  music,  mirth,  and  social  cheer, 
Speed  on  their  wings  the  passing  year. 
And  Mertoun's  halls  are  fair  e'en  now, 
When  not  a  leaf  is  on  the  bough. 
Tweed  loves  them  well,  and  turns  again. 
As  loth  to  leave  the  sweet  domain. 
And  holds  his  mirror  to  her  face, 
And  clips  her  with  a  close  embrace :  — 
Gladly  as  he,  we  seek  the  dome. 
And  as  reluctant  turn  us  home. 

How  just  that,  at  this  time  of  glee. 
My  thoughts  should,  Heber,  turn  to  thee  ! 
For  many  a  merry  hour  we've  known. 
And  heard  the  chimes  of  midnight  tone. 
Cease,  then,  my  friend  !  a  moment  cease. 
And  leave  these  classic  tomes  in  peace ! 
Of  Roman  and  of  Grecian  lore. 
Sure  mortal  brain  can  hold  no  more. 
These  ancients,  as  Noll  Bluff  might  say, 
"  Were  pretty  fellows  in  their  day;" 
But  time  and  tide  o'er  all  prevail  — 
On  Christmas  eve  a  Christmas  tale  — 
Of  wonder  and  of  war  —  ' '  Profane ! 
What !  leave  the  lofty  Latian  strain. 
Her  stately  prose,  her  verse's  charms. 
To  hear  the  clash  of  rusty  arms: 
In  Fairy  Land  or  Limlx)  lost, 
To  jostle  conjurer  and  ghost. 
Goblin  and  witch  !"  —  Nay,  Hel)er  dear. 
Before  you  touch  my  charter,  hear: 
Though  Leyden  aids,  alas !  no  more. 
My  cause  with  mahy-languaged  lore. 
This  may  I  say :  —  in  realms  of  death 
Ulysses  meets  Alcides'  wraith^; 
.(•Eneas,  upon  Thracia's  shore, 
The  ghost  of  murder'd  Polydore; 
For  omens,  we  in  Livy  cross. 
At  every  turn,  locutus  Bos. 
As  grave  and  duly  speaks  that  ox. 
As  if  he  told  the  price  of  stocks; 
Or  held,  in  Rome  republican. 
The  place  of  common-councilman. 

All  nations  have  their  omens  drear, 
Their  legends  wild  of  woe  and  fear. 

t  A  lady  of  noble  German  descent,  borii 
Countess  Harriet  Hriihl  of  Martinskirchen,  and 
married  to  H.  Scott,  Esq.,  of  Harden. 


io6 


MARMION. 


Canto  VI. 


To  Cambria  look  —  the  peasant  see, 

Bethink  him  of  Glendowerdy, 

And  shun  '"  the  spirit's  Blasted  Tree."  * 

The  Highlander,  whose  red  claymore 

The  battle  turn'd  on  Maida's  shore. 

Will,  on  a  Friday  morn,  look  pale, 

If  ask'd  to  tell  a  fairy  tale:  ™ 

He  fears  the  vengeful  Elfin  King, 

Who  leaves  that  day  his  grassy  ring: 

Invisible  to  human  ken, 

He  walks  among  the  sons  of  men. 

Didst  e'er,  dear  Heber,  pass  along 
Beneath  the  towers  of  Franchemont, 
Which,  like  an  eagle's  nest  in  air, 
Hang  o'er  the  stream  and  hamlet  fair? 
Deep  in  their  vaults,  the  peasants  say, 
A  mighty  treasure  buried  lay, 
Amass 'd    through    rapine    and    through 

wrong, 
By  the  last  Lord  of  Franchemont. ''i 
The  iron  chest  is  bolted  hard, 
A  huntsman  sits  its  constant  guard; 
Around  his  neck  his  horn  is  hung. 
His  hanger  in  his  belt  is  slung; 
Before  his  feet  his  lilood-hounds  lie. 
An  'twere  not  for  his  gloomy  eye, 
Whose  witheringglancenoheartcanbrook, 
As  true  a  huntsman  doth  he  look. 
As  bugle  e'er  in  brake  did  sound. 
Or  ever  halloo'd  to  a  hound. 
To  chase  the  fiend,  and  win  the  prize. 
In  that  same  dungeon  ever  tries 
An  aged  necromantic  priest; 
It  is  a  hundred  years  at  least, 
Since  'twixt  them  first  the  strife  begun. 
And  neither  yet  has  lost  nor  won. 
And  oft  the  Conjurer's  words  will  make 
The  stubborn  Demon  groan  and  quake; 
And  oft  the  bands  of  iron  break. 
Or  bursts  one  lock,  that  still  amain. 
Fast  as  'tis  open'd,  shuts  again. 
That  magic  strife  within  the  tomb 
May  last  until  the  day  of  doom. 
Unless  the  adept  shall  learn  to  tell 
The  very  word  that  clench'd  the  spell, 
When  Franch'mont  lock'd  the  treasure 

cell. 
A  hundred  years  are  pass'd  and  gone. 
And  scarce  three  letters  has  he  won. 

*  Alluding  to  the  Welsh  tradition  of  Howel 
Sell  and  Owen  Glendwr.  Howel  fell  in  single 
combat  against  fllendwr,  and  his  body  was 
concealed  in  a  hollow  oak. 


Such  general  superstition  may 
Excuse  for  old  Pitscottie  say; 
Whose  gossip  history  has  given 
My  song  the  messenger  from  Heaven, 
That    warn'd,    in    Lithgow,    Scotland's 

King, 
Nor  less  the  infernal  summoning; 
May  pass  the  Monk  of  Durham's  tale, 
Whose  demon  fought  in  Gothic  mail; 
May  pardon  plead  for  Fordun  grave. 
Who  told  of  Gifford's  Goblin-Cave. 
But  why  such  instances  to  you. 
Who,  in  an  instant,  can  renew 
Your  treasured  hoards  of  various  lore, 
And  furnish  twenty  thousand  more; 
Hoards,   not  like  theirs   whose  volumes 

rest 
Like  treasures  in  the  Franch'mont  chest, 
While  gripple  owners  still  refuse 
To  others  what  they  cannot  use; 
Give  them  the  priest's  whole  century, 
They  shall  not  spell  you  letters  tluree: 
Their  pleasure  in  the  books  the  same 
The  magpie  takes  in  pilfcr'd  gem. 
Thy  volumes,  open  as  thy  heart. 
Delight,  amusement,  science,  art, 
To  every  ear  and  eye  impart; 
Yet  who  of  all  who  thus  employ  them. 
Can  like  the  owner's  self  enjoy  them?  — 
But,  hark  !   I  hear  the  distant  drum  ! 
The  day  of  Flodden  Field  is  come.  — 
Adieu,  dear  Heber  !   life  and  health. 
And  store  of  literary  wealth. 


CANTO   SIXTH. 


THE    BATTLE. 


While  great  events  were  on  the  gale. 

And  each  hour  brought  a  varying  tale. 

And  the  demeanor,  changed  and  cold. 

Of  Douglas,  fretted  Marmion  bold. 

And,  like  the  impatient  steed  of  war. 

He  snuff'd  the  battle  from  afar; 

And  hopes  were  none,  that  back  again 

Herald  should  come  from  Terouenne, 

Where  England's  King  in  leaguer  lay. 

Before  decisive  battle-day; 

Whilst  these  things  were,  the  mournful 

Clare 
Did  in  the  Dame's  devotions  share: 


Canto  VI. 


THE   BATTLE. 


107 


For  the  good  Countess  ceaseless  pray'd 

To  heaven  and  Saints,  her  sons  to  aid, 

And,  with  short  interval,  did  pass 

From  prayer  to  took,  from  book  to  mass, 

And  all  in  high  Baronial  pride,  — 

A  life  Ixjth  dull  and  dignified; 

Yet  as  Lord  Marmion  nothing  press'd 

Upon  her  intervals  of  rest. 

Dejected  Clara  well  could  bear 

The  formal  state,  the  lengthen'd  prayer. 

Though  dearest  to  her  wounded  heart 

The  hours  that  she  might  spend  apart. 


I  said,  Tantallon's  dizzy  steep 

Hung  o'er  the  margin  of  the  deep. 

Many  a  rude  tower  and  rampart  there 

Repell'd  the  insult  of  the  air, 

which,  when  the  tempest  vex'd  the  sky, 

Half  breeze,  half  spray,  came  whistling  by. 

Above  the  rest,  a  turret  square 

Did  o'er  its  Gothic  entrance  bear. 

Of  sculpture  rude,  a  stony  shield; 

The  Bloody  Heart  was  in  the  Field, 

And  in  the  chief  three  mullets  stood. 

The  cognizance  of  Douglas  blood. 

The  turret  held  a  narrow  stair. 

Which,  mounted,  gave  you  access  where 

A  parapet's  embattled  row 

Did  seaward  round  the  castle  go. 

Sometimes  in  dizzy  steps  descending. 

Sometimes  in  narrow  circuit  bending. 

Sometimes  in  platform  broad  extending. 

Its  varying  circle  did  combine 

Bulwark,  and  bartizan,  and  line. 

And  bastion,  tower,  and  vantage-coign; 

Alxjve  the  booming  ocean  leant 

The  far-projecting  battlement; 

The  billows  Vjurst,  in  ceaseless  flow, 

Upon  the  precipice  below. 

Where'er  Tantallon  faced  the  land, 

Gate-works,  and    walls,    were    strongly 

mann'd; 
No  need  upon  the  sea-girt  side; 
The  steepy  rock,  and  frantic  tide, 
Approach  of  human  step  denied; 
And  thus  these  lines  and  ramparts  rude, 
Were  left  in  deepest  solitude. 


And,  for  they  were  so  lonely,  Clare 
Would  to  these  battlements  repair. 
And  muse  upon  her  sorrows  there, 


And  list  the  sea-bird's  cry; 
Or  slow,  like  noontide  ghost,  would  glide, 
Along  the  dark-gray  bulwarks'  side, 
And  ever  on  the  heaving  tide 

Look  down  with  weary  eye. 
Oft  did  the  cliff  and  swelling  main. 
Recall  the  thoughts  of  W^hitby's  fane,  — 
A  home  she  ne'er  might  see  again; 

For  she  had  laid  adown, 
So  Douglas  bade,  the  hood  and  veil. 
And  frontlet  of  the  cloister  pale. 

And  Benedictine  gown : 
It  were  unseemly  sight,  he  said, 
A  novice  out  of  convent  shade.  — 
Now  her  bright  locks,  with  sunny  glow. 
Again  adorn'd  her  brow  of  snow; 
Her  mantle  rich,  whose  borders,  round, 
A  deep  and  fretted  broidery  bound. 
In  golden  foldings  sought  the  ground; 
Of  holy  ornament,  alone 
Remain'd  a  cross  with  ruby  stone; 

And  often  did  she  look 
On  that  which  in  her  hand  she  bore. 
With  velvet  bound,  and  broider'd  o'er. 

Her  breviary  book. 
In  such  a  place,  so  lone,  so  grim, 
At  dawning  pale,  or  twilight  dim, 

It  fearful  would  have  been 
To  meet  a  form  so  richly  dress'd. 
With  book  in  hand,  and  cross  on  breast. 

And  such  a  woeful  mien. 
Fitz-Eustace,  loitering  with  his  bow. 
To  practise  on  the  gull  and  crow, 
Saw  her,  at  distance,  gliding  slow. 

And  did  by  Mary  swear,  — 
Some  love-lorn  Fay  she  might  have  been, 
Or,     in     Romance,     some     spell-bound 

Queen; 
Nor  ne'er,  in  work-day  world,  was  seen 

A  form  so  witching  fair. 


Once  walking  thus,  at  evening  tide. 
It  chanced  a  gliding  sail  she  spied. 
And,  sighing,  thought:  —  "  The  Abbess 

there. 
Perchance,  does  to  her  home  repair; 
Her  peaceful  rule,  where  Duty,  free, 
Walks  hand  in  hand  with  Charity; 
Where  oft  Devotion's  tranced  glow 
Can  such  a  glimpse  of  heaven  bestow. 
That  the  enraptured  sisters  see 
High  vision  and  deep  mystery; 


io8 


MARMION. 


Canto  VI. 


The  very  form  of  Hilda  fair. 

Hovering  upon  the  sunny  air, 

And  smiling  on  her  votaries'  prayer. 

O  !  wherefore,  to  my  duller  eye, 

Did  still  the  Saint  her  form  deny; 

Was  it,  that,  sear'd  by  sinful  scorn, 

My  heart  could  neither  melt  nor  burn? 

Or  lie  my  warm  affections  low. 

With    him,    that    taught    them    first    to 

glow? 
Yet,  gentle  Abbess,  well  I  knew, 
To  pay  thy  kindness  grateful  due. 
And  well  could  brook  the  mild  command, 
That  ruled  thy  simple  maiden  band. 
How  different  now !  condemn'd  to  bide 
My  doom  from  this  dark  tyrant's  pride.  — 
But  Marmion  has  to  learn,  ere  long, 
That  constant  mind,  and  hate  of  wrong, 
Descended  to  a  feeble  girl. 
From  Red  De  Clare,  stout  Gloster's  Earl : 
Of  such  a  stem,  a  sapling  weak. 
He  ne'er  shall  bend,  although  he  break. 


"  But    see !     what     makes    this    armor 

here?  "  — 
For  in  her  path  there  lay 
Targe,  corslet,  helm;  —  she  view'd  them 

near.  — 
"  The  breast-plate  pierced  !  —  Ay,  much 

I  fear, 
Weak  fence  wert  thou   'gainst  foeman's 

spear, 
That  hath  made  fatal  entrance  here, 
As  these  dark  blood-gouts  say.  — 
Thus  Wilton  !  —  Oh  !  not  corslet's  ward. 
Not  truth,  as  diamond  pure  and  hard, 
Could  be  thy  manly  bosom's  guard, 

On  yon  disastrous  day  !  "  — 
She  raised  her  eyes  in  mournful  mood,  — 
Wilton  himself  before  her  stood  ! 
It  might  have  seem'd  his  passing  ghost, 
For  every  youthful  grace  was  lost; 
And  joy  unwonted,  and  surprise, 
Gave  their  strange  wildness  to  his  eyes.  — 
Expect  not,  noble  dames  and  lords, 
That  I  can  tell  such  scene  in  words : 
What  skilful  limner  e'er  would  choose 
To  paint  the  rainbow's  varying  hues, 
Unless  to  mortal  it  were  given 
To  dip  his  brush  in  dyes  of  heaven  ? 
Far  less  can  my  weak  line  declare 
Each  changing  passion's  shade; 


Brightening  to  rapture  from  despair, 
Sorrow,  surprise,  and  pity  there. 
And  joy,  with  her  angelic  air. 
And  hope  that  paints  the  future  fair, 

Their  varying  hues  display'd : 
Each  o'er  its  rival's  ground  extending, 
Alternate  conquering,  shifting,  blending, 
Till  all,  fatigued,  the  conflict  yield, 
And  mighty  Love  retains  the  field. 
Shortly  I  tell  what  then  he  said. 
By  many  a  tender  word  delay'd, 
And  modest  blush,  and  bursting  sigh, 
And  question  kind,  and  fond  reply:  — 

VI. 
DE   WILTON'S   HISTORY. 
"  Forget  we  that  disastrous  day. 
When  senseless  in  the  lists  I  lay. 

Thence  dragg'd, — but  how  I  cannot 
know. 
For  sense  and  recollection  fled,  — 

I  found  me  on  a  pallet  low. 

Within  my  ancient  beadsman's  shed. 

Austin,  — remember'st  thou, my  Clare, 
How  thou  didst  blush,  when  the  old  man. 
When  first  our  infant  love  began, 

Said  we  would  make  a  matchless  pair? 
Menials,  and  friends,  and  kinsmen  fled 
From  the  degraded  traitor's  bed,  — 
He  only  held  my  burning  head, 
And  tended  me  for  many  a  day, 
While  wounds  and  fever  held  their  sway. 
But  far  more  needful  was  his  care, 
When  sense  return'd  to  wake  despair; 

For  I  did  tear  the  closing  wound. 

And  dash  me  frantic  on  the  ground, 
If  e'er  I  heard  the  name  of  Clare. 
At  length,  to  calmer  reason  brought, 
Much  by  his  kind  attendance  wrought, 

With  him  I  left  my  native  strand. 
And,  in  a  Palmer's  weeds  array'd. 
My  hated  name  and  form  to  shade, 

I  journey'd  many  a  land; 
No  more  a  lord  of  rank  and  birth. 
But  mingled  with  the  dregs  of  earth. 

Oft  Austin  for  my  reason  fear'd, 
When  I  would  sit  and  deeply  brood 
On  dark  revenge,  and  deeds  of  blood, 

Or  wild  mad  schemes  uprear'd. 
My  friend  at  length  fell  sick,  and  said, 

God  would  remove  him  soon; 
And,  while  upon  his  dying  bed, 

He  begg'd  of  me  a  boon  — 


Canto  VI. 


THE   BATTLE. 


109 


If  e'er  my  deadliest  enemy 
IJeneath  my  brand  should  conquer'd  lie, 
Even  then  my  mercy  should  awake, 
And  spare  his  life  for  Austin's  sake. 


"  Still  restless  as  a  second  Cain, 

To  Scotland  next  my  route  was  ta'en, 

Full  well  the  paths  I  knew. 
Fame  of  my  fate  made  various  sound, 
That  death  in  pilgrimage  I  found, 
Tiiat  I  had  perish'd  of  my  wound. 

None  cared  which  tale  was  true; 
And  living  eye  could  never  guess 
De  Wilton  in  his  Palmer's  dress; 
For  now  that  sable  slough  is  shed. 
And  trimm'd  my  shaggy  beard  and  head, 
I  scarcely  know  me  in  the  glass. 
A  chance  most  wondrous  did  provide. 
That  I  should  be  that  Baron's  guide  — 

I  will  not  name  his  name  !  — 
Vengeance  to  God  alone  belongs; 
But,  when  I  think  of  all  my  wrongs. 

My  blood  is  liquid  flame  ! 
And  ne'er  the  time  shall  I  forget. 
When,  in  a  Scottish  hostel  set. 

Dark  looks  we  did  exchange : 
What  were  his  thoughts  I  cannot  tell; 
But  in  my  bosom  muster'd  Hell 

Its  plans  of  dark  revenge. 


"  A  word  of  vulgar  .augury, 
That    broke    from    me,    I    scarce  knew 
why. 

Brought  on  a  village  tale; 
Which  wrought  upon  his  moody  sprite, 
And  sent  him  armed  forth  by  night. 

I  lx)rrow'd  steed  and  mail. 
And  weapons,  from  his  sleeping  band; 

And,  passing  from  a  postern  door. 
We  met,  and  'counter'd  hand  to  hand, — 

He  fell  on  Gifford  moor. 
For  the  death-stroke  my  brand  I  drew, 
(O  then  my  helmed  head  he  knew, 

The  Palmer's  cowl  was  gone,) 
Then  had  three  inches  of  my  blade 
The  heavy  debt  of  vengeance  paid,  — 
My  hand  the  thought  of  Austin  staid;  — 

I  left  him  there  alone.  — 
O  good  old  man !  even  from  the  grave 
Thy  spirit  could  thy  master  save.- 


If  I  had  slain  my  foeman,  ne'er 
Had  Whitby's  Abbess,  in  her  fear, 
Given  to  my  hand  this  packet  dear. 
Of  power  to  clear  my  injured  fame. 
And  vindicate  De  Wilton's  name.  — 
Perchance  you  heard  the  Abljess  tell 
Of  the  strange  pageantry  of  Hell, 

That  broke  our  secret  speech  — 
It  rose  from  the  infernal  shade. 
Or  featly  was  some  juggle  play'd, 

A  tale  of  peace  to  teach. 
Appeal  to  Heaven  I  judged  was  best, 
When  my  name  came  among  the  rest. 


"Now  here,  within  Tantallon  Hold, 
To  Douglas  late  my  tale  I  told. 
To  whom  my  house  was  known  of  old. 
Won  by  my  proofs,  his  falchion  bright 
This  eve  anew  shall  dub  me  knight. 
These  were  the  arms  that  once  did  turn 
The  tide  of  fight  on  Otterlxjurne, 
And  Harry  Hotspur  forced  to  yield, 
When  the  Dead  Douglas  won  the  field.  * 
These  Angus  gave- — his  armorer's  care, 
Ere  morn  shall  every  breach  repair; 
For  naught,  he  said,  was  in  his  halls. 
But  ancient  armor  on  the  walls. 
And  aged  chargers  in  his  stalls. 
And   women,     priests,    and   gray-hair'd 

men; 
The  rest  were  all  in  Twisel  glen.t 
And  now  I  watch  my  armor  here, 
By  law  of  arms,  till  midnight's  near; 
Then,  once  again  a  belted  knight. 
Seek  Surrey's  camp  with  dawn  of  light. 


"  There  soon  again  we  meet,  my  Clare  ! 
This  Baron  means  to  guide  thee  there : 
Douglas  reveres  his  King's  command, 
Else  would  he  take  thee  from  his  band. 
And  there  thy  kinsman,  Surrey,  too, 
Will  give  De  Wilton  justice  due. 
Now  meeter  far  for  martial  broil. 
Firmer  my  limbs,  and  strung  by  toil, 
Once  more  " — "  O  Wilton  !  must  we  then 
Risk  new-found  happiness  again, 

*  See  the  ballad  of  Otterboume,  in  the 
"  Border  Minstrelsy,"  vol.  i.  p.  345- 

t  Where  James  encamped  before  taking  post 
uu  Flodden. 


MARMION. 


CWTO  VI 


Trust  fate  of  arms  once  more? 
And  is  there  not  a  humble  glen, 

Where  we,  content  and  poor, 
Might  build  a  cottage  in  the  shade, 
A  shepherd  thou,  and  I  to  aid 

Thy  task  on  dale  and  moor  ?  — 
That  reddening  brow  !  —  too  well  I  know. 
Not  even  thy  Clare  can  peace  bestow. 

While  falsehood  stains  thy  name; 
Go  then  to  fight !  Clare  bids  thee  go ! 
Clare  can  a  warrior's  feelings  know, 

And  weep  a  warrior's  shame; 
Can  Red  Earl  Gilbert's  spirit  feel. 
Buckle  the  spurs  upon  thy  heel. 
And  belt  thee  witii  thy  brand  of  steel, 

And  send  thee  forth  to  fame ! ' ' 


That  night,  upon  the  rocks  and  bay, 
The  midnight  moon-beam  slumbering  lay, 
And  pour'd  its  silver  light,  and  pure, 
Through  loop-hole,  ajid  through  embra- 
zure. 

Upon  Tantallon  tower  and  hall; 
But  chief  where  arched  windows  wide 
Illuminate  the  chapel's  pride, 

The  sober  glances  fall. 
Much    was    their    need;    though   seam'd 

with  scars. 
Two  veterans  of  the  Douglas'  wars. 

Though  two  gray  priests  were  there, 
And  each  a  blazing  torch  held  high, 
You  could  not  by  their  blaze  descry 

The  chapel's  carving  fair. 
Amid  that  dim  and  smoky  light. 
Chequering  the  silver  moon-shine  bright, 

A  bishop  by  the  altar  stood,* 

A  noble  lord  of  Douglas  blood, 
With  mitre  sheen,  and  rocquet  white. 
Yet  show'd  his  meek  and  thoughtful  eye 
But  little  pride  of  prelacy; 
More  pleased  that,  in  a  barbarous  age. 
He  gave  rude  Scotland  Virgil's  page. 
Than  that  beneath  his  rule  he  held 
The  bishopric  of  fair  Dunkeld. 
Beside  him  ancient  Angus  stood, 
Doff'd  his  furr'd  gown  and  sable  hood: 

*  The  well-known  Gawain  Douglas,  Bishop  of 
Dunkeld,  son  of  Archibald  Bell-the-Cat,  Earl  of 
Angus.  He  was  author  of  a  Scottish  metrical 
version  of  the  ^-Eneid,  and  of  many  other  poetical 
pieces  of  great  merit.  He  had  not  at  this  period 
attained  the  mitre. 


O'er  his  huge  form  and  visage  pale, 

He  wore  a  cap  and  shirt  of  mail; 

And  leau'd  his  large  and  wrinkled  hand 

Upon  the  huge  and  sweeping  brand 

Which  wont  of  yore,  in  battle  fray. 

His  foeman's  limbs  to  sbred  away. 

As  wood-knife  lops  the  sapling  spray. ''^ 

He  seem'd  as,  from  the  tombs  around 
Rising  at  judgment-day. 

Some  giant  Douglas  may  be  found 
In  all  his  old  array; 
So  pale  his  face,  so  huge  his  limb. 
So  old  his  arms,  his  look  so  grim. 


Then  at  the  altar  Wilton  kneels, 
And  Clare  the  spurs  bound  on  his  heels, 
And  think  what  next  he  must  have  felt. 
At  buckling  of  the  falchion  belt ! 

And  judge  how  Clara  changed  her  hue. 
While  fastening  to  her  lover's  side 
A  friend,  which,  though  in  danger  tried. 

He  once  had  found  untrue  ! 
Then  Douglas  struck  him  with  his  blade : 
"  Saint  Michael  and  Saint  Andrew  aid, 

I  dub  thee  knight. 
Arise,  Sir  Ralph,  De  Wilton's  heir  ! 
For  King,  for  Church,  for  Lady  fair. 

See  that  thou  fight."  — 
And  Bishop  Gawain,  as  he  rose, 
Said — "  Wilton  !  grieve  not  for  thy  woes, 

Disgrace,  and  trouble; 
For  He,  who  honor  best  bestows. 

May  give  thee  doub'ie." 
De  Wilton  sobb'd,  for  sob  he  must  — 
"  Where'er  I  meet  a  Douglas,  trust 

That  Douglas  is  my  brother  !  "  — 
"  Nay,  nay,"  old  Angus  said,  "  not  so; 
To  Surrey's  camp  thou  now  must  go. 
Thy  wrongs  no  longer  smother. 
I  have  two  sons  in  yonder  field; 
And,  if  thou  meet'st  them  under  shield, 
Upon  them  bravely  —  do  thy  worst; 
And  foul  fall  him  that  blenches  first !  " 


Not  far  advanced  was  morning  day, 
When  Marmion  did  his  troop  array 

To  Surrey's  camp  to  ride; 
He  had  safe  conduct  for  his  band. 
Beneath  the  royal  seal  and  hand. 

And  Douglas  gave  a  guide : 


Canto  VI. 


THE  BATTLE. 


til 


The  ancient  Earl,  with  stately  grace, 
Would  Clara  on  her  palfrey  place. 
And  whisper'd  in  an  under  tone, 
"  Let     the    hawk    stoop,    his     prey     is 

flown."  — 
The  train  from  out  the  castle  drew, 
But  Marmion  stopp'd  to  bid  adieu:  — 

"Though  something  I  might  plain," 
he  said, 
"  Of  cold  respect  to  stranger  guest, 
Sent  hither  by  your  King's  behest. 

While  in  Tantallon's  lowers  I  staid; 
Part  we  in  friendship  from  your  land, 
And,  noble  Earl,  receive  my  hand."  — 
But  Douglas  round  him  drew  his  cloak. 
Folded  his  arms,  and  thus  he  spoke :  — 
"  My  manors,  halls,  and  bowers,  shall  still 
Be  open,  at  my  Sovereign's  will. 
To  each  one  whom  he  lists,  howe'er 
Unmeet  to  be  the  owner's  peer. 
My  castles  are  my  King's  alone. 
From  turret  to  foundation-stone  — 
The  hand  of  Douglas  is  his  own; 
And  never  shall  in  friendly  grasp 
The  hand  of  such  as  Marmion  clasp."  — 


Burn'd  Marmion's  swarthy  cheek  like  fire, 
And  shook  his  very  frame  for  ire, 

And  —  "  This  to  me  !  "  he  said,  — 
"  An  'twere  not  for  thy  hoary  beard, 
Such  hand  as  Marmion's  had  not  spared 

To  cleave  the  Douglas'  head ! 
And,  first,  I  tell  thee,  haughty  Peer, 
He,  who  does  England's  message  here, 
Although  the  meanest  in  her  state. 
May  well,  proud  Angus,  be  thy  mate: 
And,  Douglas,  more  I  tell  thee  here. 

Even  in  thy  pitch  of  pride, 
Here  in  thy  hold,  thy  vassals  near, 
(Nay,  never  look  upon  your  lord, 
And  lay  your  hands  upon  your  sword,) 

I  tell  thee  thou'rt  defied  ! 
And  if  thou  saidst  I  am  not  peer 
To  any  lord  in  Scotland  here. 
Lowland  or  Highland,  far  or  near. 

Lord  Angus,  thou  hast  lied  !  " 
On  the  Earl's  cheek  the  flush  of  rage 
O'ercame  the  ashen  hue  of  age: 
Fierce  he   broke   forth,  —  "And  darest 

thou, then. 
To  beard  the  lion  in  his  den. 

The  Douglas  in  his  hall? 


And    hopest    thou    hence    unscathed    to 

go?  — 
No,  by  Saint  Bride  of  Bothwell,  no ! 
Up  drawbridge,  grooms  —  what.  Warder, 

ho! 
Let  the  portcullis  fall."  "^ 
Lord   Marmion   turn'd,  —  well  was  his 

need, 
And  dash'd  the  rowels  in  his  steed, 
Like  arrow  through  the  archway  sprung. 
The  ponderous  gate  behind  him  rung : 
To  pass  there  was  such  scanty  room. 
The  bars,  descending,  razed  his  plume. 


The  steed  along  the  drawbridge  flies, 
Just  as  it  trembled  on  the  rise; 
Nor  lighter  does  the  swallow  skim 
iVlong  the  smooth  lake's  level  brim: 
And  when  Lord  Marmion   reach'd   his 

band, 
He  halts,  and  turn'd  with  clenched  hand, 
And  shout  of  loud  defiance  pours, 
And  shook  his  gauntlet  at  the  towers. 
"  Horse  !    horse  !  "   the   Douglas   cried, 

"  and  chase !  " 
But  soon  he  rein'd  his  fury's  pace : 
"  A  royal  messenger  he  came, 
Though  most  unworthy  of  the  name.  — 
A  letter  forged  !     Saint  Jude  to  speed ! 
Did  ever  knight  so  foul  a  deed  !  '* 
At  first  in  heart  it  liked  me  ill. 
When  the  King  praised  his  clerkly  skill 
Thanks  to  Saint  Bothan,  son  of  mine, 
.Save  Gawain,  ne'er  could  pen  a  line. 
So  swore  L  ^n*!  I  swear  it  still. 
Let  my  boy-bishop  fret  his  fill.  — 
.Saint  Mary  mend  my  fiery  mood ! 
Old  age  ne'er  cools  the  Douglas  blood, 
I  thought  to  slay  him  where  he  stood. 
'Tis  pity  of  him  too,"  he  cried : 
"  Bold  can  he  speak,  and  fairly  ride, 
I  warrant  him  a  warrior  tried." 
With  this  his  mandate  he  recalls, 
And  slowly  seeks  his  castle  halls. 

XVI. 

The  day  in  Marmion's  journey  wore; 
Yet,  ere  his  passion's  gust  was  o'er, 
They  cross'd  the  heights  of  Stanrig-Moor. 
His  troop  more  closely  there  he  scann'd, 
And  miss'd  the  Palmer  from  the  band.  — 


112 


MARMION. 


Canto  VI. 


"  Palmer  or  not,"  young  Blount  did  say, 
"  He  parted  at  the  peep  of  day; 
Good  sooth,  it  was  in  strange  array." 
"  In  what  array?  "  said  Marinion  quick. 
"  My  lord,  I  ill  can  spell  the  trick; 
But  all  night  long,  with  clink  and  bang. 
Close  to  my  couch  did  hammers  clang; 
At  dawn  the  falling  drawbridge  rang, 
And  from  a  loop-hole  while  I  peep. 
Old  Bell-the-Cat  came   from  the  Keep, 
Wrapp'd  in  a  gown  of  sables  fair, 
As  fearful  of  the  morning  air; 
Beneath,  when  that  was  blown  aside, 
A  rusty  shirt  of  mail  I  spied. 
By  Archibald  won  in  bloody  work. 
Against  the  Saracen  and  Turk : 
Last  night  it  hung  not  in  the  hall; 
I  thought  some  marvel  would  befall. 
And  next  I  saw  them  saddled  lead 
Old  Cheviot  forth,  the  Earl's  best  steed; 
A  matchless  horse,  though  something  old. 
Prompt  in  his  paces,  cool  and  bold. 
I  heard  the  Sheriff  Sholto  say. 
The  Earl  did  much  the  Master*  pray 
To  use  him  on  the  battle-day; 
Buthepreferr'd  — "  "Nay,  Menry,  cease  ! 
Thou  sworn  horse-courser,  hold  thy  peace. 
Eustace,  thou  bear'st  a  brain  —  1  pray 
What  did  Blount  see  at  break  of  day?  "  — 


"  In  brief,  my  lord,  we  both  descried 
(For  then  I  stood  by  Henry's  side) 
The  Palmer  mount,  and  outwards  ride. 

Upon  the  Earl's  own  favorite  steed: 
All  sheathed  he  was  in  armor  bright. 
And  much  resembled  that  same  knight. 
Subdued  by  you  in  Cotswold  fight : 

Lord  Angus  wish'd  him  speed."  — 
The  instant  that  Fitz- Eustace  spoke, 
A  sudden  light  on  Marmion  broke:  — 
"  Ah  !  dastard  fool,  to  reason  lost !  " 
He  mutter'd;    "  'Twas  nor  fay  nor  ghost 
I  met  upon  the  moonlight  wold. 
But  living  man  of  earthly  mould.  — 

O  dotage  blind  and  gross ! 
Had  I  but  fought  as  wont,  one  thrust 
Had  laid  De  VVilton  in  the  dust. 

My  path  no  more  to  cross.  — 
How  stand  we  now?  —  he  told  his  tale 
To  Douglas;    and  with  some  avail; 

*  His  eldest  son,  the  Master  of  Angus. 


'Twas   therefore   gloom'd   his   rugged 
brow.  — 
Will  Surrey  dare  to  entertain, 
'Gainst  Marmion,  charge  disproved  and 
vain? 

Small  risk  of  that,  I  trow. 
Yet  Clare's  sharp  questions  must  I  shun; 
Must  separate  Constance  from  the  Nun  — 
O,  what  a  tangled  web  we  weave. 
When  first  we  practise  to  deceive ! 
A  Palmer  too  !  —  no  wonder  why 
I  felt  rebuked  beneath  his  eye : 
I  might  have  known  there  was  but  one 
Whose  look  could  quell  Lord  Marmion." 


Stung  with  these  thoughts,  he  urged  to 

speed 
His  troop,  and  reach'd  at  eve,  the  Tweed, 
Where    Lennel's   convent  t  closed  their 

march. 
(There  now  is  left  but  one  frail  arch; 

Yet  mourn  thou  not  its  cells; 
Our  time  a  fair  exchange  has  made; 
Hard  by,  in  hospitable  shade, 

A  reverend  pilgrim  dwells. 
Well  worth  the  whole  Bernardine  brood, 
That  e'er  wore  sandal,  frock,  or  h(3od.) 
Yet  did  St.  Bernard's  Abbot  there 
(jive  Marmion  entertainment  fair. 
And  lodging  for  his  train  and  Clare. 
Next  morn  the  Baron  climb'd  the  tower. 
To  view  afar  the  Scottish  power, 

Encamp'il  on  Flodden  edge: 
The  white  pavilions  made  a  show. 
Like  remnants  of  the  winter  snow. 

Along  the  dusky  ridge. 
Lord  Marmion  look'd  :  —  at  length  his  eye 
Unusual  movement  might  descry 

Amid  the  shifting  lines: 
The  Scottish  host  drawn  out  appears. 
For,  flashing  on  the  hedge  of  spears 

The  eastern  sunbeam  shines. 
Their  front  now  deepening,  now  extend- 
ing; 
Their  flank  inclining,  wheeling,  bending. 
Now  drawing  back,  and  now  descending. 
The  skilful  Marmion  well  could  know. 
They  watch'd  the  motions  of  some  foe, 
Who  traversed  on  the  plain  below. 

t  A  Cistertian  convent.  At  I.ennel  House 
resided  Patrick  Brydone,  Scott's  venerable 
friend. 


Canto  VI, 


THE  BATTLE. 


"3 


Even  so  it  was.     From  Flodden  ridge 

The  Scots  beheld  the  English  host 

Leave    Barmore-wood,   their   evening 
post, 

And   heedful   watch'd   them   as   they 
cross'd 
The  Till  by  Twisel  Bridgets 

High  sight  it  is,  and  haughty,  while 
They  dive  into  the  deep  defile; 

Beneath  the  cavern'd  cliff  they  fall, 

Beneath  the  castle's  airy  wall. 
By  rock,  by  oak,  by  hawthorn-tree. 

Troop  after  troop  are  disappearing; 

Troop  after  troop  their  banners  rearing. 
Upon  the  eastern  bank  you  see. 
Still  pouring  down  the  rocky  den. 

Where  flows  the  sullen  Till, 
And  rising  from  the  dim-wood  glen, 
Standards  on  standards,  men  on  men. 

In  slow  succession  still, 
And,  sweeping  o'er  the  Gothic  arch, 
And  pressing  on,  in  ceaseless  march. 

To  gain  the  opposing  hill. 
That  morn,  to  many  a  trumpet  clang, 
Twisel !  thy  rock's  deep  echo  rang; 
And  many  a  chief  of  birth  and  rank; 
Saint  Helen  !  at  thy  fountain  drank. 
Thy    hawthorn    glade,    which    now    we 

see 
In  spring-tide  bloom  so  lavishly. 
Had  then  from  many  an  axe  its  doom. 
To  give  the  marching  columns  room. 


And  why  stands  Scotland  idly  now. 
Dark  Flodden  !  on  thy  airy  brow. 
Since  England  gains  the  pass  the  while, 
And  struggles  through  the  deep  defile  ? 
What  checks  the  fiery  soul  of  James.? 
Why  sits  that  champion  of  the  dames 

Inactive  on  his  steed, 
And  sees  between  him  and  his  land, 
Between    him     and    Tweed's    southern 

strand, 
His  host  Lord  Surrey  lead? 
What    'vails    the    vain    knight-errant's 

brand  ? 
—  O,  Douglas,  for  thy  leading  wand  ! 

Fierce  Randolph,  for  thy  speed  ! 
O  for  one  hour  of  Wallace  wight, 
Or  well-skill'd  Bruce  to  rule  the  fight, 
And  cry  — ' '  Saint  Andrew  and  our  right ! " 


Another  sight  had  seen  that  morn. 
From  Fate's  dark  book  a  leaf  been  torn. 
And     Flodden     had     been     Bannock- 
bourne  !  — 
The  precious  hour  has  pass'd  in  vain, 
And  England's  host  has  gain'd  the  plain : 
Wheeling  their  march,  and  circling  still. 
Around  the  base  of  Flodden  hill. 


Ere  yet  the  bands  met  Marmion's  eye, 
Fitz-Eustace  shouted  loud  and  high :  — 
"  Hark  !  hark  !  my  lord,  an  English  drum ! 
And  see  ascending  squadrons  come 

Between  Tweed's  river  and  the  hill. 
Foot,  horse,   and   cannon: — hap  what 

hap. 
My  basnet  to  a  prentice  cap. 

Lord  Surrey's  o'er  the  Till ! 
Yet  more  !  yet  more  !  —  how  far  array'd 
They  file  from  out  the  hawthorn  shade. 

And  sweep  so  gallant  by: 
With  all  their  banners  bravely  spread. 

And  all  their  armor  flashing  high. 
Saint  George  might  waken  from  the  dead, 

To  see  fair  England's  standards  fly."  — 
"Stint   in   thy   prate,"    quoth    Blount, 

"  thou'dst  best. 
And  listen  to  our  lord's  behest."  — 
With     kindling    brow    Lord     Marmion 

said :  — 
"This  instant  be  our  band  array'd, 
The  river  must  be  quickly  cross'd. 
That  we  may  join  Lord  Surrey's  host. 
If  fight  King  James,  — as  well  I  trust. 
That  fight  he  will,  and  fight  he  must,  — 
The  Lady  Clare  behind  our  lines 
Shall  tarry,  while  the  battle  joins.' 


Himself  he  swift  on  horseback  threw. 
Scarce  to  the  Abbot  bade  adieu; 
Far  less  would  listen  to  his  prayer. 
To  leave  behind  the  helpless  Clare. 
Down  to  the  Tweed  his  band  he  drew, . 
And  mutter'd  as  the  flood  they  view, 
"The  pheasant  in  the  falcon's  claw, 
He  scarce  will  yield  to  please  a  daw ; 
Lord  Angus  may  the  Abbot  awe. 

So  Clare  shall  bide  with  me." 
Then  on  that  dangerous  ford,  and  deep. 
Where  to  the  Tweed  Leafs  eddies  creep. 

He  ventured  desperately : 


114 


MARMION. 


Canto  VI. 


And  not  a  moment  will  he  bide, 

Till  squire,  or  groom,  before  him  ride; 

Headmost  of  all  he  stems  the  tide; 

And  stems  it  gillantly. 
Eustace  held  Clare  upon  her  horse, 

Old  Hubert  led  her  rein. 
Stoutly  they  braved  the  current's  course. 
And,  though  far  downward  driven  per 
force 

The  southern  bank  they  gain; 
Behind  them  straggling,  came  to  shore. 

As  best  they  might,  the  train : 
Each  o'er  his  head  his  yew-bow  bore, 

A  caution  not  in  vain; 
Deep  need  that  day  that  every  string. 
By  wet  unharm'd,  should  sharply  ring. 
A  moment  then  Lord  Marmion  staid. 
And  breathed  his  steed,  his  men  array'd. 

Then  forward  moved  his  band. 
Until,  Lord  Surrey's  rear-guard  won, 
He  halted  by  a  Cross  of  Stone, 
That,  on  a  hillock  standing  lone, 

Did  all  the  field  command. 

XXIII. 
Hence  might  they  see  the  full  array 
Of  either  host,  for  deadly  fray;  ^'' 
Their  marshall'd  lines  stretch'd  east  and 
west, 

And  fronted  north  and  south. 
And  distant  salutation  pass'd 

From  the  loud  cannon  mouth; 
Not  in  the  close  successive  rattle. 
That  breathes  the  voice  of  modern  battle. 

But  slow  and  far  between.  — 
The  hillock  gain'd.  Lord  Marmion  staid: 
"  Here  by  this  Cross,"  he  gently  said: 

"  You  well  may  view  the  scene. 
Here  shalt  thou  tarry,  lovely  Clare: 
O  !  think  of  Marmion  in  thy  prayer  !  — 
Thou    wilt    not? — well,  —  no    less    my 

care 
Shall,  watchful,  for  thy  weal  prepare.  — 
You,    Blount     and     Eustace,     are    her 
guard, 

With  ten  pick'd  archers  of  my  train; 
With  England  if  the  day  go  hard. 

To  Berwick  speed  amain.  — 
But  if  we  conquer,  cruel  maid. 
My  spoils  shall  at  your  feet  be  laid, 

when  here  we  meet  again." 
He  waited  not  for  answer  there. 
And  would  not  mark  the  maid's  despair, 


Nor  heed  the  discontented  look 
From  either  squire;    but  spurr'd  amain. 
And,  dashing  through  the  battle  plain. 

His  way  to  Surrey  took. 


" The  good  Lord  Marmion,  by  my 

life ! 

Welcome  to  danger's  hour  ! 
Short  greeting  serves  in  time  of  strife  ! 

Thus  have  I  ranged  my  power :  — 
Myself  will  rule  this  central  host. 

Stout  Stanley  fronts  their  right. 
My  sons  command  the  vaward  post. 

With  Brian  Tunstall,  stainless  knight,''^ 

Lord  Dacre,  with  his  horsemen  light. 

Shall  be  in  rear-ward  of  the  fight. 
And  succor  those  that  need  it  most. 

Now,  gallant  Marmion,  well  I  know. 

Would  gladly  to  the  vanguard  go; 
Edmund,  the  Admiral,  Tunstall  there. 
With  thee  their  charge  will  blithely  share; 
There  fight  thine  own  retainers  too, 
Beneath  De  Burg,  thy  steward  true." 
"  Thanks,  noble  Surrey  !  "  Marmion  said, 
Nor  farther  greeting  there  he  paid; 
But,  parting  like  a  thunderbolt. 
First  in  the  vanguard  made  a  halt. 

Where  such  a  shout  there  rose 
Of  "  Marmion  !  Marmion  !  "  that  the  cry, 
Up  Flodden  mountains  shrilling  high. 

Startled  the  Scottish  foes. 


Blount  and  Fitz-Eustace  rested  still 
With  Lady  Clare  upon  the  hill ! 
On  which  (for  far  the  day  was  spent) 
The  western  sunbeams  now  were  bent. 
The  cry  they  heard,  its  meaning  knew. 
Could  plain  their  distant  comrades  view; 
Sadly  to  Blount  did  Eustace  say :  — 
"  Unworthy  office  here  to  stay  ! 
No  hope  of  gilded  spurs  to-day.  — 
But  see  !  look  up  —  on  Flodden  bent 
The  Scottish  foe  has  fired  his  tent." 

And  sudden,  as  he  spoke, 
From  the  sharp  ridges  of  the  hill. 
All  downward  to  the  banks  of  Till, 

Was  wreathed  in  sable  smoke. 
Volumed  and  fast,  and  rolling  far, 
The  cloud  enveloped  Scotland's  war. 

As  down  the  hill  they  broke; 


Canto  VI. 


THE  BATTLE. 


"5 


Nor  martial  shout,  nor  minstrel  tone. 
Announced  their  march ;  their  tread  alone, 
At  times  one  warning  trumpet  blown, 

At  times  a  stifled  hum. 
Told  England,  from  his  mountain-throne 

King  James  did  rushing  come.  — 
Scarce  could  they  hear  or  see  their  foes, 

Until  at  weapon-point  they  close.  — 
They  close,  in  clouds  of  smoke  and  dust, 
With  sword-sway,  and  with  lance's  thrust; 

And  such  a  yell  was  there. 
Of  sudden  and  portentous  birth. 
As  if  men  fought  upon  the  earth, 

And  fiends  in  upper  air; 
O  life  and  death  were  in  the  shout. 
Recoil  and  rally,  charge  and  rout. 

And  triumph  and  despair. 
Long  look'd  the  anxious  squires;  their  eye 
Could  in  the  darkness  naught  descry. 


At  length  the  freshening  western  blast 

Aside  the  shroud  of  battle  cast; 

And,  first,  the  ridge  of  mingled  spears 

Above  the  brightening  cloud  appears; 

And  in  the  smoke  the  pennons  flew. 

As  in  the  storm  the  white  sea-mew. 

Then  mark'd  they,  dashing  broad  and  far, 

The  broken  billows  of  the  war, 

And  plumed  crests  of  chieftains  brave. 

Floating  like  foam  upon  the  wave; 

But  naught  distinct  they  see  : 
Wide  raged  the  battle  on  the  plain; 
Spears  shook,  and  falchions  flash'd  amain. 
Fell  England's  arrow-flight  like  rain; 
Crests  rose,  and  stoop'd,  and  rose  again. 

Wild  and  disorderly. 
Amid  the  scene  of  tumult,  high 
They  saw  Lord  Marmion's  falcon  fly: 
And  stainless  Tunstall's  l)anner  white. 
And  Edmund  Howard's  lion  bright. 
Still  bare  them  bravely  in  the  fight. 

Although  against  them  come, 
Of  gallant  Gordons  many  a  one. 
And  many  a  stubborn  Badenoch-man, 
And  many  a  rugged  Border  clan, 

With  Huntly,  and  with  Home. 

XXVII. 

Far  on  the  left,  unseen  the  while, 
Stanley  broke  Lennox  and  Argyle; 
Though  there  the  western  mountaineer 
Rush'd  with  bare  bosom  on  the  spear. 


And  flung  the  feeble  targe  aside. 

And  with  both   hands   the   broadsword 

plied, 
'Twas  vain :  —  But  Fortune,  on  the  right. 
With   fickle    smile,    cheer'd    Scotland's 

fight. 
Then  fell  that  spotless  banner  white, 

The  Howard's  lion  fell; 
Yet  still  Lord  Marmion's  falcon  flew 
With  wavering  flight,  while  fiercer  grew 

Around  the  battle-yell. 
The  Border  slogan  rent  the  sky ! 
A  Home  !  a  Gordon  !  was  the  cry: 

Loud  were  the  clanging  blows; 
Advanced,  — forced   back, —  now    low, 
now  high. 

The  pennon  sunk  and  rose; 
As  bends  the  bark's  mast  in  the  gale. 
When  rent  are  rigging,  shrouds,  and  sail. 

It  waver'd  mid  the  foes. 
No  longer  Blount  the  view  could  bear :  — 
"  By  Heaven,  and  all  its  saints !   I  swear 

I  will  not  see  it  lost ! 
Fitz- Eustace,  you  with  Lady  Clare 
May  bid  your  l^eads,  and  patter  prayer,  — 

I  gallop  to  the  host." 
And  to  the  fray  he  rode  amain, 
Follow'd  by  all  the  archer  train. 
The  fiery  youth,  with  desperate  charge. 
Made,  for  a  space,  an  opening  large,  — 

The  rescued  banner  rose,  — 
But  darkly  closed  the  war  around. 
Like  pine-tree,  rooted  from  the  ground, 

It  sunk  among  the  foes. 
Then  Eustace  mounted  too :  —  yet  staid 
As  loth  to  leave  the  helpless  maid, 

When,  fast  as  shaft  can  fly. 
Blood-shot  his  eyes,  his  nostrils  spread. 
The  loose  rein  dangling  from  his  head. 
Housing  and  saddle  bloody  red. 

Lord  Marmion's  steed  rush'd  by; 
And  Eustace,  maddening  at  the  sight, 

A  look  and  sign  to  Clara  cast 

To  mark  he  would  return  in  haste, 
Then  plunged  into  the  fight. 


Ask  me  not  what  the  maiden  feels, 
Left  in  that  dreadful  hour  alone: 

Perchance  her  reason  stoops,  or  reels; 
Perchance  a  courage,  not  her  own, 
Braces  her  mind  to  desperate  tone.  — 

The  scatter'd  van  of  England  wheels :  — 


Ii6 


MARMJON. 


Canto  VI, 


She  only  said,  as  loud  in  air 

The      tumult     roar'd,     "  Is     Wilton 
there?  "  — 

They  fly,  or  madden'd  by  despair, 

Fight     but     to     die,  —  "Is     Wilton 
there?  " 
With  that,  straight  up  the  hill  there  rode 
Two  horsemen  drench 'd  with  gore, 
And  in  their  arms,  a  helpless  load, 

A  wounded  knight  they  bore. 
His  hand  still  strain'd  the  broken  brand; 
His  arms  were  smear'd  with  blood  and 

sand. 
Dragg'd  from  among  the  horses'  feet. 
With  dinted  shield,  and  helmet  beat, 
The  falcon-crest  and  plumage  gone, 
Can  that  be  haughty  Marmion  '.   .    .   . 
Young  Blount  his  armor  did  unlace. 
And,  gazing  on  his  ghastly  face. 

Said  —  "  By  Saint  George,  he's  gone  ! 
That  spear-wound  has  our  master  sped. 
And  see  the  deep  cut  on  his  head ! 

Good-night  to  Marmion."  — 
"  Unnurtured  Blount !  thy  brawling  cease : 
He    opes     his     eyes,"    said     Eustace; 
"  peace !  " 


When,  doff 'd  his  casque,  he  felt  free  air, 

Around  'gan  Marmion  wildly  stare:  — 

"  Where's  Harry  Blount?    Fitz-Eustace 
where? 

Linger  ye  here,  ye  hearts  of  hare  ! 

Redeem  my  pennon,  — charge  again  ! 

Cry  —  '  Marmion     to     the     rescue  !  '  — 
Vain ! 

Last  of  my  race,  on  battle-plain 

That  shout  shall  ne'er  be  heard  again ! 

Yet  my  last  thought  is  England's  —  fly, 
To  Dacre  bear  my  signet-ring: 
Tell  him  his  squadrons  up  to  bring.  — 

Fitz-Eustace,  to  Lord  Surrey  hie; 
Tunstall  lies  dead  upon  the  field, 
His  life-blood  stains  the  spotless  shield. 
Edmund  is  down  :  — my  life  is  reft; 
The  Admiral  alone  is  left. 
Let  Stanley  charge  with  spur  of  fire,  — 
With  Chester  charge,  and  Lancashire, 
Full  upon  Scotland's  central  host, 
Or  victory  and  England's  lost.  — 
Must    I  bid   twice  ?  —  hence,  varlcts  ! 

fly! 
Leave  Marmion  here  alone  —  to  die." 


They  parted,  and  alone  he  lay; 

Clare  drew  her  from  the  sight  away. 
Till  pain  wrung  forth  a  lowly  moan, 
And  half  he  murmur'd^  —  "  Is  there  none 

Of  all  my  halls  have  nurst. 
Page,  squire,  or  groom,  one  cup  to  bring 
Of  blessed  water  from  the  spring. 

To  slake  my  dying  thirst !  " 


O,  Woman !  in  our  hours  of  ease. 
Uncertain,  coy,  and  hard  to  please, 
And  variable  as  the  shade 
By  the  light  quivering  aspen  made? 
When  pain  and  anguish  wring  the  brow, 
A  ministering  angel  thou  !  — 
Scarce  were  the  piteous  accents  said. 
When,  with  the  Baron's  casque,  the  maid 

To  the  nigh  streamlet  ran: 
Forgot  were  hatred,  wrongs,  and  fears; 
The  plaintive  voice  alone  she  hears, 

Sees  but  the  dying  man. 
She  stoop'd  her  by  the  runnel's  side, 

But  in  abhorrence  backward  drew; 
For,  oozing  from  the  mountain's  side, 
Where  raged  the  war,  a  dark-red  tide 

Was  curdling  in  the  streamlet  blue. 
Where    shall    she    turn  ?  —  behold    her 
mark 

A  little  fountain  cell. 
Where  water,  clear  as  diamond-spark. 

In  a  stone  basin  fell. 
Above,  some  half-worn  letters  say, 

©rink,  fajcarj. pilgrim.  Brink.  anlJ.  prnj. 
JFor.  t})c.  kinti.  soul.  of.  S^bil.  ©rco. 
JTOIjo.  fcuilt.  tf)is.  cross,  anil,  fairll." 

She  fili'd  the  helm,  and  liack  she  hied. 
And  with  surprise  and  joy  espied 

A  monk  supporting  Marmion 's  head: 
A  pious  man,  whom  duty  brought 
To  dubious  verge  of  battle  fought, 

To  shrieve  the  dying,  bless  the  dead. 


Deep  drank  Lord  Marmion  of  the  wave, 
And,  as  she  stoop'd  his  brow  to  lave  — 
"  Is  it  the  hand  of  Clare,"  he  said, 
"  Or     injured    Constance,     bathes     my 
head?  " 

Then,  as  remembrance  rose,  — 
"  Speak  not  to  me  of  shrift  or  prayer  ! 

I  must  redress  her  woes. 


Canto  VI. 


THE  nATTLE. 


117 


Short   space,  few   words,    are   mine    to 

spare; 
Forgive  and  listen,  gentle  Clare  !  "  — 
"  Alas  !  "  she  said,  *'  the  while,  — 
O,  think  of  your  immortal  weal ! 
In  vain  for  Constance  is  your  zeal; 

She died  at  Holy  Isle."  — 

Lord  Marmion  started  from  the  ground, 
As  light  as  if  he  felt  no  wound; 
Though  in  the  action  burst  the  tide, 
In  torrents,  from  his  wounded  side. 
"  Then  it  was  truth," — he  said — "Iknew 
That  the  dark  presage  must  be  true.  — 
I  would  the  Fiend,  to  whom  belongs 
The  vengeance  due  to  all  her  wrongs, 

Would  spare  me  but  a  day  ! 
For  wasting  fire,  and  dying  groan. 
And  priests  slain  on  the  altar-stone, 

Might  bribe  him  for  delay. 
It  may  not  be  !  —  this  dizzy  trance  — 
Curse  on  yon  base  marauder's  lance. 
And  doubly  cursed  my  failing  brand  ! 
A  sinful  heart  makes  feeble  hand." 
Then,  fainting,  down  on  earth  he  sunk, 
Supported  by  the  trembling  monk. 


With  fruitless  labor,  Clara  bound. 

And  strove  to  stanch  the  gushing  wound; 

The  Monk,  with  unavailing  cares. 

Exhausted  all  the  Church's  prayers. 

Ever,  he  said,  that,  close  and  near, 

A  lady's  voice  was  in  his  ear. 

And  that  the  priest  he  could  not  hear. 

For  that  she  ever  sung, 
"  In  the  lost  battle,  borne  down  by  the 

Where  mingles  war''s  rattle  with  groans 
of  the  dying!  " 

So  the  notes  rung;  — 
"  Avoid  thee,  Fiend  !  —  with  cruel  hand. 
Shake  not  the  dying  sinner's  sand  !  — 
O,  look,  my  son,  upon  yon  sign 
Of  the  Redeemer's  grace  divine; 

O,  think  on  faith  and  bliss !  — 
By  many  a  death-bed  I  have  been. 
And  many  a  sinner's  parting  seen, 

But  never  aught  like  this."  — 
The  war,  that  for  a  space  did  fail, 
Now  trebly  thundering  swell'd  the  gale. 

And  —  Stanley  !  was  the  cry; 
A  light  on  Marmion's  visage  spread, 

And  fired  his  glazing  eye; 


With  dying  hand,  above  his  head. 
He  shook  the  fragment  of  his  blade. 

And  shouted  "  Victory !  — 
Charge,   Chester,  charge !   On,  Stanley, 

on ! " 
Were  the  last  words  of  Marmion. 


By  this,  though  deep  the  evening  fell. 
Still  rose  the  battle's  deadly  swell. 
For  still  the  Scots,  around  their  King, 
Unbroken,  fought  in  desperate  ring. 
Where's  now  their  victor  vaward  wing, 

Where  Muntly,  and  where  Home?  — 
O,  for  a  blast  of  that  dread  horn, 
On  Fontarabian  echoes  borne. 

That  to  King  Charles  did  come. 
When  Rowland  brave,  and  Olivier, 
And  every  paladin  and  peer. 

On  Roncesvalles  died  ! 
Such  blasts  might  warn  them,  not  in  vain. 
To  quit  the  plunder  of  the  slain. 
And  turn  the  doubtful  day  again. 

While  yet  on  Flodden  side, 
Afar,  the  Royal  Standard  flies. 
And  round  it  toils,  and  bleeds,  and  dies, 

Our  Caledonian  pride ! 
In  vain  the  wish  —  for  far  away. 
While  spoil  and  havoc  mark  their  way, 
Near  Sybil's  Cross  the  plunderers  stray. — 
"  O,  Lady,"  cried  the  Monk,  "  away  !  " 

And  placed  her  on  her  steed. 
And  led  her  to  the  chapel  fair, 

Of  Tillmouth  upon  Tweed. 
There  all  the  night  they  spent  in  prayer. 
And  at  the  dawn  of  morning,  there 
She  met  her  kinsman,  Lord  Fitz-Clare. 


But  as  they  left  the  dark'ning  heath, 
More  desperate  grew  the  strife  of  death. 
The  English  shafts  in  volleys  hail'd. 
In  headlong  charge  their  horse  assail'd; 
Front,    flank,   and    rear,   the    squadrons 

sweep 
To  break  the  Scottish  circle  deep. 
That  fought  around  their  King. 
But  yet,  though  thick  the  shafts  as  snow, 
Though  charging  knights  like  whirlwinds 

go. 
Though  bill-men  ply  the  ghastly  blow, 
Unbroken  was  the  ring; 


MARMIOM. 


Canto  VI. 


The  stubborn  spear-men  still  made  good 

Their  dark  impenetral)le  wood, 

Each  stepping  where  his  comrade  stood, 

The  instant  that  he  fell. 
No  thought  was  there  of  dastard  flight; 
Link'd  in  the  serried  phalanx  tight, 
Groom  fought  like  noble,  squire  likeknight 

As  fearlessly  and  well; 
Till  utter  darkness  closed  her  wing 
O'er  their  thin  host  and  wounded  King. 
Then  skilful  Surrey's  sage  commands 
Led  back  from  strife  his  shatter'd  bands; 
And  from  the  charge  they  drew. 
As  mountain-waves,  from  wasted  lands. 

Sweep  back  to  ocean  blue. 
Then  did  their  loss  his  foeman  know; 
Their  King,  their  Lords,  their  mightiest 

low, 
They  melted  from  the  field,  as  snow, 
When  streams  are  swoln  and  south  winds 
blow. 

Dissolves  in  silent  dew. 
Tweed's  echoes  heard  the  ceaseless  plash, 

While  many  a  broken  band, 
Disorder'd,  through  her  currents  dash. 

To  gain  the  Scottish  land; 
To  town  and  tower,  to  down  and  dale. 
To  tell  red  Flodden's  dismal  tale. 
And  raise  the  universal  wail. 
Tradition,  legend,  tune,  and  song, 
Shall  many  an  age  that  wail  prolong: 
Still  from  the  sire  the  son  shall  hear 
Of  the  stern  strife,  and  carnage  dear, 

Of  Flodden's  fatal  f^eld. 
Where  shiver'd  was  fair  Scotland's  spear. 

And  broken  was  her  shield ! 


Day  dawns  upon  the  mountain's  side: — 
There,  Scotland  !   lay  thy  bravest  pride, 
Chiefs,  knights,  and  nobles,  many  a  one : 
The  sad  survivors  all  are  gone  — 
View  not  that  corpse  mistrustfully. 
Defaced  and  mangled  though  it  be; 
Nor  to  yon  Border  Castle  high, 
Look  northward  with  upbraiding  eye; 

Nor  cherish  hope  in  vain, 
That  journeying  far  on  foreign  strand, 
The  Royal  Pilgrim  to  his  land 

May  yet  return  again. 
He  saw  the  wreck  his  rashness  wrought ; 
Reckless  of  life,  he  desperate  fought, 

And  fell  on  Flodden  plain; 


And  well  in  death  his  trusty  brand, 
Firm  clench'd  within  his  manly  hand, 

Beseem'd  the  monarch  slain. '^^ 
But,   O  !   how  changed  since  yon  blithe 

night !  — 
Gladly  I  turn  me  from  the  sight, 

Unto  my  tale  again. 


Short  is  my  tale:  —  Fitz-Eustace'  care 
A  pierced  and  mangled  body  bare 
To  moated  Litchfield's  lofty  pile; 
And  there,  beneath  the  southern  aisle, 
A  tomb,  with  Gothic  sculpture  fair. 
Did  long  Lord  Marmion's  image  bear, 
(Now  vainly  for  its  sight  you  look; 
'Twas  levell'd  when  fanatic  Brook 
The  fair  cathedral  storm'd  and  took;  '^^ 
But,  thanks  to  Heaven  and  good  Saint 

Chad, 
A  guerdon  meet  the  spoiler  had  !) 
There  erst  was  martial  Marmion  found, 
His  feet  upon  a  couchant  hound. 

His  hands  to  heaven  upraised; 
And  all  around,  on  scutcheon  rich. 
And  tablet  carved,  and  fretted  niche, 

His  arms  and  feats  were  blazed. 
And  yet,  though  all  was  carved  so  fair. 
And  priest   for    Marmion   breathed   the 

prayer, 
The  last  Lord  Marmion  lay  not  there. 
From  Ettrick  woods  a  peasant  swain 
Follow'd  his  lord  to  Flodden  plain, — 
One   of   those   flowers,  whom   plaintive 

lay 
In  Scotland  mourns  as  "  wede  away:  " 
Sore  wounded,  Sybil's  Cross  he  spied. 
And  dragg'd  him  to  its  foot,  and  died. 
Close  by  the  noble  Marmion's  side. 
The  spoilers  stripp'd  and  gash'd  the  slain, 
And  thus  their  corpses  were  mista'en; 
And  thus,  in  the  proud  Baron's  tomb. 
The  lowly  woodsman  took  the  room. 


Less  easy  task  it  were,  to  show 
Lord  Marmion's  nameless  grave,  and  low. 
They  dug  his  grave  e'en  where  he  lay, 

But  every  mark  is  gone; 
Time's  wasting  hand  has  done  away 
The  simple  cross  of  Sybil  Grey, 
And  broke  her  font  of  stone; 


Canto  VI, 


THE  BATTLE. 


"9 


But  yet  from  out  the  little  hill 
Oozes  the  slender  springlet  still. 

Oft  halts  the  stranger  there, 
For  thence  may  best  his  curious  eye 
The  memorable  field  descry; 

And  shepherd  boys  repair 
To  seek  the  water-flag  and  rush. 
And  rest  them  by  the  hazel  bush, 

And  plait  their  garlands  fair; 
Nor  dream  they  sit  upon  the  grave. 
That  holds  the  lx)nes  of  Marmion  brave. — 
When  thou  shalt  find  the  little  hill. 
With  thy  heart  commune,  and  be  still 
If  ever  in  temptation  strong. 
Thou  left'st  the  right  path  for  the  wrong; 
If  every  devious  step,  thus  trod, 
Still  led  thee  farther  from  the  road; 
Dread  thou  to  speak  presumptuous  doom 
On  noble  Marmion's  lowly  tomb; 
But  say,  "  He  died  a  gallant  knight, 
With  sword  in  hand  for  England's  right." 


I  do  not  rhyme  to  that  dull  elf. 
Who  cannot  image  to  himself. 
That  all  through  Flodden's  dismal  night, 
Wilton  was  foremost  in  the  fight; 
That,  when  brave  Surrey's  steed  was  slain, 
'Twas  Wilton  mounted  him  again; 
'Twas  Wilton's  brand  that  deepest  hew'd, 
Amid  the  spearmen's  stubborn  wood; 
Unnamed  by  Holinshed  or  Hall, 
He  was  the  living  soul  of  all : 
That,  after  fight,  his  faith  made  plain. 
He  won  his  rank  and  lands  again; 
And  charged  his  old  paternal  shield 
With  bearings  won  on  Flodden  field. 
Nor  sing  I  to  that  simple  maid, 
To  whom  it  must  in  terms  be  said. 
That  King  and  kinsmen  did  agree, 
To  bless  fair  Clara's  constancy; 


Who  cannot,  unless  I  relate. 
Paint  to  her  mind  the  bridal's  state; 
That  Wolsey's  voice  the  blessing  spoke, 
More,  Sands,  and  Denny,  passdthe  joke, 
That  bluff  King  Hal  the  curtain  drew. 
And     Catherine's    hand     the    stocking 

threw; 
And  afterwards,  for  many  a  day. 
That  it  was  held  enough  to  say. 
In  blessing  to  a  wedded  pair, 
"  Love  they  like  Wilton  and  like  Clare ! ' ' 


V  ENVOY. 


TO   THE    READER-. 


Why  then  a  final  note  prolong, 
Or  lengthen  out  a  closing  song. 
Unless  to  bid  the  gentles  speed, 
Who  long  have  listed  to  my  rede?  * 
To  Statesmen  grave,  if  such  may  deign 
To  read  the  Minstrel's  idle  strain, 
Sound  head,  clean  hands,  and  piercing 

wit. 
And  patriotic  heart  —  as  Pitt  ! 
A  garland  for  the  hero's  crest, 
And  twined  by  her  he  loves  the  best; 
To  every  lovely  lady  bright. 
What  can  I  wish  but  faithful  knight? 
To  every  faithful  lover  too. 
What  can  I  wish  but  lady  true? 
And  knowledge  to  the  studious  sage; 
And  pillow  to  the  head  of  age. 
To  thee,  dear  school-boy,  whom  my  lay 
Has  cheated  of  thy  hour  of  play. 
Light  task,  and  merry  holiday ! 
To  all,  to  each,  a  fair  good-night, 
And  pleasing  dreams,  and  slumbers  light ! 

»  Story. 


THE 


LADY   OF   THE   LAKE 


A    POEM    IN    SIX  CANTOS. 


TO  THE  MOST  NOBLE 

JOHN   JAMES,   MARQUIS   OF   ABERCORN, 

ETC.,    ETC.,    ETC. 
THIS   POEM    IS    INSCRIBED   BY 

THE   AUTHOR. 


INTRODUCTION   TO   EDITION    1830. 

After  the  success  of  "  Marniion,"  I  felt  inclined  to  exclaim  with  Ulysses  in  the 
"  Odyssey  "  — 

OCtos  f-iv  i»)  dedAot  aaaros  eKT^TsAtiTTai. 
tivv  avTe  (TKonby  aWov.  —  Odys.  x-  $•  6. 

"  One  venturesome  game  my  hand  has  won  to-day  — 
Another,  gallants,  yet  remains  to  play." 

The  ancient  manners,  the  habits  and  customs,  of  the  aboriginal  race  by  whom  the 
Highlands  of  Scotland  were  inhabited,  had  always  appeared  to  me  p>eculiarly  adapted  to 
poetry.  The  change  in  their  manners,  too,  had  taken  place  almost  within  my  own  time,  or 
at  least  I  had  learned  many  particulars  concerning  the  ancient  state  of  the  Highlands  from 
the  old  men  of  the  last  generation.  I  had  always  thought  the  old  Scottish  Gael  highly 
adapted  for  jx)etical  conijx)sition.  The  feuds  and  political  dissensions,  which,  half  a  cen- 
tury earlier,  would  have  rendered  the  richer  and  wealthier  part  of  the  kingdom  indisposed 
to  countenance  a  poem  the  scene  of  which  was  laid  in  the  Highlands,  were  now  sank  in 
the  generous  compassion  which  the  English,  more  than  any  other  nation,  feel  for  the  mis- 
fortunes of  an  honorable  foe.  The  Poems  of  Ossian  had,  by  their  popularity,  sufficiently 
shown,  that  if  writings  on  Highland  subjects  were  qualified  to  interest  the  reader,  mere 
national  prejudices  were,  in  the  present  day,  very  unlikely  to  interfere  with  their  success. 

I  had  also  read  a  great  deal,  seen  much,  and  heard  more,  of  that  romantic  country, 
where  I  was  in  the  habit  of  spending  some  time  every  autumn ;  and  the  scenery  of  Loch 

1 20 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.  I2i 

Katrine  was  connected  with  the  recollection  of  many  a  dear  friend  and  merry  expedition 
of  former  days.  This  poem,  the  action  of  which  lay  among  scenes  so  beautiful,  and  so 
deeply  imprinted  on  my  recollection,  was  a  labor  of  love,  and  it  was  no  less  so  to  recall 
the  manners  and  incidents  introduced.  The  frequent  custom  of  James  IV.,  and  particu- 
larly of  James  V.,  to  walk  through  their  kingdom  in  disguise,  afforded  me  the  hint  of  an 
incident,  which  never  fails  to  be  interesting,  if  managed  with  the  sUghtest  address  or 
dexterity. 

I  may  now  confess,  however,  that  the  employment,  though  attended  with  great  pleas- 
ure, was  not  without  its  doubts  and  anxieties.  A  lady,  to  whom  I  was  nearly  related, 
and  with  whom  I  lived,  during  her  whole  Ufe,  on  the  most  brotherly  terms  of  affection,  was 
residing  with  me  at  the  time  when  the  work  was  in  progress,  and  used  to  ask  me,  what  I 
could  possibly  do  to  rise  so  early  in  the  morning  (that  happening  to  be  the  most  conven- 
ient time  to  me  for  composition).  At  last  I  told  her  the  subject  of  my  meditations;  and  I 
can  never  forget  the  anxiety  and  affection  expressed  in  her  reply.  "  Do  not  be  so  rash,"  she 
said,  "  my  dearest  cousin.  You  are  already  popular  —  more  so,  perhaps,  than  you  yourself 
will  believe,  or  that  even  I,  or  other  partial  friends,  can  fairly  allow  to  your  merit.  Vou 
stand  high  —  do  not  rashly  attempt  to  climb  higher,  and  incur  the  risk  of  a  fall ;  for, 
depend  upon  it,  a  favorite  will  not  be  permitted  even  to  stumble  with  impunity."  I  replied 
to  this  affectionate  expostulation  in  the  words  of  Montrose  — 

"  He  either  fears  his  fate  too  much, 
Or  liis  deserts  are  small, 
Who  dares  not  put  it  to  the  touch 
To  gain  or  lose  it  all." 

"  If  I  fail,"  I  said,  for  the  dialogue  is  strong  in  my  recollection,  "  it  is  a  sign  that  I 
ought  never  to  have  succeeded,  and  I  will  write  prose  for  life :  you  shall  see  no  change  in 
my  temper,  nor  will  I  eat  a  single  meal  the  worse.     But  if  I  succeed, 

'  Up  with  the  bonnie  blue  bonnet, 
The  dirk,  and  the  feather,  and  a' ! '" 

Afterwards  I  showed  my  affectionate  and  anxious  critic  the  first  canto  of  the  poem, 
which  reconciled  her  to  my  imprudence.  Nevertheless,  although  I  answered  thus  confi- 
dently, with  the  obstinacy  often  said  to  be  propier  to  those  who  bear  my  surname,  I  ac- 
knowledge that  my  confidence  was  considerably  shaken  by  the  warning  of  her  excellent 
taste  and  unbiassed  friendship.  Nor  was  I  much  comforted  by  her  retraction  of  the  unfa- 
vorable judgment,  when  I  recollected  how  likely  a  natural  partiality  was  to  affect  that  change 
of  opinion.  In  such  cases,  aftection  rises  like  a  light  on  the  canvas,  improves  any  favor- 
able tints  which  it  formerly  exhibited,  and  throws  its  defects  into  the  shade. 

I  remember  that  about  the  same  time  a  friend  started  in  to  "  heeze  up  my  hope,"  like 
the  "  sportsman  with  his  cutty-gun,"  in  the  old  song.  He  was  bred  a  farmer,  but  a  man  of 
powerful  understanding,  natural  good  taste,  and  warm  poetical  feeling,  perfectly  compe- 
tent to  supply  the  wants  of  an  imperfect  or  irregular  education.  He  was  a  passionate 
admirer  of  field-sports,  which  we  often  pursued  together. 

As  this  friend  happened  to  dine  with  me  at  Ashestiel  one  day,  I  took  the  opportunity 
of  reading  to  him  the  first  canto  of  •'  The  Lady  of  the  Lake,"  in  order  to  ascertain  the 
effect  the  poem  was  likely  to  produce  upon  a  person  who  was  but  too  favorable  a  rei)re- 
sentative  of  readers  at  large.  It  is,  of  course,  to  be  supposed,  that  I  determined  rather  to 
guide  my  opinion  by  what  my  friend  might  appear  to  feel,  than  by  what  he  might  think 
fit  to  say.  His  reception  of  my  recitation,  or  prelection,  was  rather  singular.  He  placed 
his  hand  across  his  brow,  and  listened  with  great  attention  through  the  whole  account  of 
the  stag-hunt,  till  the  dogs  threw  themselves  into  the  lake  to  follow  their  master,  who 
embarks  with  Ellen  Douglas.  He  then  started  up  with  a  sudden  exclamation,  struck  his 
hand  on  the  table,  and  declared,  in  a  voice  of  censure  calculated  for  the  occasion,  that  the 
dogs  must  liave  been  totally  ruined  by  Ijeing  permitted  to  take  the  water  after  such  a  severe 
chase.  I  own  I  was  much  encouraged  by  the  si^ecies  of  reverie  which  had  possessed  so 
zealous  a  follower  of  the  sports  of  the  ancient  Nimrod,  who  had  been  completely  surprised 
out  of  all  doubts  of  the  reality  of  the  tale.  Another  of  his  remarks  gave  me  less  pleasure. 
He  detected  the  identity  of  the  King  with  the  wandering  knight,  Fitz-James,  when  he 
winds  his  bugle  to  summon  his  attendants.     He  was  probably  thinking  of  the  lively,  but 


122  THE   LADY   OF   THE  LAKE. 

somewhat  licentious,  old  ballad,  in  which  the  denouement  of  a  royal  intrigue  takes  place 
as  follows  :  — 

"  He  took  a  bugle  frae  his  side, 
He  blew  both  loud  and  shrill, 
And  four-and-twenty  belted  knights 

Came  skipping  ower  the  hill ; 
Then  he  took  out  a  little  knife. 

Let  a'  his  duddies  fa', 
And  he  was  the  brawest  gentleman 
That  was  amang  them  a'. 

And  we'll  go  no  more  a-roving,"  etc.* 

This  discovery,  as  Mr.  Pepys  says  of  the  rent  in  his  camlet  cloak,  was  but  a  trifle,  yet 
it  troubled  me ;  and  I  was  at  a  good  deal  of  pains  to  efface  any  marks  by  which  1  thought 
my  secret  could  be  traced  before  the  conclusion,  when  I  relied  on  it  with  the  same  hope  of 
producing  effect,  with  which  the  Irish  postboy  is  said  to  reserve  a  "  trot  for  the  avenue." 

I  took  uncommon  pains  to  verify  the  accuracy  of  the  local  circumstances  of  this  story. 
I  recollect,  in  particular,  that  to  ascertain  whether  I  was  telling  a  probable  tale,  I  went  into 
Perthshire,  to  see  whether  King  James  could  actually  have  ridden  from  the  banks  of  Loch 
Vennachar  to  .Stirling  Castle  within  the  time  supposed  in  the  Poem,  and  had  the  pleasure 
to  satisfy  myself  that  it  was  quite  practicable. 

After  a  considerable  delay,  "  The  Lady  of  the  Lake  "  appeared  in  May,  1810 ;  and  its 
success  was  certainly  so  extraordinary  as  to  induce  me  for  the  moment  to  conclude  that  I 
had  at  last  fixed  a  nail  in  the  proverbially  inconstant  wheel  of  Fortune,  whose  stability  in 
behalf  of  an  individual  who  had  so  boldly  courted  her  favors  for  three  successive  times  had 
not  as  yet  been  shaken.  1  had  attained,  perhaps,  that  degree  of  public  reputation  at  which 
prudence,  or  certainly  timidity,  would  have  made  a  halt,  and  discontinued  efforts  by  which 
I  was  far  more  likely  to  diminish  my  fame  than  to  increase  it.  But,  as  the  celebrated  John 
Wilkes  is  said  to  have  explained  to  his  late  Majesty,  that  he  himself,  amid  his  full  tide 
of  popularity,  was  never  a  Wilkite,  so  I  can,  with  the  honest  truth,  exculpate  myself 
from  having  been  at  any  time  a  partisan  of  my  own  poetry,  even  when  it  was  in  the  high- 
est fashion  with  the  million.  It  must  not  be  supposed  that  1  was  either  so  ungrateful,  or 
so  superabundantly  candid,  as  to  despise  or  scorn  the  value  of  those  whose  voice  had  ele- 
vated me  so  much  higher  than  my  own  opinion  told  me  1  deserved.  I  felt,  on  the  contrary, 
the  more  grateful  to  the  public,  as  receiving  that  from  partiality  to  me,  which  I  could  not 
have  claimed  from  merit;  and  I  endeavored  to  deserve  the  partiality,  by  continuing  such 
exertions  as  I  was  capable  of  for  their  amusement. 

It  may  be  that  I  did  not,  in  this  continued  course  of  scribbling,  consult  either  the  in- 
terest of  the  public  or  my  own.  But  the  former  had  effectual  means  of  defending  them- 
selves, and  could,  by  their  coldness,  sufficiently  check  any  approach  to  intrusion  ;  and  for 
myself,  I  had  now  for  several  years  dedicated  my  hours  so  much  to  literary  labor,  that  I 
should  have  felt  difficulty  in  employing  myself  otherwise ;  and  so,  like  Dogberry,  I  gen- 
erously bestowed  all  my  tediousness  on  the  public,  comforting  myself  with  the  reflection, 
that  if  posterity  should  think  me  undeserving  of  the  favor  with  which  I  was  regarded  by 
my  contemporaries,  "  they  could  not  but  say  1  had  the  crown,"  and  had  enjoyed  for  a  time 
that  popularity  which  is  so  much  coveted. 

I  conceived,  however,  that  I  held  the  distinguished  situation  I  had  obtained,  however 
unworthily,  rather  like  the  champion  of  pugilism,  on  the  condition  of  being  always  ready 
to  show  proofs  of  my  skill,  than  in  the  manner  of  the  champion  of  chivalry,  who  performs 
his  duties  only  on  rare  and  solemn  occasions.  I  was  in  any  ca.se  conscious  that  I  could 
not  long  hold  a  situation  which  the  caprice,  rather  than  the  judgment,  of  the  public,  had 
bestowed  upon  me,  and  preferred  being  deprived  of  my  precedence  by  some  more  worthy 
rival,  to  sinking  into  contempt  for  my  indolence,  and  losing  my  reputation  by  what  Scot- 
tish lawyers  call  the  negative  frescription.  Accordingly,  those  who  choose  to  look  at  the 
Introduction  to  Rokeby,  in  the  present  edition,  will  be  able  to  trace  the  steps  by  which  I 
declined  as  a  poet  to  figure  as  a  novelist ;  as  the  ballad  says.  Queen  Eleanor  sunk  at  Char- 
ing-Cross  to  rise  again  at  Queenhithe. 

It  only  remains  for  me  to  say,  that,  during  my  short  pre-eminence  of  popularity,  I  faith- 
fully observed  the  rules  of  moderation  which  I  had  resolved  to  follow  before  I  began  my 

}  "The  Jolly  Beggar,"  attributed  to  King  James  V.  — Herd's  Collection,  1776. 


INTR  OD  UC  TION. 


123 


course  as  a  man  of  letters.  If  a  man  is  determined  to  make  a  noise  in  the  world,  he  is  as 
sure  to  encounter  abuse  and  ridicule,  as  he  who  gallops  furiously  through  a  village  must 
reckon  on  being  followed  by  the  curs  in  full  cry.  E.\perienced  persons  know,  that  in 
stretching  to  Hog  the  latter,  the  rider  is  very  apt  to  catch  a  bad  fall ;  nor  is  an  attempt  to 
chastise  a  malignant  critic  attended  with  less  danger  to  the  author.  On  this  princi- 
ple, I  let  parody,  burlesque,  and  squibs,  find  their  own  level ;  and  while  the  latter  hissed 
most  fiercely,  I  was  cautious  never  to  catch  them  up,  as  schoolboys  do,  to  throw  them  back 
against  the  naughty  boy  who  fired  them  off,  wisely  remembering  that  they  are,  in  such 
cases,  apt  to  e-xplode  in  the  handling.  Let  me  add,  that  my  reign  (since  Byron  has  so 
called  it)  was  marked  by  some  instances  of  good-nature  as  well  as  patience.  I  never 
refused  a  literary  person  of  merit  such  services  in  smoothing  his  way  to  the  public  as 
were  in  my  power :  and  I  had  the  advantage,  rather  an  uncommon  one  with  our  irritable 
race,  to  enjoy  general  favor,  without  incurring  permanent  ill-will,  so  far  as  is  known  to  me, 
among  any  of  my  contemporaries. 

W.  S. 
Abbotsford,  April,  1830. 


ARGUMENT. 

The  Scene  of  the  following  Poem  is  laid  chiefly  in  the  vicinity  of  Loch  Katrine,  in  the 
Western  Highlands  of  Perthshire.  The  time  of  action  includes  six  days,  and  the  trans- 
actions of  each  day  occupy  a  Canto. 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE. 


CANTO   FIRST. 


THE   CHASE. 

Harp  of    the    North !    that    mouldering 
long  hast  hung 
On   the  witch-elm  that    shades  Saint 
Fillan's  spring. 
And  down  the  fitful  breeze  thy  numbers 
flung, 
Till    envious    ivy     did     around     thee 
cling,  — 
Muffling  with  verdant  ringlet  every  string, 
O  minstrel   Harp,  still  must  thine  ac- 
cents sleep? 
Mid  rustling  leaves  and  fountains  mur- 
muring. 
Still    must    thy    sweeter    sounds    their 
silence  keep. 
Nor  bid  a  warrior  smile,  nor  teach  a  maid 
to  weep? 

Not  thus,  in  ancient  days  of  Caledon, 
Was  thy  voice  mute  amidst  the  festal 
crowd, 
When   lay   of    hopeless    love,    or   glory 
won. 
Aroused  the   fearful,   or  subdued  the 
proud. 
At  each  according  pause,  was  heard  aloud 
Thine   ardent  symphony  sublime  and 
high! 
Fair  dames  and  crested  chiefs   attention 
bow'd; 
For  still  the  burden  of  thy  minstrelsy 
Was   Knighthood's  dauntless  deed,  and 
Beauty's  matchless  eye. 


O  wake  once  more !  how  rude  soe'er  the 
hand 
That  ventures  o'er  thy  magic  maze  to 
Stray; 


O  wake  once  more !   though  scarce  my 
skill  command 
Some   feeble  echoing  of  thine  earlier 
lay: 
Though  harsh  and  faint,  and  soon  to  die 
away, 
And  all  unworthy  of  thy  nobler  strain, 
Yet  if  one  heart  throb  higher  at  its  sway. 
The  wizard  note  has  not  been  touch'd 
in  vain. 
Then  silent  be  no  more  !     Enchantress, 
wake  again ! 


The  stag  at  eve  had  drunk  his  fill. 
Where  danced  the  moon  on  Monan'srill, 
And  deep  his  midnight  lair  had  made 
In  lone  Glenartney's  hazel  shade; 
But,  when  the  sun  his  beacon  red 
Had  kindled  on  Benvoirlich's  head,* 
The  deep-mouth'd  bloodhound's  heavy 

bay 
Resounded  up  the  rocky  way, 
And  faint,  from  farther  distance  borne. 
Were  heard  the  clanging  hoof  and  horn. 


As  Chief,  who  hears  his  warder  call, 
"To  arms!   the  foemen  storm  the  wall," 
The  antler'd  monarch  of  the  waste 
Sprung  from  his  heathery  couch  in  haste. 
But,  ere  his  fleet  career  he  took. 
The  dew-drops  from  his  flanks  he  shook; 
Like  crested  leader  proud  and  high, 
Toss'd  his  beam'd  frontlet  to  the  sky; 
A  moment  gazed  adown  the  dale, 
A  moment  snuff'd  the  tainted  gale, 

*  One  of  tlie  Grampian  chain  of  mountains  at 
tlie  head  of  the  Valley  of  the  Garry. 


124. 


Canto 


THE    CHASE. 


125 


A  moment  listen'd  to  the  cry, 
That  thicken'd  as  the  chase  drew  nigh; 
Then,  as  the  headmost  foes  appear'd, 
With   one   brave   bound    the    copse    he 

clear'd, 
And,  stretching  forward  free  and  far, 
Sought  the  wild  heaths  of  Uam-Var. 


Yell'd  on  the  view  the  opening  pack; 
Rock,  glen,  and  cavern  paid  them  back; 
To  many  a  mingled  sound  at  once 
The  awaken'd  mountain  gave  response. 
A  hundred  dogs  bay'd  deep  and  strong, 
Clatter'd  a  hundred  steeds  along. 
Their  peal  the  merry  horns  rung  out, 
A  hundred  voices  join'd  the  shout; 
With  hark  and  whoop  and  wild  halloo, 
No  rest  Benvoirlich's  echoes  knew. 
Far  from  the  tumult  fled  the  roe, 
Close  in  her  covert  cower'd  the  doe, 
The  falcon,  from  her  cairn  on  high. 
Cast  on  the  rout  a  wondering  eye. 
Till  far  beyond  her  piercing  ken 
The  hurricane  had  swept  the  glen. 
Faint  and  more  faint,  its  failing  din 
Return'd  from  cavern,  cliff,  and  linn, 
And  silence  settled,  wide  and  still. 
On  the  lone  wood  and  mighty  hill. 


Less  loud  the  sounds  of  sylvan  war 
Disturb'd  the  heights  of  Uam-Var, 
And  roused  the  cavern,  where  'tis  told, 
A  giant  made  his  den  of  old;i 
For  ere  that  steep  ascent  was  won. 
High  in  his  pathway  hung  the  sun, 
And  many  a  gallant,  stay'd  perforce, 
Was  fain  to  breathe  his  faltering  horse, 
And  of  the  trackers  of  the  deer. 
Scarce  half  the  lessening  pack  was  near; 
So  shrewdly  on  the  mountain  side 
Had  the  bold  burst  their  mettle  tried. 


The  noble  stag  was  pausing  now, 
Upon  the  mountain's  southern  brow. 
Where  broad  extended,  far  beneath, 
The  varied  realms  of  fair  Menteith. 
With  anxious  eye  he  wander'd  o'er 
Mountain  and  meadow,  moss  and  moor, 


And  ponder'd  refuge  from  his  toil. 
By  far  Lochard  or  Aberfoyle. 
But  nearer  was  the  copsewood  gray, 
That  waved  and  wept  on  Loch-Achray, 
And  mingled  with  the  pine-trees  blue 
On  the  bold  cliffs  of  Benvenue. 
Fresh  vigor  with  the  hope  return'd. 
With  flying  foot  the  heath  he  spurn'd. 
Held  westward  with  unwearied  race, 
And  left  behind  the  panting  chase. 


'Twere  long  to  tell  what  steeds  gave  o'er. 
As  swept  the  hunt  through  Cam  bus-more; 
What  reins  were  tighten'd  in  despair. 
When  rose  Benledi's  ridge  in  air;* 
Who  flagg'd  upon  Bochastle's  heath. 
Who     shunn'd     to     stem     the     flooded 

Teith.t  — 
For  twice  that  day,  from  shore  to  shore. 
The  gallant  stag  swam  stoutly  o'er. 
Few  were  the  stragglers  following  far, 
That  reach'd  the  lake  of  Venachar; 
And  when  the  Brigg  %  of  Turk  was  won. 
The  headmost  horseman  rode  alone. 


Alone,  but  with  unbated  zeal. 

That  horseman  plied  the  scourge  and  steel : 

For  jaded  now,  and  spent  with  toil, 

Emboss'd  with  foam,  and  dark  with  soil, 

While  every  gasp  with  sobs  he  drew, 

The  laboring  stag  strain'd  full  in  view. 

Two  dogs  of  black  Saint  Hubert's  breed, 

Unmatch'd  for  courage, breath, andspeed,^ 

Fast  on  his  flying  traces  came, 

And  all  but  won  that  desperate  game; 

For,  scarce   a   spear's   length    from   his 

haunch. 
Vindictive  toil'd  the  bloodhounds  stanch; 
Nor  nearer  might  the  dogs  attain, 
Nor  farther  might  the  quarry  strain. 
Thus  up  the  margin  of  the  lake. 
Between  the  precipice  and  brake. 
O'er  stock  and  rock  their  race  they  take. 

*  Benledi  is  a  high  mountain  on  the  north- 
west of  Callander.  Its  name  signifies  the  moun- 
tain of  God. 

t  A  river  which  gives  its  name  to  the  territory 
of  Menteith. 

X  Bri^^y  a  bridge. 


126 


THE  LADY  OF   THE  LAKE. 


Canto  I. 


The  Hunter  mark'd  that  mountain  high, 
The  lone  lake's  western  boundary, 
And  deem'd  the  stag  must  turn  to  bay. 
Where  that  huge  rampart  barr'd  the  way; 
Already  glorying  in  the  prize. 
Measured  his  antlers  with  his  eyes; 
For  the  death-wound  and  death-halloo, 
Muster'd     his      breath,      his    whinyard 

drew;"  — 
But  thundering  as  he  came  prepared, 
With  ready  arm  and  weapon  bared, 
The  wily  quarry  shunn'd  the  shock. 
And  turn'd  him  from  the  opposing  rock; 
Then,  dashing  down  a  darksome  glen. 
Soon  lost  to  hound  and  hunter's  ken, 
In  the  deep  Trosach's  wildest  nook 
His  solitary  refuge  took. 
There,  wiiile  close  couch'd,  the  thicket 

shed 
Cold  dews  and  wild-flowers  on  his  head. 
He  heard  the  baffled  dogs  in  vain 
Rave  through  the  hollow  pass  amain. 
Chiding  the  rocks  that  yell'd  again. 


Close  on  the  hounds  the  Hunter  came, 
To  cheer  them  on  the  vanish'd  game; 
But,  stumbling  in  the  rugged  dell. 
The  gallant  horse  exhausted  fell. 
The  impatient  rider  strove  in  vain 
To  rouse  him  with  the  spur  and  rein. 
For  the  good  steed,  his  lalx)rs  o'er, 
Stretch'd  his  stiff  limbs  to  rise  no  more; 
Then,  touch'd  with  pity  and  remorse. 
He  sorrow'd  o'er  the  expiring  horse: — 
"  I  little  thought  when  first  thy  rein 
I  slack'd  upon  the  banks  of  Seine, 
That  Highland  eagle  e'er  should  feed 
On  thy  fleet  limbs,  my  matchless  steed. 
Woe  worth  the  chase,  woe  worth  the  day. 
That  costs  thy  life,  my  gallant  gray!  " 


Then  through  the  dell  his  horn  resounds, 
YxovA  vain  pursuit  to  call  the  hounds. 
Back  limp'd,  with  slow  and  crippled  pace. 
The  sulky  leaders  of  the  chase; 
Close  to  their  master's  side  they  press'd. 
With  drooping  tail  and  humbled  crest; 
But  still  the  dingle's  hollow  throat 
Prolong'd  the  swelling  bugle-note. 


The  owlets  started  from  their  dream. 
The  eagles  answer'd  with  their  scream. 
Round  and  around  the  sounds  were  cast. 
Till  echo  seem'd  an  answering  blast; 
And  on  the  Hunter  hied  his  way, 
To  join  some  comrades  of  the  day; 
Yet  often  paused,  so  strange  the  road. 
So  wondrous  were  the  scenes  it  show'd. 


The  western  waves  of  ebbing  day 
RoU'd  o'er  the  glen  their  level  way; 
Each  purple  peak,  each  flinty  spire. 
Was  bathed  in  floods  of  living  fire. 
But  not  a  setting  beam  could  glow 
Within  the  dark  ravines  Ix'low, 
Where  twined  the  path  in  shadow  hid. 
Round  many  a  rocky  pyramid. 
Shooting  abruptly  from  the  dell 
Its  thunder-splinter'd  pinnacle; 
Round  many  an  insulated  mass. 
The  native  Ijulwarks  of  the  pass. 
Huge  as  the  tower*  which  builders  vain 
Presumptuous  piled  on  Shinar's  plain. 
The  rocky  summits,  split  and  rent, 
Form'd  turret,  dome,  or  battlement, 
Or  seem'd  fantastically  set 
With  cupola  or  minaret. 
Wild  crests  as  pagod  ever  deck'd. 
Or  moscjue  of  Eastern  architect. 
Nor  were  these  earth-born  castles  bare. 
Nor  lack'd  they  many  a  banner  fair; 
For,  from  their  shiver'd  brows  display'd,. 
Far  o'er  the  unfathomable  glade. 
All  twinkling  with  the  dew-drops  sheen, 
The  brier-rose  fell  in  streamers  green, 
And  creeping  shrubs,  of  thousand  dyes. 
Waved  in  the  west-wind's  summer  sighs. 


Boon  nature  scatter'd,  free  and  wild. 
Each    plant    or    flower,    the    mountain's 

child, 
Here  eglantine  embalm'd  the  air, 
Hawthorn  and  hazel  mingled  there; 
The  primrose  pale  and  violet  flower. 
Found  in  each  cleft  a  narrow  bower; 
Fox-glove  and  night-shade,  side  by  side. 
Emblems  of  punishment  and  pride, 
Group'd  their  dark  hues  with  every  stain 
The  weather-beaten  crags  retain. 

*  The  Tower  of  Babel.  — Genesis  xi.  1-9. 


Canto  I. 


THE    CHASE. 


12J 


With  boughs  that  quaked  at  every  breath 
Gray  birch  and  aspen  wept  beneath; 
Aloft,  the  ash  and  warrior  oak 
Cast  anchor  in  the  rifted  rock; 
And,  higher  yet,  the  pine-tree  hung 
His  shatter'd  trunk,  and  frequent  flung, 
Where  seem'd  the  cliffs  to  meet  on  high, 
His  boughs  athwart  the  narrow'd  sky. 
Highest  of  ail,  where  white  peaks  glanced. 
Where   glist'ning    streamers    waved    and 

danced, 
The  wanderer's  eye  could  barely  view 
The  summer  heaven's  delicious  blue; 
So  wondrous  wild,  the  whole  might  seem 
The  scenerj'  of  a  fairy  dream. 


Onward,  amid  the  copse  'gan  peep 
A  narrow  inlet,  still  and  deep. 
Affording  scarce  such  breadth  of  brim. 
As  served  the  wild  duck's  brood  to  swim. 
Lost  for  a  space,  through  thickets  veering, 
But  broader  when  again  appearing. 
Tall  rocks  and  tufted  knolls  their  face 
Could  on  the  dark-blue  mirror  trace; 
And  farther  as  the  hunter  stray'd. 
Still  broader  sweeps  its  channels  made. 
The  shaggy  mounds  no  longer  stood. 
Emerging  from  entangled  wood, 
But,  wave  encircled,  seem'd  to  float. 
Like  castle  girdled  with  its  moat; 
Yet  broader  floods  extending  still 
Divide  them  from  their  parent  hill, 
Till  each,  retiring,  claims  to  be 
An  islet  in  an  inland  sea. 


And  now,  to  issue  from  the  glen. 
No  pathway  meets  tlie  wanderer's  ken. 
Unless  he  climb,  with  footing  nice, 
A  far  projecting  precipice.* 
The  broom's  tough  roots  his  ladder  made, 
The  hazel  saplings  lent  their  aid; 
And  thus  an  airy  point  he  won. 
Where,  gleaming  with  the  setting  sun, 
One  burnish'd  sheet  of  living  gold. 
Loch  Katrine  lay  beneath  him  roU'd, 
In  all  her  length  far  winding  lay. 
With  promontory,  creek,  and  bay. 
And  islands  that,  empurpled  bright. 
Floated  amid  the  livelier  light, 
And  mountains,  that  like  giants  stand. 
To  sentinel  enchanted  land. 


High  on  the  south,  huge  Benvenue 
Down  on  the  lake  in  masses  threw 
Crags,  knolls,  and  mounds,  confusedly 

hurl'd. 
The  fragments  of  an  earlier  world; 
A  wildering  forest  feather'd  o'er 
His  ruin'd  sides  and  summit  hoar. 
While  on  the  north,  through  middle  air, 
Benan  heaved  high  his  forehead  bare. 


From  the  steep  promontory  gazed 
The  stranger,  raptured  and  amazed. 
And,   "What   a  scene   were  here,"   he 

cried, 
"  For    princely   pomp,    or    churchman's 

pride ! 
On  this  bold  brow,  a  lordly  tower; 
In  that  soft  vale,  a  lady's  Ixjwer; 
On  yonder  meadow,  far  away. 
The  turrets  of  a  cloister  gray; 
How  blithely  might  the  bugle-horn 
Chide,  on  the  lake,  the  lingering  morn ' 
How  sweet,  at  eve,  the  lover's  lute 
Chime,  when  the  groves  were  still  and 

mute! 
And,   when   the  midnight  moon  should 

lave 
Her  forehead  in  the  silver  wave. 
How  solemn  on  the  ear  would  come 
The  holy  matins'  distant  hum. 
While  the  deep  peal's  commanding  tone 
Should  wake,  in  yonder  islet  lone, 
A  sainted  hermit  from  his  cell, 
To  drop  a  bead  with  every  knell  — 
And  bugle,  lute,  and  bell,  and  all. 
Should  each  bewilder'd  stranger  call 
To  friendly  feast,  and  lighted  hall. 


"  Blithe  were  it  then  to  wander  here ! 
But  now,  —  beshrew  yon  nimble  deer,  — 
Like  that  same  hermit's,  thin  and  spare. 
The  copse  must  give  my  evening  fare; 
Some  mossy  l)ank  my  couch  must  be. 
Some  rustling  oak  my  canopy. 
Yet  pass  we  that;   the  war  and  chase 
Give  little  choice  of  resting-place;  — 
A  summer  night,  in  greenwood  spent, 
Were  but  to-morrow's  merriment : 
But  hosts  may  in  these  wilds  alwund. 
Such  as  are  better  miss'd  than  found; 


128 


THE  LADY  OF   THE  LAKE. 


Canto  I. 


To  meet  with  Highland  plunderers  here, 
Were  worse  than  loss  of  steed  or  deer.  — ^ 
I  am  alone,  —  my  bugle  strain 
May  call  some  straggler  of  the  train; 
Or,  fall  the  worst  that  may  betide, 
Ere  now  this  falchion  has  been  tried." 


But  scarce  again  his  horn  he  wound, 

When  lo !  forth  starting  at  the  sound, 

From  underneath  an  aged  oak, 

That  slanted  from  the  islet  rock, 

A  damsel  guider  of  its  way, 

A  little  skiff  shot  to  the  bay, 

That  round  the  promontory  steep 

Led  its  deep  line  in  graceful  sweep. 

Eddying  in  almost  viewless  wave. 

The  weeping  willow-twig  to  lave, 

And   kiss,   with   whispering   sound  and 

slow, 
The  beach  of  pebbles  bright  as  snow. 
The  boat  had  touchVl  this  silver  strand, 
Just  as  the  hunter  left  his  stand. 
And  stood  conceal'd  amid  the  brake. 
To  view  this  Lady  of  the  I^ake. 
The  maiden  paused,  as  if  again 
She  thought  to  catch  the  distant  strain. 
With  head  up-raised,  and  look  intent. 
And  eye  and  ear  attentive  bent. 
And  locks  flung  back,  and  lips  apart, 
Like  monument  of  Grecian  art. 
In  listening  mood,  she  seem'd  to  stand. 
The  guardian  Naiad  of  the  strand. 


And  ne'er  did  Grecian  chisel  trace 

A  Nymph,  a  Naiad,  or  a  Grace, 

Of  finer  form,  or  lovelier  face: 

What  though  the  sun,  with  ardent  frown, 

Had    slightly    tinged     her    cheek     with 

brown,  — 
The  sportive  toil,  which,  short  and  light. 
Had  dyed  her  glowing  hue  so  bright, 
Served  too  in  hastier  swell  to  show 
Short  glimpses  of  a  breast  of  snow : 
What  though  no  rule  of  courtly  grace 
To  measured  mood  had  trained  her  pace, 
A  foot  more  light,  a  step  more  true, 
Ne'er  from  the  heath-flower  dash'd  the 

dew; 
E'en  the  slight  harebell  raised  its  head. 
Elastic  from  her  airy  tread : 


What  though  upon  her  speech  there  hung 
The  accents  of  the  mountain  tongue,  — 
Those  silver  sounds,  so  soft,  so  clear, 
The  listener  held  his  breath  to  hear  ! 


A  Chieftain's  daughter  seem'd  the  maid. 
Her  satin  snood,*  her  silken  plaid, 
Her  golden  brooch,  such  birth  betray'd. 
And  seldom  was  a  snood  amid 
Such  wild  luxuriant  ringlets  hid, 
Whose  glossy  black  to  shame  might  bring 
The  plumage  of  the  raven's  wing; 
And  seldom  o'er  a  breast  so  fair, 
Mantled  a  plaid  with  modest  care, 
And  never  brooch  the  folds  combined 
Above  a  heart  more  good  and  kind. 
Her  kindness  and  her  worth  to  spy. 
You  need  but  gaze  on  Ellen's  eye; 
Not  Katrine,  in  her  mirror  blue. 
Gives  back  the  shaggy  banks  more  true, 
Than  every  free-born  glance  confess'd 
The  guileless  movements  of  her  breast; 
Whether  joy  danced  in  her  dark  eye, 
Or  woe  or  pity  claim'd  a  sigh, 
Or  filial  love  was  glowing  there, 
Or  meek  devotion  pour'd  a  prayer, 
Or  tale  of  injury  call'd  forth 
The  indignant  spirit  of  the  North. 
One  only  passion  unreveal'd. 
With  maiden  pride  the  maid  conceal'd. 
Yet  not  less  purely  felt  the  flame;  — 
O  need  I  tell  that  passion's  name ! 


Impatient  of  the  silent  horn, 
Now  on  the  gale  her  voice  was  borne    — 
"  Father  !  "  she  cried;  the  rocks  around 
Loved  to  prolong  the  gentle  sound. 
Awhile  she  paused,  no  answer  came : — 
"  Malcolm,  was  thine  the  blast?  " — The 

name 
Less  resolutely  utter'd  fell, 
The  echoes  could  not  catch  the  swell. 
"A  stranger  I,"  the  Huntsman  said. 
Advancing  from  the  hazel  shade. 
The  maid,  alarm'd,  with  hasty  oar, 
Push'd  her  light  shallop  from  the  shore. 
And  when  a  space  was  gain'd  between, 
Closer  she  drew  her  bosom's  screen; 


•  Snood,   the   fillet    worn   round    the   hair  of 
maidens. 


Canto  I. 


THE    CHASE. 


129 


(So  forth  the  startled  swan  would  swing. 
So  turn  to  prune  his  ruffled  wing,) 
Then  safe,  though  flutter'd  and  amazed, 
She  paused  and  on  the  stranger  gazed. 
Not  his  the  form,  nor  his  the  eye, 
That  youthful  maidens  wont  to  fly. 


On  his  bold  visage  middle  age 

Had  slightly  press'd  its  signet  sage. 

Vet  had  not  quench'd  the  open  truth 

And  fiery  vehemence  of  youth; 

Forward  and  frolic  glee  was  there, 

The  will  to  do,  the  soul  to  dare, 

The  sparkling  glance,  soon  blown  to  fire, 

Of  hasty  love,  or  headlong  ire. 

His  limbs  were  cast  in  manly  mould, 

For  hardy  sports  or  contest  bold; 

And  though  in  peaceful  garb  array'd, 

And  weaponless,  except  his  blade. 

His  stately  mien  as  well  implied 

A  high-born  heart,  a  martial  pride. 

As  if  a  Baron's  crest  he  wore. 

And  sheathed  in  armor  trod  the  shore. 

Slighting  the  petty  need  he  show'd. 

He  told  of  his  benighted  road; 

His  ready  speech  flow'd  fair  and  free. 

In  phrase  of  gentlest  courtesy; 

Vet  seem'd  that  tone,  and  gesture  bland, 

Less  used  to  sue  than  to  command. 


A  while  the  maid  the  stranger  eyed, 
And,  reassured,  at  length  replied. 
That  Highland  halls  were  open  still 
To  wllder'd  wanderers  of  the  hill. 
"  Nor  think  you  unexpected  come 
To  yon  lone  isle,  our  desert  home; 
Before  the  heath  had  lost  the  dew. 
This  morn,  a  couch  was  pull'd  for  you; 
On  yonder  mountain's  purple  head 
Have  ptarmigan  and  heath-cock  bled. 
And  our  broad  nets  have  swept  the  mere 
To  furnish  forth  your  evening  cheer."  — 
'*  Now,  by  the  rood,  my  lovely  maid, 
Your  courtesy  has  err'd,"  he  said; 
"  No  right  have  I  to  claim,  misplaced. 
The  welcome  of  expected  guest. 
A  wanderer,  here  by  fortune  tost, 
My  way,  my  friends,  my  courser,  lost, 
I  ne'er  before,  believe  me,  fair. 
Have  ever  drawn  your  mountain  air. 


Till  on  this  lake's  romantic  strand, 
I  found  a  fay  in  fairy  land  !  "  — 


"  I  well  believe,"  the  maid  replied. 
As  her  light  skiff  approach'd  the  side,  — 
"  I  well  believe,  that  ne'er  before 
Your  foot  has  trod  Loch  Katrine's  shore. 
But  yet,  as  far  as  yesternight. 
Old  Allan-Bane  foretold  your  plight,  — 
A  gray-hair'd  sire,  whose  eye  intent 
Was  on  the  vision'd  future  bent.® 
He  saw  your  steed,  a  dappled  gray. 
Lie  dead  beneath  the  birchen  way: 
Painted  exact  your  form  and  mien. 
Your  hunting  suit  of  Lincoln  green, 
That  tassell'd  horn  so  gayly  gilt. 
That  falchion's  crooked  blade  and  hilt, 
That  cap  with  heron  plumage  trim. 
And  yon  two  hounds  so  dark  and  grim. 
He  bade  that  all  should  ready  be. 
To  grace  a  guest  of  fair  degree, 
But  light  I  held  his  prophecy. 
And  deem'd  it  was  my  father's  horn, 
Whose  echoes  o'er  the  lake  were  borne." 


The  stranger  smil'd :  "  Since  to  your  home 
A  destined  errant-knight  I  come. 
Announced  by  prophet  sooth  and  old, 
Doom'd,  doubtless,  for  achievement  bold, 
I'll  lightly  front  each  high  emprise. 
For  one  kind  glance  of  those  bright  eyes. 
Permit  me,  first,  the  task  to  guide 
Your  fairy  frigate  o'er  the  tide." 
The  maid  with  smile  suppress'd  and  sly 
The  toil  unwonted  saw  him  try; 
For  seldom  sure,  if  e'er  before. 
His  noble  hand  had  grasp'd  an  oar : 
Yet   with   main   strength  his  strokes  he 

drew. 
And  o'er  the  lake  the  shallop  flew; 
With  heads  erect,  and  whimpering  cry, 
The  hounds  behind  their  passage  ply. 
Nor  frequent  does  the  bright  oar  break 
The  dark'ning  mirror  of  the  lake, 
Until  the  rocky  isle  they  reach, 
And  moor  their  shallop  on  the  beach. 


The  stranger  view'd  the  shore  around, 
'Twas  all  so  close  with  copsewood  bound. 


I30 


THE  LADY   OF   THE   LAKE. 


Canto  I. 


Nor  track  nor  pathway  might  declare 
That  human  foot  frequented  there. 
Until  the  mountain-maiden  show'd 
A  clambering,  unsuspected  road. 
That  winded  through  the  tangled  screen. 
And  open'd  on  a  narrow  green. 
Where  weeping  birch  and  willow  round 
With  their  long  fibres  swept  the  ground. 
Here,  for  retreat  in  dangerous  hour, 
Some  chief  had  framed  a  rustic  bower. ^ 


It  was  a  lodge  of  ample  size. 

But  strange  of  structure  and  device. 

Of  such  materials,  as  around 

The  workman's  hands  had  readiest  found. 

Lopp'd  off  their  boughs,  their  hoar  trunks 

bared. 
And  by  the  hatchet  rudely  squared, 
To  give  the  walls  their  destined  height, 
The  sturdy  oak  and  ash  unite; 
While  moss  and  clay  and  leaves  com- 
bined 
To  fence  each  crevice  from  the  wind. 
The  lighter  pine-trees  over-head. 
Their  slender  length  for  rafters  spread. 
And  wither 'd  heath  and  rushes  dry 
Supplied  a  russet  canopy. 
Due  westward,  fronting  to  the  green, 
A  rural  portico  was  seen, 
Aloft  on  native  pillars  borne, 
Of  mountain  fir,  with  bark  unshorn. 
Where  Ellen's  hand  had  taught  to  twine 
The  ivy  and  Ida;an  vine, 
The  clematis,  the  favor'd  flower 
Which  lx)asts  the  name  of  virgin-bower. 
And  every  hardy  plant  could  bear 
Loch  Katrine's  keen  and  searching  air. 
An  instant  in  this  porch  she  staid, 
And  gayly  to  the  stranger  said: — 
"On  heaven  and  on  thy  lady  call, 
And  enter  the  enchanted  hall !  " 


"  My  hope,  my  heaven,  my  trust  must  be, 
My  gentle  guide,  in  following  thee." 
He  cross'd  the  threshold  —  and  a  clang 
Of  angry  steel  that  instant  rang. 
To  his  bold  brow  his  spirit  rush'd, 
But  soon  for  vain  alarm  he  blush'd, 
When  on  the  floor  he  saw  display'd. 
Cause  of  the  din,  a  naked  blade 


Dropp'd  from  the  sheath,   that   careless 

flung 
Upon  a  stag's  huge  antlers  swung; 
For  all  around,  the  walls  to  grace. 
Hung  trophies  of  the  fight  or  chase: 
A  target  there,  a  bugle  here, 
A  battle-axe,  a  hunting-spear. 
And    broadswords,    bows,    and    arrows 

store. 
With  the  tusk'd  trophies  of  the  boar. 
Here  grins  the  wolf  as  when  he  died. 
And  there  the  wild-cat's  brindled  hide 
The  frontlet  of  the  elk  adorns, 
Or  mantles  o'er  the  bison's  horns; 
I'ennons  and  flags  defaced  and  stain'd. 
That  blackening  streaks  of  blood  retain'd, 
And  deer-skins,  dappled,  dun,  and  white, 
With  otter's  fur  and  seal's  unite. 
In  rude  and  uncouth  tapestry  all. 
To  garnish  forth  the  sylvan  hall. 


The  wondering  stranger  round  him  gazed, 
And  next  the  fallen  weapon  raised :  — 
Few  were  the  arms  whose  sinewy  strength 
Sufficed  to  stretch  it  forth  at  length. 
And  as  the  brand  he  poised  and  sway'd, 
"  I  never  knew  but  one,"  he  said, 
"  Whose    stalwart   arm  might  brook  to 

wield 
A  blade  like  this  in  battle-field." 
She   sigh'd,   then   smiled    and    took    the 

word: 
"  You    see    the     guardian     champion's 

sword : 
As  light  it  trembles  in  his  hand, 
As  in  my  grasp  a  hazel  wand; 
My  sire's  tall  form  might  grace  the  part 
Of  Ferragus  or  Ascabart ;  * 
But  in  the  absent  giant's  hold 
Are  women  now,  and  menials  old." 


The  mistress  of  the  mansion  came, 
Mature  of  age,  a  graceful  dame; 
Whose  easy  step  and  stately  port 
Had  well  become  a  princely  court. 
To  whom,   though   more    than   kind-co 

knew. 
Young  Ellen  gave  a  mother's  due. 
Meet  welcome  to  her  guest  she  made. 
And  every  courteous  rite  was  paid, 


Canto  1. 


THE   CHASE. 


13J 


That  hospitality  could  claim, 
Though  all  unask'd  his  birth  and  name.^ 
Such  then  the  reverence  to  a  guest. 
That  fellest  foe  might  join  the  feast, 
And  from  his  deadliest  foeman's  door 
Unquestion'd  turn,  the  banquet  o'er. 
At  length  his  rank  the  stranger  names: — 
"The  Knight  of  Snowdoun,  James  Fitz- 

James; 
Lord  of  a  barren  heritage, 
Which  his  brave  sires,  from  age  to  age, 
By  their  good  swords  had  held  with  toil; 
His  sire  had  fallen  in  such  turmoil. 
And  he,  God  wot,  was  forced  to  stand 
Oft  for  his  right  with  blade  in  hand. 
This  morning,  with  Lord  Moray's  train, 
He  chased  a  stalwart  stag  in  vain. 
Outstripped  his  comrades,  miss'd  the  deer, 
Lost  his  good  steed,  and  wander'd  here." 


Fain  would  the  knight  in  turn  require 
The  name  and  state  of  Ellen's  sire. 
Well  show'd  the  elder  lady's  mien. 
That  courts  and  cities  she  had  seen; 
Ellen,  though  more  her  looks  display'd 
The  simple  grace  of  sylvan  maid. 
In  speech  and  gesture,  form  and  face, 
Show'd  she  was  come  of  gentle  race. 
'Twere  strange,  in  ruder  rank  to  find. 
Such   looks,    such    manners,    and    such 

mind. 
Each  hint  the  Knight  of  Snowdoun  gave. 
Dame  Margaret  heard  with  silence  grave ; 
Or  Ellen,  innocently  gay, 
Turn'd  all  inquiry  light  away:  — 
' '  Weird  women  we  !  by  dale  and  down 
W^e  dwell,  afar  from  tower  and  town. 
We  stem  the  flood,  we  ride  the  blast, 
On  wandering  knights  our  spells  we  cast; 
While  viewless  minstrels  touch  the  string, 
'TIS  thus  our  charmed  rhymes  we  sing." 
She  sung,  and  still  a  harp  unseen 
Fill'd  up  the  symphony  between. 

XXXI. 

SONG. 

"  Soldier,  rest !  thy  warfare  o'er. 

Sleep  the  sleep  that  knows  not  breaking; 

Dream  of  battled  fields  no  more, 
Days  of  danger,  nights  of  waking. 


In  our  isle's  enchanted  hall. 

Hands  unseen  thy  couch  are  strewing, 
Fairy  strains  of  music  fall, 

Every  sense  in  slumber  dewing. 
Soldier,  rest !  thy  warfare  o'er, 
Dream  of  fighting  fields  no  more : 
Sleep  the  sleep  that  knows  not  breaking. 
Morn  of  toil,  nor  night  of  waking. 

"  No  rude  sound  shall  reach  thine  ear. 

Armor's  clang,  nor  war-steed  champing. 
Trump  nor  pibroch  summon  here 

Mustering  clan,  or  squadron  tramping; 
Yet  the  lark's  shrill  fife  may  come 

At  the  day-break  from  the  fallow, 
And  the  bittern  sound  his  drum. 

Booming  from  the  sedgy  shallow. 
Ruder  sounds  shall  none  be  near. 
Guards  nor  warders  challenge  here; 
Here's  no  war-steed's  neigh  and  champing. 
Shouting  clans,  or  squadrons  stamping." 


She    paused  —  then,    blushing,   led   the 

lay 
To  grace  the  stranger  of  the  day.   ^ 
Her  mellow  notes  awhile  prolong 
The  cadence  of  the  flowing  song. 
Till  to  her  lips  in  measured  frame 
The  minstrel  verse  spontaneous  came: — 

SONG   CONTINUED. 

"  Huntsman,  rest!  thy  chase  is  done. 

While  our  slumb'rous  spells  assail  ye. 
Dream  not,  with  the  rising  sun. 

Bugles  here  shall  sound  reveille. 
Sleep  !  the  deer  is  in  his  den; 

Sleep!  thy  hounds  are  by  thee  lying; 
Sleep  !  nor  dream  in  yonder  glen. 

How  thy  gallant  steed  lay  dying. 
Huntsman,  rest !  thy  chase  is  done. 
Think  not  of  the  rising  sun, 
For  at  dawning  to  assail  ye, 
Here  no  bugles  sound  reveille." 

XXXIII. 

The  hall  was  clear'd  —  the  stranger's  bed 
W^is  there  of  mountain  heather  spread, 
Where  oft  a  hundred  guests  had  lain, 
And  dream'd  their  forest  sports  again. 
But  vainly  did  the  heath-flower  shed 
Its  moorland  fragrance  round  his  head; 


132 


THE  LADY  OF   THE  LAKE. 


Canto  II. 


Not  Ellen's  spell  had  luU'd  to  rest 
The  fever  of  his  troubled  breast. 
In  broken  dreams  the  image  rose 
Of  varied  perils,  pains,  and  woes: 
His  steed  now  flounders  in  the  brake, 
Now  sinks  his  barge  upon  the  lake; 
Now  leader  of  a  broken  host. 
His  standard  falls,  his  honor's  lost. 
Then,  —  from    my  couch  may   heavenly 

might 
Chase  that  worst  phantom  of  the  night !  — 
Again  return'd  the  scenes  of  youth. 
Of  confident  undoubting  truth; 
Again  his  soul  he  interchanged 
With  friends  whose  hearts  were  long  es- 
tranged. 
They  come,  in  dim  procession  led. 
The  cold,  the  faithless,  and  the  dead; 
As  warm  each  hand,  each  brow  as  gay. 
As  if  they  parted  yesterday. 
And  doubt  distracts  him  at  the  view. 
O,  were  his  senses  false  or  true? 
Dream'd  he  of  death,  or  broken  vow, 
Or  is  it  all  a  vision  now? 


At  length,  with  Ellen  in  a  grove 

He  seeni'd  to  walk,  and  speak  of  love; 

She  listen'd  with  a  blush  and  sigh. 

His  suit  was  warm,  his  hopes  were  high. 

He  sought  her  yielded  hand  to  clasp, 

And  a  cold  gauntlet  met  his  grasp: 

The    phantom's    sex    was    changed    and 

gone. 
Upon  its  head  a  helmet  shone; 
Slowly  enlarged  to  giant  size, 
With   darken'd    cheek   and    threatening 

eyes, 
The  grisly  visage,  stern  and  hoar, 
To  Ellen  still  a  likeness  bore.  — 
He  woke,  and  panting  with  affright, 
Recall'd  the  vision  of  the  night. 
The  hearth's  decaying  brands  were  red, 
And  deep  and  dusky  lustre  shed. 
Half  showing,  half  concealing,  all 
The  uncouth  trophies  of  the  hall. 
Mid  those  the  stranger  fix'd  his  eye. 
Where  that  huge  falchion  hung  on  high. 
And  thoughts   on   thoughts,  a  countless 

throng, 
Rush'd,  chasing  countless  thoughts  along. 
Until,  the  giddy  whirl  to  cure. 
He  rose,  and  sought  the  moonshine  pure. 


The  wild  rose,  eglantine,  and  broom, 
Wafted  around  their  rich  perfume; 
The  birch-trees  wept  in  fragrant  balm, 
The  aspens  slept  beneath  the  calm; 
The  silver  light,  with  quivering  glance, 
Play'd  on  the  water's  still  expanse,  — 
Wild  were  the  heart  whose  passion's  sway 
Could  rage  beneath  the  sober  ray ! 
He  felt  its  calm,  that  warrior  guest, 
While     thus     he    communed    with    his 

breast :  — 
"  Why  is  it,  at  each  turn  I  trace 
Some  memory  of  that  exiled  race  ! 
Can  I  not  mountain-maiden  spy, 
Kut  she  must  liear  the  Douglas  eye? 
Can  I  not  view  a  Highland  brand, 
But  it  must  match  the  Douglas  hand? 
Can  I  not  frame  a  fever'd  dream. 
But  still  the  Douglas  is  the  theme? 
I'll  dream  no  more  — by  manly  mind 
Not  even  in  sleep  is  will  resign'd. 
My  midnight  orisous  said  o'er, 
I'll  turn  to  rest,  and  dream  no  more." 
His  midnight  orisons  he  told, 
A  prayer  with  every  l)ead  of  gold. 
Consign'd  to  heaven  his  cares  and  woes, 
And  sunk  in  undisturb'd  repose; 
Until  the  heath-cock  shrilly  crew. 
And  morning  dawn'd  on  Benvenue. 


CANTO   SECOND. 

THE    ISLAND. 


At  morn  the  black-cock  trims  his  jetty 
wing, 
'Tis    morning    prompts    the    linnet's 
blithest  lay, 
All  Nature's  children  feel  the  matin  spring 

Of  life  reviving,  with  reviving  day; 
And  while  yon  little  bark  glides  down 
the  bay, 
Wafting  the  stranger  on  his  way  again, 
Morn's  genial  influence  roused  a  minstrel 

And  sweetly  o'er  the  lake  was  heard 
thy  strain, 
Mix'd  with  the  sounding  harp,  O  white 
hair'd  Allan-Bane !  w 


Canto  II. 


THE   ISLAND. 


133 


"  Not  faster  yonder  rowers'  might 
Flings  from  their  oars  the  spray, 

Not  faster  yonder  rippling  bright, 

That  tracks  the  shallop's  course  in  light. 
Melts  in  the  lake  away. 

Than  men  from  memory  erase 

The  benefits  of  former  days; 

Then,    stranger,    go!    good    speed   the 
while, 

Nor  think  again  of  the  lonely  isle. 

"  High  place  to  thee  in  royal  court. 

High  place  in  battle  line. 
Good  hawk  and  hound  for  sylvan  sport. 
Where  beauty  sees  the  brave  resort. 

The  honor'd  meed  be  thine  ! 
True  be  thy  sword,  thy  friend  sincere, 
Thy  lady  constant,  kind,  and  dear, 
And  lost  in  love  and  friendship's  smile 
Be  memory  of  the  lonely  isle. 


I 


SONG    CONTINUED. 

"  But  if  beneath  yon  southern  sky 

A  plaided  stranger  roam. 
Whose  drooping  crest  and  stifled  sigh, 
And  sunken  cheek  and  heavy  eye, 

Pine  for  his  Highland  home; 
Then,  warrior,  then  be  thine  to  show 
The  care  that  soothes  a  wanderer's  woe; 
Remember  then  thy  hap  erewhile, 
A  stranger  in  the  lonely  isle. 

"  Or  if  on  life's  uncertain  main 

Mishap  shall  mar  thy  sail; 
If  faithful,  wise,  and  brave  in  vain. 
Woe,  want,  and  exile  thou  sustain 

Beneath  the  fickle  gale; 
Waste  not  a  sigh  on  fortune  changed. 
On  thankless  courts,  or  friends  estranged. 
But    come    where    kindred    worth    shall 

smile. 
To  greet  thee  in  the  lonely  isle." 


As  died  the  sounds  upon  the  tide. 
The  shallop  reach'd  the  mainland  side. 
And  ere  his  onward  way  he  took. 
The  stranger  cast  a  lingering  look. 


Where  easily  his  eye  might  reach 

The  Harper  on  the  islet  beach, 

Reclined  against  a  blighted  tree, 

As  wasted,  gray,  and  worn  as  he. 

To  minstrel  meditation  given. 

His  reverend  brow  wa.s  raised  to  heaven, 

As  from  the  rising  sun  to  claim 

A  sparkle  of  inspiring  flame. 

His  hand,  reclined  upon  the  wire, 

Seem'd  watching  the  awakening  fire; 

So  still  he  sate,  as  those  who  wait 

Till  judgment  speak  the  doom  of  fate; 

So  still,  as  if  no  breeze  might  dare 

To  lift  one  lock  of  hoary  hair; 

So  still,  as  life  itself  were  fled. 

In  the  last  sound  his  harp  had  sped. 


Upon  a  rock  with  lichens  wild, 
Beside  him  Ellen  sate  and  smiled.  — 
Smiled  she  to  see  the  stately  drake 
Lead  forth  his  fleet  upon  the  lake. 
While  her  vex'd  spaniel  from  the  beach 
Bay'd  at  the  prize  beyond  his  reach  ? 
Yet  tell  me,  then,  the  maid  who  knows, 
Why  deepen'd  on  her  cheek  the  rose?  — 
Forgive,  forgive.  Fidelity ! 
Perchance  the  maiden  smiled  to  see 
Yon  parting  lingerer  wave  adieu, 
And  stop  and  turn  to  wave  anew; 
And,  lovely  ladies,  ere  your  ire 
Condemn  the  heroine  of  my  lyre. 
Show  me  the  fair  would  scorn  to  spy. 
And  prize  such  conquest  of  her  eye ! 


While  yet  he  loiter'd  on  the  spot. 
It  seem'd  as  Ellen  mark'd  him  not; 
But  when  he  turn'd  him  to  the  glade, 
One  courteous  parting  sign  she  made; 
And  after  oft  the  Knight  would  say, 
That  not  when  prize  of  festal  day 
Was  dealt  him  by  the  brightest  fair 
Who  e'er  wore  jewel  in  her  hair. 
So  highly  did  his  bosom  swell. 
As  at  that  simple  mute  farewell. 
Now  with  a  trusty  mountain -guide. 
And  his  dark  stag-hounds  by  his  side. 
He  parts  —  the  maid,  unconscious  still, 
Watch'd  him  wind  slowly  round  the  hill; 
But  when  his  stately  form  was  hid, 
The  guardian  in  her  bosom  chid  — 


t 


134 


THE   LADY   OF   THE  LAKE. 


Canto  II. 


"  Thy  Malcolm  !  vain  and  selfish  maid !  " 
'Twas  thus  upbraiding  conscience  said,  — 
"  Not  so  had  Malcolm  idly  hung 
On  the  smooth  phrase  of  southern  tongue; 
fJot  so  had  Malcolm  strain'd  his  eye, 
Another  step  than  thine  to  spy. 
Wake,  Allan-Bane,"  aloud  she  cried, 
To  the  old  Minstrel  by  her  side,  — 
"  Arouse  thee  from  thy  moody  dream ! 
I'll  give  thy  harp  heroic  theme. 
And  warm  thee  with  a  noble  name; 
Pour  forth  the  glory  of  the  Grrerne  !  "  H 
Scarce  from  her  lip  the  word  had  rush'd. 
When  deep  the  conscious  maidenblush'd; 
For  of  his  clan,  in  hall  and  bower. 
Young    Malcolm   Graeme    was  held  the 
flower. 


The  Minstrel  waked  his  harp — three  times 

Arose  the  well-known  martial  chimes. 

And  thrice  their  high  heroic  pride 

In  melancholy  murmurs  died. 

"  Vainly  thou  bid'st,  O  noble  maid," 

Clasping  his  wither'd  hands,  he  said, 

"  Vainly  thou  bid'st  me  wake  the  strain. 

Though  all  unwont  to  bid  in  vain. 

Alas !  than  mine  a  mightier  hand 

Has   tuned    my   harp,    my   strings    has 

spann'd ! 
I  touch  the  chords  of  joy,  but  low 
And  mournful  answer  notes  of  woe; 
And   the    proud    march,   which    victors 

tread, 
Sinks  in  the  wailing  for  the  dead. 
O  well  for  me,  if  mine  alone 
That  dirge's  deep  prophetic  tone ! 
If,  as  my  tuneful  fathers  said. 
This    harp,    which    erst    Saint    Modan 

sway'd,'^ 
Can  thus  its  master's  fate  foretell. 
Then  welcome  be  the  minstrel's  knell ! 


"  But  ah  !   dear  lady,  thus  it  sigh'd 
The  eve  thy  sainted  mother  died; 
And  such  the  sounds  which,  while  I  strove 
To  wake  a  lay  of  war  or  love, 
Came  marring  all  the  festal  mirth, 
Appalling  me  who  gave  them  birth. 
And,  disobedient  to  my  call, 
Wail'd  loud  through  Bothwell's  banner'd 
hall. 


Ere  Douglases,  to  ruin  driven,'^ 
Were  exiled  from  their  native  heaven.  — 
Oh  !  if  yet  worse  mishap  and  woe 
My  master's  house  must  undergo, 
Or  aught  but  weal  to  Ellen  fair 
Brood  in  these  accents  of  despair. 
No  future  bard,  sad  Harp !  shall  fling 
Triumph  or  rapture  from  thy  string; 
One  short,  one  final  strain  shall  flow, 
Fraught  with  unutterable  woe. 
Then  shiver'd  shall  thy  fragments  lie. 
Thy  master  cast  him  down  and  die !  " 


Soothing  she  answer'd  him : — •'  Assuage, 
Mine  honor'd  friend,  the  fears  of  age; 
All  melodies  to  thee  are  known. 
That  harp  has  rung,  or  pipe  has  blown. 
In  Lowland  vale  or  Highland  glen. 
From  Tweed  to  Spey — ^what  marvel,  then. 
At  times,  unbidden  notes  should  rise, 
Confusedly  bound  in  memory's  ties. 
Entangling,  as  they  rush  along. 
The  war-march  with  the  funeral  song?  — 
Small  ground  is  now  for  boding  fear; 
Obscure,  but  safe,  we  rest  us  here. 
My  sire,  in  native  virtue  great, 
Resigning  lordship,  lands,  and  state. 
Not  then  to  fortune  more  resign'd 
Than  yonder  oak  might  give  the  wind; 
The  graceful  foliage  storms  may  reave, 
The  noble  stem  they  cannot  grieve. 
For  me,"  —  she   stoop'd,    and,  looking 

round, 
Pluck'd  a  blue  hare-bell  from  the  ground, 
"  For  me,  whose  memory  scarce  conveys 
An  image  of  more  splendid  days. 
This  little  flower,  that  loves  the  lea. 
May  well  my  simple  emblem  be; 
It  drinks  heaven's  dew  as  blithe  as  rose 
That  in  the  King's  own  garden  grows; 
And  when  I  place  it  in  my  hair, 
Allan,  a  bard  is  bound  to  swear 
He  ne'er  saw  coronet  so  fair." 
Then  playfully  the  chaplet  wild 
She    wreath'd   in    her   dark    locks,  and 

smiled. 


Her  smile, her  speech,  with  winning  sway, 
Wiled  the  old  harper's  mood  away. 
With  such  a  look  as  hermits  throw. 
When  angels  stoop  to  soothe  their  woe, 


Canto  II. 


THE   ISLAND. 


135 


He  gazed,  till  fond  regret  and  pride 
Thrill'ti  to  a  tear,  then  thus  replied:  — 
"  Loveliest  and  best !  thou  little  know'st 
The  rank,  the  honors,  thou  hast  lost ! 
O  might  I  live  to  see  thee  grace, 
In  Scotland's  court,  thy  birth-right  place, 
To  see  my  favorite's  step  advance, 
The  lightest  in  the  courtly  dance. 
The  cause  of  every  gallant's  sigh, 
And  leading  star  of  every  eye, 
And  theme  of  every  minstrel's  art, 
The  lady  of  the  Bleeding  Heart!  "*  — 


"  Fair   dreams   are  these,"   the  maiden 

cried 
(Light  was  her  accent,  yet  she  sigh'd; ) 
"  Yet  is  this  mossy  rock  to  me 
Worth  splendid  chair  and  canopy; 
Nor  would  my  footsteps  spring  more  gay 
In  courtly  dance  than  blithe  strathspey. 
Nor  half  so  pleased  mine  ear  incline 
To  royal  minstrel's  lay  as  thine. 
And  then  for  suitors  proud  and  high, 
To  bend  before  my  conquering  eye,  — 
Thou,  flattering  bard  !  thyself  wilt  say, 
That  grim  Sir  Roderick  owns  its  sway. 
The  Saxon  scourge,  Clan-Alpine's  pride, 
The  terror  of  Loch  Lomond's  side, 
Would,  at  my  suit,  thou  know'st,  delay 
A  Lennox  foray —  for  a  day."  — 


The  ancient  bard  her  glee  repress'd: — 
"  111  hast  thou  chosen  theme  for  jest ! 
For  who,  through  all  this  western  wild. 
Named    Black    Sir    Roderick    e'er,    and 

smiled ! 
In  Holy-Rood  a  knight  he  slew;^* 
I  saw,  when  back  the  dirk  he  drew, 
Courtiers  give  place  before  the  stride 
Of  the  undaunted  homicide : 
And  since,  though  outlaw'd,  hath  his  hand 
Full  sternly  kept  his  mountain  land. 
Who  else  dared  give  —  ah  !  woe  the  day, 
That  I  such  hated  truth  should  say  — 
The  Douglas,  like  a  stricken  deer, 
Disown' d  by  every  noble  peer,^^ 
Even  the  rude  refuge  we  have  here  ? 
Alas,  this  wild  marauding  Chief 
Alone  might  hazard  our  relief, 


1 


*  The  cogwzance  of  the  Douglas  family. 


And  now  thy  maiden  charms  expand. 

Looks  for  his  guerdon  in  thy  hand; 

Full  soon  may  dispensation  sought, 

To  back  his  suit,  from  Rome  be  brought- 

Then,  though  an  exile  on  the  hill, 

Thy  father,  as  the  Douglas,  still 

Be  held  in  reverence  and  fear; 

And    though    to    Roderick    thou'rt    so 

dear, 
That   thou   might'st   guide   with    silken 

thread, 
Slave  of  thy  will,  this  chieftain  dread; 
Yet,  O  loved  maid,  thy  mirth  refrain ! 
Thy  hand  is  on  a  lion's  mane."  — 


•'  Minstrel,"  the  maid  replied,  and  high 
Her  father's  soul  glanced  from  her  eye, 
"  My  debts  to  Roderick's  house  I  know: 
All  that  a  mother  could  bestow, 
To  Lady  Margaret's  care  I  owe. 
Since  first  an  orphan  in  the  wild 
She  sorrow'd  o'er  her  sister's  child; 
To  her  brave  chieftain  son,  from  ire 
Of  Scotland's  king  who  shrouds  my  sire, 
A  deeper,  holier  debt  is  owed; 
And,  could  I  pay  it  with  my  blood, 
Allan  !  Sir  Roderick  should  command 
My  blood,  my  life,  — but  not  my  hand. 
Rather  will  Ellen  Douglas  dwell 
A  votaress  in  Maronnan's  cell;*® 
Rather  through  realms  beyond  the  sea. 
Seeking  the  world's  cold  charity, 
Where  ne'er  was  spoke  a  Scottish  word 
And  ne'er  the  name  of  Douglas  heard. 
An  outcast  pilgrim  will  she  rove. 
Than  wed  the  man  she  cannot  love. 


"Thou  shakest,  good  friend,  thy  tresses 

gray, — 
That  pleading  look,  what  can  it  say 
But  what  I  own?  —  I  grant  him  brave. 
But    wild    as     Bracklinn's     thundering 

wave ;  ^"^ 
And  generous  —  save  vindictive  mood. 
Or  jealous  transport,  chafe  his  blood. 
I  grant  him  true  to  friendly  band, 
As  his  claymore  is  to  his  hand; 
But  O !  that  very  blade  of  steel 
More  mercy  for  a  foe  would  feel : 
I  grant  him  liberal,  to  fling 
Among  his  clan  the  wealth  they  bring, 


i-,6 


THE   LADY  OF   THE   LAKE. 


Canto  II. 


When  back  by  lake  and  glen  they  wind, 
And  in  the  Lowland  leave  behind, 
Where  once  some  ])leasant  hamlet  stood, 
A  mass  of  ashes  slaked  with  blood. 
The  hand  that  for  my  father  fought, 
I  honor,  as  his  daughter  ought; 
But  can  I  clasp  it  reeking  red 
From  peasants  slaughter'd  in  their  shed? 
No  !  wildly  while  his  virtues  gleam. 
They  make  his  passions  darker  seem, 
And  flash  along  his  spirit  high. 
Like  lightning  o'er  the  midnight  sky. 
While  yet  a  child,  —  and  children  know, 
Instinctive  taught,  the  friend  and  foe,  — 
I  shudder'd  at  his  brow  of  gloom, 
His  shadowy  plaid,  and  sable  plume; 
A  maiden  grown,  I  ill  could  bear 
His  haughty  mien  and  lordly  air : 
But,  if  thou  join'st  a  suitor's  claim. 
In  serious  mood,  to  Roderick's  name, 
I  thrill  with  anguish  !  or,  if  e'er 
A  Douglas  knew  the  word,  with  fear. 
To  change  such  odious  theme  were  best, — 
What    tliink'st    thou    of    our    stranger 
guest?"  — 


"  What  think  I  of  him  ?  —  woe  the  while 
That  brought  such  wanderer  to  our  isle  ! 
Thy  father's  battle-brand,  of  yore 
For  Tine-man  forged  by  fairy  lore,'" 
W'hat  time  he  leagued,  no  longer  foes, 
His  border  spears  with  Hotspur's  bows. 
Did,  self-unscabl)arded,  foreshow 
The  footstep  of  a  secret  foe.''* 
If  courtly  spy  hath  harbor'd  here, 
What  may  we  for  the  Douglas  fear? 
What  for  this  island,  deem'd  of  old 
'71an- Alpine's  last  and  surest  hold? 
If  neither  spy  nor  foe,  I  pray, 
What  yet  may  jealous  Roderick  say? 
—  Nay,  wave  not  thy  disdainful  head. 
Bethink  thee  of  the  discord  dread 
That  kindled,  when  at  Beltane  game 
Thou    ledst    the    dance    with     Malcolm 

Graeme : 
Still,  though  thy  sire  the  peace  renew'd. 
Smoulders  in  Roderick's  breast  the  feud; 
Beware  !  —  But  hark,   what    sounds  are 

these  ? 
My  dull  ears  catch  no  faltering  breeze. 
No  weeping  birch  nor  aspens  wake. 
Nor  breath  is  dimpling  in  the  lake, 


Still  is  the  canna's*  hoary  beard, 
Yet,  by  my  minstrel  faith,  I  heard  — 
And  hark  again  !  some  pipe  of  war 
Sends  the  bold  pibroch  from  afar." 


Far  up  the  lengthen'd  lake  were  spied 
Four  darkening  specks  upon  the  tide. 
That,  slow  enlarging  on  the  view. 
Four  mann'd  and  masted  barges  grew, 
And,  bearing  downwards  from  Glengyle, 
Steer'd  full  upon  the  lonely  isle; 
The  point  of  Brianchoil  they  pass'd. 
And,  to  the  windward,  as  they  cast. 
Against  the  sun  they  gave  to  shine 
The  lx)ld  Sir  Roderick's  banner'd  Pine. 
Nearer  and  nearer  as  they  bear. 
Spears,  pikes,  and  axes  flash  in  air. 
Now  might  you  see  the  Tartans  brave. 
And  plaids  and  plumage  dance  and  wave : 
Now  see  the  bonnets  sink  and  rise, 
As  his  tough  oar  the  rower  plies ; 
See,  flashing  at  each  sturdy  stroke, 
The  wave  ascending  into  smoke; 
See  the  proud  pipers  on  the  bow. 
And  mark  the  gaudy  streamers  flow 
From   their   loud   chanters  t   down,   and 

sweep 
The  furrow'd  bosom  of  the  deep, 
As,  rushing  through  the  lake  amain. 
They  plied  the  ancient  Highand  strain. 


Ever,  as  on  they  l)ore,  more  loud 
And  louder  rung  the  pibroch  proud. 
At  first  the  sound,  by  distance  tame, 
Mellow'd  along  the  waters  came. 
And,  lingering  long  by  cape  and  bay, 
Wail'd  every  harsher  note  away; 
Then  bursting  bolder  on  the  ear. 
The  clan's  shrill   Gathering   they  could 

hear; 
Those  thrilling  sounds,  that  call  the  might 
Of  old  Clan-Alpine  to  the  fight. 2" 
Thick  beat  the  rapid  notes,  as  when 
The  mustering  hundreds  shake  the  glen. 
And,  hurrying  at  the  signal  dread, 
The  baf^er'd  earth  returns  their  tread. 
Then  prelude  light,  of  livelier  tone, 
Express'd  their  merry  marching  on, 

*  Cotton  grass. 

t  The  pipe  of  the  bagpipe. 


Canto  II. 


THE   ISLAND. 


137 


Ere  peal  of  closing  battle  rose. 
With  mingled  outcry,  shrieks,  and  blows; 
And  mimic  din  of  stroke  and  ward, 
As  broadsword  upon  target  jarr'd; 
And  groaning  pause,  ere  yet  again, 
Condensed,  the  battle  yell'd  amain; 
The  rapid  charge,  the  rallying  shout, 
Retreat  borne  headlong  into  rout, 
And  bursts  of  triumph,  to  declare 
Clau-Alpine's  conquest  —  all  were  there. 
Nor  ended  thus  the  strain;   but  slow, 
Sunk  in  a  moan  prolong'd  and  low, 
And    changed    the    conquering    clarion 

swell, 
For  wild  lament  o'er  those  that  fell. 


The  war-pipes  ceased:  but  lake  and  hill 
Were  busy  with  their  echoes  still; 
And,  when  they  slept,  a  vocal  strain 
Bade  their  hoarse  chorus  wake  again. 
While  loud  a  hundred  clansmen  raise 
Their  voices  in  their  Chieftain's  praise. 
Each  boatman,  bending  to  his  oar, 
With  measured  sweep  the  burden  Ixjre, 
In  such  wild  cadence,  as  the  breeze 
Makes  through  December's  leafless  trees. 
The  chorus  first  could  Allan  know, 
"  Roderigh  Vich  Alpine,  ho  !  iro  !  " 
And  near,  and  nearer  as  they  row'd. 
Distinct  the  martial  ditty  flow'd. 


BOAT   SONG. 

Hail  tothe  Chief  whoin  triumph  advances  '. 
Honor'd  and  bless'd  be  the  ever-green 
Pine! 
Long  may  the  tree,  in  his  banner  that 
glances. 
Flourish,  the  shelter  and  grace  of  our 
line. 

Heaven  send  it  happy  dew. 
Earth  lend  it  sap  anew, 
Gayly  to  bourgeon, and  broadly  to  grow. 
While  every  Highland  glen 
Sends  our  shout  back  agen, 
"Roderigh    Vich    Alpine    dhu,     ho! 
ieio !  "  ^1 

Ours  is  no  sapling,  chance-sown  by  the 
fountain, 
Blooming  at  Beltane,  in  winter  to  fade; 


When  the  whirlwind  has  stripp'd  every 
leaf  on  the  mountain, 
The  more  shall  Clan-Alpine   exult  in 
her  shade. 

Moor'd  in  the  rifted  rock. 
Proof  to  the  tempest's  shock. 
Firmer  he  roots  him  the  ruder  it  blow ; 
Menteith  and  Breadalbane,  then. 
Echo  his  praise  agen, 
"Roderigh    Vich    Alpine    dhu,    ho! 
iero ! " 


Proudly  our  pibroch  *  has  thrill'd  in  Glen 
Fruin, 
And  Bannochar's  groans  to  our  slogan  t 
replied; 
Glen  Luss  and  Ross-dhu,  they  are  smok- 
ing in  ruin, 
And  the  best  of  Loch  Lomond  lie  dead 
on  her  side. 

Widow  and  Saxon  maid 
Long  shall  lament  our  raid. 
Think   of   Clan-Alpine    with   fear  and 
with  woe; 

Lennox  and  Leven-glen 
Shake  when  they  hear  agen, 
"Roderigh    Vich    Alpine    dhu,    ho! 
iero !  " 

Row,  vassals,  row,  for  the  pride  of  ihe 
Highlands ! 
Stretch  to  your  oars  for  the  ever-green 
Pine ! 
O !    that    the    rosebud    that   graces    yon 
islands. 
Were   wreathed   in  a  garland  around 
him  to  twine ! 

O  that  some  seedling  gem. 
Worthy  such  noble  stem, 
Honor'd  and  bless'd  in  their  shadow 
might  grow ! 

Loud  should  Clan-Alpine  then 
Ring  from  the  deepmost  glen, 
"Roderigh    Vich     Alpine    dhu,    ho! 
iero !  " 


With  all  her  joyful  female  band. 

Had  Lady  Margaret  sought  the  strand, 

*  Bagpipe  air  belonging  to  a  clan, 
t  Slogan,  a  war-cry. 


I 


138 


THE   LADY   OF   THE  LAKE. 


Canto  II. 


Loose  on  the  breeze  their  tresses  flew, 
And  high  their  snowy  arms  they  threw, 
As  echoing  back  with  shrill  acclaim, 
And  chorus  wild,  the  Chieftain's  name; 
While,  prompt  to  please,  with  mother's 

art. 
The  darling  passion  of  his  heart. 
The  Dame  call'd  Ellen  to  the  strand, 
To  greet  her  kinsman  ere  he  land :  — • 
"  Come,  loiterer,  come  !   a  Douglas  thou, 
And  shun  to  wreathe  a  victor's  brow  ?  "  — 
Reluctantly  and  slow,  the  maid 
The  unwelcome  summoning  obey'd. 
And,  when  a  distant  bugle  rung. 
In  the  mid-path  aside  she  sprung:  — 
"  List,  Allan-Bane  !    From  mainland  cast 
I  hear  my  father's  signal  blast. 
Be  ours,"  she  cried,  "  the  skiff  to  guide. 
And  waft  him  from  the  mountain  side." 
Then,  like  a  sunbeam,  swift  and  bright. 
She  darted  to  her  shallop  light. 
And,  eagerly,  while  Roderick  scann'd, 
For  her  dear  form,  his  mother's  band. 
The  islet  far  behind  her  lay, 
And  she  had  landed  in  the  bay. 


Some  feelings  are  to  mortals  given. 

With  less  of  earth  in  them  than  heaven. 

And  if  there  be  a  human  tear 

From  passion's  dross  refined  and  clear, 

A  tear  so  limpid  and  so  meek. 

It  would  not  stain  an  angel's  cheek, 

'Tis  that  which  pious  fathers  shed 

Upon  a  duteous  daughter's  head  ! 

And  as  the  Douglas  to  his  breast 

His  darling  Ellen  closely  press'd. 

Such  holy  drops  her  tresses  steep'd, 

Though  'twas  a  hero's  eye  that  weep'd. 

Nor  while  on  Ellen's  faltering  tongue 

Her  filial  welcomes  crowded  hung, 

Mark'd  she,  that  fear  (affection's  proof) 

Still  held  a  graceful  youth  aloof; 

No !   not  till  Douglas  named  his  name. 

Although  the  youth  was  Malcolm  Graeme. 


Allan,  with  wistful  look  the  while, 
Mark'd  Roderick  landing  on  the  isle; 
His  master  piteously  he  eyed. 
Then  gazed  upon  the  Chieftain's  pride. 
Then  dash'd,  with  hasty  hand,  away 
From  his  dimm'd  eye  the  gathering  spray; 


And  Douglas,  as  his  hand  he  laid 

On  Malcolm's  shoulder,  kindly  said:  — 

"  Canst  thou,  young  friend,  no  meaning 

spy 
In  my  poor  follower's  glistening  eye? 
I'll  tell  thee:  —he  recalls  the  day. 
When  in  my  praise  he  led  the  lay 
O'er  the  arch'd  gate  of  Bothwell  proud. 
While  many  a  minstrel  answer'd  loud. 
When  Percy's  Norman  pennon,  won 
In  bloody  field,  before  me  shone. 
And  twice  ten  knights,  the  least  a  name 
As  mighty  as  yon  Chief  may  claim. 
Gracing  my  pomp,  behind  me  came. 
Vet  trust  me,  Malcolm,  not  so  proud 
Was  I  of  all  that  marshall'd  crowd, 
Though    the  waned  crescent   own'd  my 

might. 
And  in  my  train  troop'd  lord  and  knight. 
Though  Blantyre  hynin'd  her  holiest  lays. 
And  Bothwell's bards  flung  back  my  praise, 
As  when  this  old  man's  silent  tear, 
And  this  poor  maid's  affection  dear, 
A  welcome  give  more  kind  and  true, 
Then  aught  my  better  fortunes  knew. 
Forgive,  my  friend,  a  father's  boast, 
O !  it  out-beggars  all  I  lost !  " 


Delightful  praise  !  —  Like  summer  rose. 
That  brighter  in  the  dew-drop  glows. 
The  bashful  maiden's  cheek  appear'd, 
For  Douglas  spoke,  and  Malcolm  heard. 
The  flush  of  shame-faced  joy  to  hide. 
The  hounds,  the  hawk,  her  cares  divide; 
The  loved  caresses  of  the  maid 
The  dogs  with  crouch  and  whimper  paid; 
And,  at  her  whistle,  on  her  hand 
The  falcon  took  her  favorite  stand. 
Closed  his  dark  wing,  relax'd  his  eye. 
Nor,  though  unhoodcd,  sought  to  fly. 
And,  trust,  while  in  such  guise  she  stood, 
Like  fabled  Goddess  of  the  wood. 
That  if  a  father's  partial  thought 
O'erweigh'd  her  worth  and  beauty  aught. 
Well  might  the  lover's  judgment  fail 
To  balance  with  a  juster  scale; 
For  with  each  secret  glance  he  stole, 
The  fond  enthusiast  sent  his  soul. 

XXV. 

Of  stature  tall,  and  slender  frame, 
But  firmly  knit,  was  Malcolm  Grseme. 


Canto  II. 


THE  ISLAND. 


139 


The  belted  plaid  and  tartan  hose 
Did  ne'er  more  graceful  limbs  disclose; 
His  flaxen  hair  of  sunny  hue, 
Curl'd  closely  round  his  bonnet  blue. 
Train'd  to  the  chase,  his  eagle  eye 
The  ptarmigan  in  snow  could  spy : 
Each  pass,  by  mountain,  lake,  and  heath, 
He  knew,  through  I^ennox  and  Menteith  : 
Vain    was    the    bound    of    dark-brown 

doe. 
When  Malcolm  bent  his  sounding  bow. 
And  scarce  that  doe,  though  wing'd  with 

fear, 
Outstripp'd  in  speed  the  mountaineer : 
Right  up  Ben-Lomond  could  he  press, 
And  not  a  sob  his  toil  confess. 
His  form  accorded  with  a  mind 
Lively  and  ardent,  frank  and  kind; 
A  blither  heart,  till  Ellen  came, 
Did  never  love  nor  sorrow  tame; 
It  danced  as  lightsome  in  his  breast, 
As  play'd  the  feather  on  his  crest. 
Yet  friends  who  nearest  knew  the  youth. 
His  scorn  of  wrong,  his  zeal  for  truth. 
And  bards,  who  saw  his  features  bold, 
When  kindled  by  the  tales  of  old, 
Said,  were  that  youth  to  manhood  grown. 
Not  long  should  Roderick  Dhu's  renown 
Be  foremost  voiced  by  mountain  fame. 
But  quail  to  that  of  Malcolm  Graeme. 


Now  back  they  wend  their  watery  way, 
And,  "  O  my  sire  !"  did  Ellen  say, 
"  Why  urge  thy  chase  so  far  astray? 
And  why  so  latereturn'd?     And  why  —  " 
The  rest  was  in  her  sparkling  eye. 
"  My  child,  the  chase  I  follow  far; 
Tis  mimicry  of  noble  war, 
And  with  that  gallant  pastime  reft. 
Were  all  of  Douglas  I  have  left. 
I  met  young  Malcolm  as  I  stray'd 
Far  eastward,  in  Glenfinlas'  shade. 
Nor  stray'd  I  safe:    for,  all  around. 
Hunters  and  horsemen  scour'd  the  ground. 
This  youth,  though  still  a  royal  ward, 
Risk'd  life  and  land  to  be  my  guard, 
And  through  the  passes  of  the  wood. 
Guided  my  steps  not  unpursued; 
And  Roderick  shall  his  welcome  make. 
Despite  old  spleen,  for  Douglas'  sake. 
Then  must  he  seek  Strath-Endrick  glen, 
Nor  peril  aught  for  me  agen." 


XXVII. 

Sir  Roderick,  who  to  meet  them  came, 
Redden'd  at  sight  of  Malcolm  Graeme, 
Yet,  not  in  action,  word,  or  eye, 
Kail'd  aught  in  hospitality. 
In  talk  and  sport  they  wiled  away 
The  morning  of  that  summer  day; 
But  at  high  noon  a  courier  light 
Held  secret  parley  with  the  knight. 
Whose  moody  aspect  soon  declared. 
That  evil  were  the  news  he  heard. 
Deep  thought  seem'd  toiling  in  his  head; 
Yet  was  the  evening  banquet  made. 
Ere  he  assembled  round  the  flame. 
His  mother,  Douglas,  and  the  Grseme, 
And  Ellen,  too;  then  cast  around 
His  eyes,  then  hx'd  them  on  the  ground, 
As  studying  phrase  that  might  avail 
Best  to  convey  unpleasant  tale. 
Long  with  his  dagger's  hilt  he  play'd. 
Then  raised  his  haughty  brow  and  said :  — 

XXVIII. 

"  Shortbe  my  speech,  —  nor  time  affords. 
Nor  my  plain  temper,  glozing  words. 
Kinsman  and  father,  —  if  such  name 
Douglas  vouchsafe  to  Roderick's  claim; 
Mine  honored  mother; —  Ellen  —  why, 
My  cousin,  turn  away  thine  eye?  — 
And  Graeme;  in  whom  I  hope  to  know 
Full  soon  a  noble  friend  or  foe. 
When  age  shall  give  thee  thy  command, 
And  leading  in  thy  native  land,  — 
List  all ! — The  King's  vindictive  pride 
Boasts  to  have  tamed  the  Border-side, 
Where  chiefs,  with  hound  and  hawk  who 

came 
To  share  their  monarch's  sylvan  game. 
Themselves  in  bloody  toils  were  snared; 
And  when  the  banquet  they  prepared, 
And  wide  their  loyal  portals  flung. 
O'er  their  own  gateway  struggling  hung. 
Loud   cries  their    blood  from   Meggat's 

mead. 
From  Yarrow  braes,  and  banks  of  Tweed, 
Where  the  lone  streams  of  Ettrick  glide. 
And  from  the  silver  Teviot's  side; 
The  dales,  where  martial  clans  did  ride. 
Are  now  one  sheep-walk,  waste  and  wide. 
This  tyrant  of  the  Scottish  throne, 
So  faithless  and  so  ruthless  known, 
Now  hither  comes;    his  end  the  same. 
The  same  pretext  of  sylvan  game; 


140 


THE  LADY   OF   THE  LAKE. 


Canto  II. 


What  grace  for  Highland  Chiefs,  judge  ye 

By  fate  of  Border  chivalry. 

Yet  more;  amid  Glenfinlas  green, 

Douglas,  thy  stately  form  was  seen. 

This  by  espial  sure  I  know; 

Your  counsel  in  the  streight  I  show." 

xxi.x. 
Ellen  and  Margaret  fearfully 
Sought  comfort  in  each  other's  eye, 
Then  turn'd  their  ghastly  look,  each  one, 
This  to  her  sire  —  that  to  her  son. 
The  hasty  color  went  and  came 
In  the  bold  cheek  of  Malcolm  Graeme, 
But  from  his  glance  it  well  appear'd, 
'Twas  but  for  Ellen  that  he  fear'd; 
While  sorrowful,  but  undismay'd, 
The  Douglas  thus  his  counsel  said:  — 
"  Bra  veR<xlerick,  though  the  tempest  roar, 
It  may  but  thunder  and  pass  o'er; 
Nor  will  I  here  remain  an  hour, 
To  ilraw  the  lightning  on  thy  bower; 
For  well  thou  know'st,  at  this  gray  head 
The  royal  bolt  were  fiercest  sped. 
Vox  thee,  who,  at  thy  King's  command. 
Canst  aid  him  with  a  gallant  band, 
Sulimission,  homage,  humbled  pride. 
Shall  turn  the  Monarch's  wrath  aside. 
Poor  remnants  of  the  Bleeding  Heart, 
Ellen  and  I  will  seek,  apart, 
The  refuge  of  some  forest  cell. 
There,  like  the  hunted  quarry,  dwell. 
Till  on  the  mountain  and  the  moor. 
The  stern  pursuit  be  pass'd  and  o'er." 


"  No,  by  mine  honor,"  Roderick  said, 
"So  help  me,  heaven,  and  my  good  blade; 
No,  never !     Blasted  be  yon  Pine, 
My  fathers'  ancient  crest  and  mine. 
If  from  its  shade  in  danger  part 
The  lineage  of  the  Bleeding  Heart ! 
Hear  my  blunt   speech:   Grant  me   this 

maid 
To  wife,  thy  council  to  mine  aid; 
To  Douglas,  leagued  with  Roderick  Dhu, 
Will  friends  and  allies  flock  enow; 
Like  cause  of  doubt,  distrust,  and  grief, 
Will  bind  to  us  each  Western  Chief. 
When  the  loud  pipes  my  bridal  tell. 
The  Links  of  Forth  shall  hear  the  knell. 
The  guards  shall  start  in  Stirling's  porch; 
And,  when  I  light  the  nuptial  torch, 


A  thousand  villages  in  flames, 
Shall  scare  the  slumbers  of  King  James! 
— ^Nay,  Ellen,  blench  not  thus  away. 
And,  mother,  cease  these  signs  I  pray; 
I  meant  not  all  my  heat  might  say.  — 
Small  need  of  inroad,  or  of  tight. 
When  the  sage  Douglas  may  unite 
Each  mountain  clan  in  friendly  band. 
To  guard  the  passes  of  their  land. 
Till  the  foil'd  king,  from  pathless  glen, 
Shall  bootless  turn  him  home  agen." 


There  are  who  have,  at  midnight  hour, 
In  slumber  scaled  a  dizzy  tower, 
And,  on  the  verge  that  beetled  o'er 
The  ocean-tide's  incessant  roar, 
Dream'd    calmly    out    their    dangerous 

dream, 
Till  waken'd  liy  the  mornmg  Ixram; 
When,  dazzled  by  the  eastern  glow. 
Such  startler  cast  his  glance  Ijelow, 
And  saw  unmeasured  depth  around, 
And  heard  unintermitted  sound, 
And  thought  the  battled  fence  so  frail, 
It  waved  like  cobweb  in  the  gale; 
Amid  his  senses'  giddy  wheel. 
Did  he  not  desperate  impulse  feel. 
Headlong  to  plunge  himself  below, 
And  meet  the  worst  his  fears  foreshow  ?  — 
Thus,  Ellen,  dizzy  and  astound. 
As  sudden  ruin  yawn'd  around. 
By  crossing  terrors  wildly  toss'd, 
Still  for  the  Douglas  fearing  most, 
Could  scarce  the  desperate  thought  with- 
stand 
To  buy  his  safety  with  her  hand. 


Such  purpose  dread  could  Malcolm  spy 
In  Ellen's  quivering  lip  and  eye. 
And  eager  rose  to  speak  —  but  ere 
His  tongue  could  hurry  forth  his  fear. 
Had  Douglas  mark'd  the  hectic  strife, 
W'here  death  seemed  combating  with  life: 
For  to  her  cheek,  in  feverish  flood. 
One  instant  rush'd  the  throbbing  bloofl. 
Then  ebbing  back,  with  sudden  sway, 
Left  its  domain  as  wan  as  clay. 
"  Roderick,  enough  !  enough  !  "  he  cried, 
"  My  daughter  cannot  be  thy  bride; 
Not  that  the  blush  to  wooer  dear, 
'  Nor  paleness  that  of  maiden  fear. 


Canto  II. 


THE  ISLAND. 


141 


It  may  not  be  —  forgive  her,  Chief, 
Nor  hazard  aught  for  our  relief. 
Against  his  sovereign,  Douglas  ne'er 
Will  level  a  rebellious  spear. 
'Twas  I  that  taught  his  youthful  hand 
To  rein  a  steed  and  wield  a  brand; 
I  see  him  yet,  the  princely  boy  ! 
Not  Ellen  more  my  pride  and  joy; 
I  love  him  still,  despite  my  wrongs. 
By  hasty  wrath,  and  slanderous  tongues. 
O  seek  the  grace  you  well  may  find. 
Without  a  cause  to  mine  combined." 


Twice    through    the    hall    the    Chieftain 

strode ; 
The  waving  of  his  tartans  broad, 
And  darken'd  brow,  where  wounded  pride 
With  ire  and  disajipointment  vied, 
Secm'd,  by  the  torch's  gloomy  light, 
I-iko  the  ill  Demon  of  the  night. 
Stooping  his  pinions'  shadowy  sway 
Upon  the  nighted  pilgrim's  way: 
Hut,  unrctjuited  Love  !  thy  dart 
Plunged  deepest  its  envenom'd  smart. 
And  Roderick,  with  thine  anguish  stung. 
At  length  the  hand  of  Douglas  wrung. 
While  eyes,  that  mock'd  at  tears  before, 
5^         With  bitter  drops  were  running  o'er. 

The  death-pangs  of  long-cherish'd  hope 
Scarce  in  that  ample  breast  had  scope. 
But,  struggling  with  his  spirit  proud, 
Convulsive  heaved  itschecker'd  shroud. 
While  every  sob  —  so  mute  were  all  — ■ 
Was  heard  distinctly  through  the  hall. 
The  son's  despair,  the  mother's  look, 
111  might  the  gentle  Ellen  brook; 
She  rose,  and  to  her  side  there  came. 
To  aid  her  parting  steps,  the  Grsemc. 


XXXIV. 

Then  Roderick  from  the  Douglas  broke  — 
As  flashes  flame  through  sable  smoke. 
Kindling  its  wreaths,  long,  dark,  and  low, 
To  one  broad  blaze  of  ruddy  glow. 
So  the  deep  anguish  of  despair 
Burst,  in  fierce  jealousy,  to  air. 
With  stalwart  grasp  his  hand  he  laid 
On  Malcolm's  breast  and  belted  plaid:  — 
"  Back,  beardless  boy  !  "  he  sternly  said, 
"Back,    minion!    hold'st    thou    thus   at 

naught 
The  lesson  I  so  lately  taught? 


I 


This  roof,  the  Douglas,  and  that  maid, 
Thank  thou  for  punishment  delay "d." 
F^ager  as  greyhound  on  his  game. 
Fiercely  with  Roderick  grappled  Graeme. 
"  Perish  my  name,  if  aught  afford 
Its  Chieftain  safety  save  his  sword  !  " 
Thus,  as  they  strove,  their  desperate  hand 
Griped  to  the  dagger  or  the  brand. 
And  death  had  been  —  but  Douglas  rose. 
And  thrust  V)etween  the  struggling  foes 
His  giant  strength:  —  "Chieftains,  fore- 
go! 
I  hold  the  first  who  strikes,  my  foe. — 
Madmen,  forbear  your  frantic  jar  ! 
What !  is  the  Douglas  fall'n  so  far. 
His  daughter's  hand  is  deem'd  the  spoil 
Of  such  dishonorable  broil !  " 
Sullen  and  slowly  they  unclasp. 
As   struck  with   shame,   their    desperate 

grasp. 
And  each  upon  his  rival  glared. 
With  foot  advanced,  and  blade  half-bared. 


Ere  yet  the  brands  aloft  were  flung, 
Margaret  on  Roderick's  mantle  hung. 
And  Malcolm  heard  his  Ellen's  scream. 
As  falter'd  through  terrific  dream. 
Then    Roderick    plunged  in   sheath  his 

sword, 
And  veil'd  his  wrath  in  scornful  word :  — 
"  Rest  safe  till  morning;  pity  'twere 
Such  cheek  should  feel  the  midnight  air  ! 
Then  mayest  thou  to  James  Stuart  tell, 
I-voderick  will  keep  the  lake  and  fell. 
Nor  lackey  with  his  freelxjrn  clan. 
The  pageant  pomp  of  earthly  man. 
More  would  he  of  Clan-Alpine  know. 
Thou    canst    our    strength    and    passes 

show.  — 
Malise,    what    ho!" — his    henchman* 

came; 
"  Give  our  safe-conduct  to  the  Graeme." 
Young  Malcolm  answer'd,  calm  and  bold, 
"  Fear  nothing  for  thy  favorite  hold; 
The  spot  an  angel  deign'd  to  grace 
Is  bless'd,  though  robbers  haunt  the  place. 
Thy  churlish  courtesy  for  those 
Reserve,  who  fear  to  be  thy  foes. 

*  A  henchman  was  the  confidential  attendant 
or  Rilly  of  a  chief.  His  standing  behind  his  lord 
at  festivals  originated  the  name  of  haunchman 
or  henchman. 


142 


THE  LADY  OF   THE  LAKE. 


Canto  IF 


As  safe  to  me  the  mountain  way 
At  midnight  as  in  blaze  of  day. 
Though  with  his  boldest  at  his  Ijack 
Even  Roderick  Dhu  beset  the  track.  — 
Brave  Douglas,  —  lovely  Ellen,  — nay, 
Naught  here  of  parting  will  I  say. 
Earth  does  not  hold  a  lonesome  glen, 
So  secret,  but  we  meet  agen.  — 
Chieftain  !  we  too  shall  find  an  hour.'" 
He  said,  and  left  the  sylvan  bower. 

Old  Allan  follow'd  to  the  strand, 
(Such  was  the  Douglas's  command,) 
And  anxious  told,  how,  on  the  morn. 
The  stern  Sir  Roderick  deep  had  sworn, 
The  Fiery  Cross  should  circle  o'er 
Dale,     glen,     and     valley,    down,     and 

moor. 
Much  were  the  peril  to  the  Graeme, 
From  those  who  to  the  signal  came; 
Far  up  the  lake  'twere  safest  land. 
Himself  would  row  him  to  the  strand. 
He  gave  his  counsel  to  the  wind. 
While  Malcolm  did,  unheeding,  bind, 
Round  dirk  and  pouch  and  broadsword 

rolPd, 
His  ample  plaid  in  tighten'd  fold. 
And  stripp'd  his  limVjs  to  such  an  ay. 
As  best  might  suit  the  watery  way,  — 


Then  spoke  abrupt:  "  Farewell  to  thee. 
Pattern  of  old  fidelity !  " 
The  Minstrel's  hand  he  kindly  press 'd,  — 
"  O  !  could  I  point  a  place  of  rest ! 
My  sovereign  holds  in  ward  my  land. 
My  uncle  leads  my  vassal  band ; 
To  tame  his  foes,  his  friends  to  aid. 
Poor  Malcolm  has  but  heart  and  blade. 
Yet,  if  there  be  one  faithful  Grjeme, 
Who  loves  the  Chieftain  of  his  name. 
Not  long  shall  honor'd  Douglas  dwell. 
Like  hunted  stag  in  mountain  cell; 
Nor,  ere  yon  pride-swoll'n  robber  dare  — 
I  may  not  give  the  rest  to  air ! 
Tell  Roderick  Dhu,  I  owe  him  naught. 
Not  the  poor  service  of  a  boat. 
To  waft  me  to  yon  mountain-side." 
Then  plunged  he  in  the  flashing  tide. 
Bold  o'er  the  flood  his  head  he  bore, 
And  stoutly  steer'd  him  from  the  shore; 
And  Allan  strain'd  his  anxious  eye, 
Far  mid  the  lake  his  form  to  spy. 


Darkening  across  each  puny  wave. 
To  which  the  moon  her  silver  gave, 
Fast  as  the  cormorant  could  skim. 
The  swimmer  plied  each  active  limb; 
Then  landing  in  the  moonlight  dell. 
Loud  shouted  of  his  weal  to  tell. 
The  Minstrel  heard  the  far  halloo, 
And  joyful  from  the  shore  withdrew. 


CANTO  THIRD. 

THE  GATHERING. 

I. 

Time  rolls  his  ceaseless  course.    The  race 
of  yore, 
Who   danced  our    infancy  upon   their 
knee, 
And  told  our  marvelling  boyhood  legends 
store, 
Of  their   strange  ventures  happ'd   by 
land  or  sea. 
How  are   they  blotted   from  the    things 
that  be  ! 
How  few,  all  weak,  and  wither 'd  of 
their  force. 
Wait  on  the  verge  of  dark  eternity. 
Like  stranded  wrecks,  the  tide  return- 
ing hoarse. 
To  sweep  them  from  our  sight !     Time 
rolls  his  ceaseless  course. 

Yet  live  there  still  who  can  remember 
well. 
How,  when  a  mountain  chief  his  bugle 
blew. 
Both  field  and  forest,  dingle,  cliff,  and 
dell. 
And  solitary  heath,  the  signal  knew; 
And  fast   the   faithful   clan   around   him 
drew. 
What    time    the   warning     note    was 
keenly  wound, 
What  time  aloft  their  kindred  banner  flew, 
While  clamorous  war -pipes  yell'd  the 
gathering  sound. 
And  while  the  Fiery  Cross  glanced,  like 
a  meteor,  round.*^ 


The  Summer  dawn's  reflected  hue 

To  purple  changed  Loch  Katrine  blue; 


Canto  III. 


THE    GATHERING. 


143 


Mildly  and  soft  the  western  breeze 

Just    kiss'd    the    lake,    just    stirr'd    the 

trees. 
And  the  pleased  lake,  like  maiden  coy, 
Trembled  but  dimpled  not  for  joy; 
The  mountain-shadows  on  her  breast 
Were  neither  broken  nor  at  rest; 
In  bright  uncertainty  they  lie. 
Like  future  joys,  to  Fancy's  eye. 
The  water-lily  to  the  light 
Her  chalice  rear'd  of  silver  bright; 
The  doe  awoke,  and  to  the  lawn, 
Begemm'd  with  dew-drops,  led  her  fawn; 
The  gray  mist  left  the  mountain-side. 
The  torrent  show'd  its  glistening  pride; 
Invisible  in  flecked  sky. 
The  lark  sent  down  her  revelry; 
The  blackbird  and  the  speckled  thrush 
Good-morrow  gave  from  brake  and  bush; 
In  answer  coo'd  the  cushat  dove 
Her  notes  of  peace,  and  rest,  and  love. 


No  thought  of  peace,  no  thought  of  rest. 
Assuaged  the  storm  in  Roderick's  breast. 
With  sheathed  broadsword  in  his  hand. 
Abrupt  he  paced  the  islet  strand. 
And  eyed  the  rising  sun,  and  laid 
His  hand  on  his  impatient  blade. 
Beneath  a  r(jck,  his  vassals'  care 
Was  prompt  the  ritual  to  prepare, 
With  deep  and  deathful  meaning  fraught; 
For  such  Antiquity  had  taught 
Was  preface  meet,  ere  yet  abroad 
The  Cross  of  Fire  should  take  its  road. 
The  shrinking  band  stood  oft  aghast 
At  the  impatient  glance  he  cast;  — 
Such  glance  the  mountain-eagle  threw. 
As  from  the  cliffs  of  Benvenue, 
She  spread  her  dark  sails  on  the  wind. 
And,  high  in  middle  heaven,  reclined, 
With  her  broad  shadow  on  the  lake, 
Silenced  the  warljlers  of  the  brake. 


A  heap  of  wither'd  boughs  was  piled. 
Of  juniper  and  rowan  wild, 
Mingled  with  shivers  from  the  oak, 
Rent  by  the  lightning's  recent  stroke. 
Brian,  the  Hermit,  liy  it  stood. 
Barefooted,  in  his  frock  and  hood. 
His  grizzled  beard  and  matted  hair 
Obscured  a  visage  of  despair; 


His  naked  arms  and  legs,  seam'd  o'er. 
The  scars  of  frantic  penance  bore. 
That  monk,  of  savage  form  and  face,^ 
The  impending  danger  of  his  race 
Had  drawn  from  deepest  solitude, 
Far  in  Benharrow's  bosom  rude. 
Not  his  the  mien  of  Christian  priest. 
But  Druid's,  from  the  grave  released. 
Whose  harden'd  heart   and   eye   might 

brook 
On  human  sacrifice  to  look; 
And  much,  'twas  saitl,  of  heathen  lore 
Mix'd  in  the  charms  he  mutter'd  o'er. 
The  hallow'd  creed  gave  only  worse 
And  deadlier  emphasis  of  curse; 
No  peasant  sought  that  Hermit's  prayer. 
His  cave  the  pilgrim  shunn'd  with  care. 
The  eager  huntsman  knew  his  bound. 
And  in  mid  chase  call'd  off  his  hound; 
Or  if,  in  lonely  glen  or  strath, 
The  desert-dweller  met  his  path, 
He  pray'd,  and  sign'd  the  cross  between, 
While  terror  took  devotion's  mien. 


Of  Brian's  birth  strange  tales  were  told;^ 
His  mother  watch'd  a  midnight  fold. 
Built  deep  within  a  dreary  glen. 
Where  scatter'd  lay  the  bones  of  men, 
In  some  forgotten  battle  slain. 
And  bleach'd  by  drifting  wind  and  rain. 
It  might  have  tamed  a  warrior's  heart, 
To  view  such  mockery  of  his  art ! 
The  knot-grass  fetter 'd  there  the  hand, 
Which  once  could  burst  an  iron  band; 
Beneath  the  broad  and  ample  bone. 
That  buckler'd  heart  to  fear  unknown, 
A  feeble  and  a  timorous  guest. 
The  field-fare  framed  her  lowly  nest, 
There  the  slow  blind-worm  left  his  slime. 
On  the  fleet  limbs  that  mock'd  at  time; 
And  there,  too,  lay  the  leader's  skull, 
Stillwreathedwithchaplet,flush'd  and  full. 
For  heath-lx^ll  with  her  purple  bloom 
Supplied  the  bonnet  and  the  plume. 
All  night,  in  this  sad  glen,  the  maid 
Sate,  shrouded  in  her  mantle's  shade : 
—  She  said,  no  shepherd  sought  her  side. 
No  hunter's  hand  her  snood  untied. 
Yet  ne'er  again  to  braid  her  hair 
The  virgin  snood  did  Alice  wear;^ 
Gone  was  her  maiden  glee  and  sport. 
Her  maiden  girdle  al)  too  short. 


'44 


THE   I.ADV   OF   THE  LAKE. 


Canto  III. 


Nor  sought  she,  from  that  fatal  night, 
Or  holy  church  or  blessed  rite, 
But  lock'd  her  secret  in  her  breast. 
And  died  in  travail,  unconfess'd. 


Alone,  among  his  young  compeers, 
Was  Brian  from  his  infant  years ; 
A  moody  and  heart-broken  boy, 
Estran,i,'ed  from  sympathy  and  joy, 
Bearing  each  taunt  which  careless  tongue 
On  his  mysterious  lineage  flung. 
Whole  nights  he  spent  by  moonlight  pale. 
To  wood  and  stream  his  hap  to  wail, 
Till,  frantic,  he  as  truth  received 
What  of  his  birth  the  crowd  believed, 
And  sought,  in  mist  and  meteor  fire, 
To  meet  and  know  his  Phantom  Sire ! 
In  vain,  to  soothe  his  wayward  fate. 
The  cloister  oped  her  pitying  gate  ; 
In  vain,  the  learning  of  the  age 
Unclasp'd  the  sable-letter'd  page; 
Even  in  its  treasures  he  could  find 
Food  for  the  fever  of  his  mind. 
Eager  he  read  whatever  tells 
Of  magic,  cabala,  and  spells, 
And  every  dark  pursuit  allied 
To  curious  and  presumptuous  pride  ; 
Till  with  fired  brain  and  nerves  o'erstrung. 
And  heart  with  mystic  horrors  wrimg. 
Desperate  he  sought  Benharrow's  den. 
And  hid  him  from  the  haunts  of  men. 


The  desert  gave  him  visions  wild. 

Such  as  might  suit  the  Spectre's  child. 

Where  with  black  cliffs  the  torrents  toil, 

He  watch'd  the  wheeling  eddies  boil, 

Till,  from  their  foam,  his  dazzled  eyes 

Beheld  the  River  Demon  rise; 

The  mountain  mist  took  form  and  limb, 

Of  noontide  hag,  or  goblin  grim; 

The  midnight  wind  came  wild  anddremi, 

SwellM  with  the  voices  of  the  dead; 

Far  on  the  future  battle-healh 

His  eye  beheld  the  ranks  oi  death: 

Thus  the  lone  Seer,  from  mankind  hurl'd. 

Shaped  forth  a  disemlx)died  world. 

One  lingering  sympathy  of  mind 

Still  bound  him  to  the  mortal  kind; 

The  only  parent  he  could  claim 

Of  ancient  Alpine's  lineage  came. 


Late  had  he  heard,  in  prophet's  dream. 
The  fatal  Ben-Shie's  boding  screani;-'' 
Sounds,  too,  had  come  in  midnight  blast. 
Of  charging  steeds,  careering  fast 
Along  Benharrow's  shingly  side, 
Where    mortal    horsemen    ne'er    might 

ride;-^ 
The  thunderbolt  had  .split  the  pine,  — 
All  augur'd  ill  to  Alpine's  line. 
IJe  girt  his  loins,  and  came  to  show 
Tlie  signals  of  impending  woe. 
And  now  stood  prompt  to  bless  or  Iwn, 
As  bade  the  Chieftain  of  his  clan. 


'Twas  all  prepared  :  —  and  from  the  rock, 
A  goat,  the  patriarch  of  the  flock, 
Before  the  kindling  pile  was  laid, 
And  pierced  by  Roderick's  ready  blade. 
P.atient  the  sickening  victim  eyed 
The  life-blood  ebb  in  crimson  tide, 
Down  his  clogg'd  beard  and  .shaggy  limb. 
Till  darkness  glazed  his  eyeballs  dim. 
The  grisly  priest,  with  murmuring  prayer, 
A  slender  crosslet  fram'd  with  care, 
A  cubit's  length  in  measure  due; 
The  siiaft  and  linibs  were  rods  of  yew. 
Whose  parents  in  Inch-Cailliach  wave 
Their  shadows  o'er  Clan-Alpine's  grave. 
And,  answering  Lomond's  breezes  deep, 
Soothe  many  a  chieftain's  endless  sleep. 
The  Cross,  thus  form'd,he  held  on  high, 
With  wasted  hand,  and  haggard  eye. 
And  strange  and  mingled  feelings  woke, 
While  his  anathema  he  spoke :  — 


"Woe  to  the  clansman,  who  shall  view 
This  syml)ol  of  sepulchral  yew, 
Forgetful  that  its  branches  grew 
Where  weep  the  heavenstheirholiestdew, 

On  Al|)ine's  dwelling  low  ! 
Deserter  of  his  Chieftain's  trust, 
lie  ne'er  shall  mingle  with  their  dust. 
But,  from  his  sires  and  kindred  thrust, 
Each  clansman's  execration  just 

Shall  doom  him  wrath  and  woe  !  " 
He  paused; — the  word  the  vassals  took, 
With  forward  step  and  fiery  look. 
On  high  their  naked  brands  they  shook, 
Their  clattering  targets  wildly  strook; 

And  first  in  murmur  low. 


"anto  III. 


THE    GATHERrNG. 


145 


Tlien,  like  the  billow  in  his  course, 
Tha*  far  to  seaward  finds  his  source, 
And  flings  to  shore  his  muster'd  force, 
Burst,  with  loud  roar,  their  answer  hoarse, 

"  Woe  to  the  traitor,  woe  !  " 
Ben-an's  gray  scalp  the  accents  knew. 
The  joyous  wolf  from  covert  drew. 
The  exulting  eagle  scream'd  afar, — 
They  knew  the  voice  of  Alpine's  war. 


The  shout  was  hush'd  on  lake  and  fell. 
The  Monk  resumed  his  mutter'd  spell : 
Dismal  and  low  its  accent  came. 
The   while   he   scathed   the   Cross  with 

flame. 
And  the  few  words  that  reach'd  the  air, 
Although  the  holiest  name  was  there, 
Had  more  of  blasphemy  than  prayer. 
But  when  he  shook  above  the  crowd 
Its  kindled  points,  he  spoke  aloud: — 
"  Woe  to  the  wretch  who  fails  to  rear 
At  this  dread  sign  the  ready  spear ! 
For,  as  the  flames  this  symbol  sear, 
His  home,  the  refuge  of  his  fear, 
A  kindred  fate  shall  know; 
Far  o'er  its  roof  the  volumed  flame 
Clan-Alpine's  vengeance  shall  proclaim, 
While  maids  and  matrons  on  his  name 
Shall  call  down  wretchedness  and  shame, 

And  infamy  and  woe." 
Then  rose  the  cry  of  females,  shrill 
As  goss-hawk's  whistle  on  the  hill, 
Denouncing  misery  and  ill. 
Mingled  with  childhood's  babbling  trill 

Of  curses  stammer'd  slow; 
Answering,  with  imprecation  dread :  — 
"  Sunk  be  his  home  in  embers  red  ! 
And  cursed  be  the  meanest  shed 
That  e'er  shall  hide  the  houseless  head. 

We  doom  to  want  and  woe  !  " 
A  sharp  and  shrieking  echo  gave, 
Coir-Uriskin,  thy  goblin  cave  ! 
And  the  gray  pass  where  birches  wave. 

On  Beala-nam-bo. 


Then  deeper  paused  the  priest  anew, 
And  hard  his  laboring  breath  he  drew. 
While,  with  set  teeth  and  clenched  hand, 
And  eyes  that  glow'd  like  fiery  brand, 
He  meditated  curse  more  dread, 
And  deadlier,  on  the  clansman's  head, 


Who,  summon'd  to  his  Chieftain's  aid, 
The  signal  saw  and  disobey'd. 
The  crosslet's  points  of  sparkling  wood. 
He  quench'd  among  the  bubbling  blood, 
And,  as  again  the  sign  he  rear'd. 
Hollow  and  hoarse  his  voice  was  heard : — 
"  When  flits  this  Cross  from  man  to  man, 
Vich-Alpine's  summons  to  his  clan, 
liurst  be  the  ear  that  fails  to  heed! 
Palsied  the  foot  that  shuns  to  speed  I 
May  ravens  tear  the  careless  ^yes, 
Wolves   make    the   coward   heart  their 

prize ! 
As  sinks  that  blood-stream  in  the  earth, 
So    may  his   heart's-blood   drench    his 

hearth  I 
\s  dies  in  hissing  gore  the  spark, 
Huench  thou  his  light,  destruction  dark. 
And  be  the  grace  to  him  denied, 
liought  by  this  sign  to  all  beside ! " 
lie  ceased;  no  echo  gave  agen 
The  murmur  of  the  deep  "  Amen." 


Then  Roderick,  with  impatient  look, 
Krom  I  Irian's  hand  the  symbol  took: 
"  Speed,  Malise,  speed  !  "  he  said,  and 

gave 
The  crosslet  to  his  henchman  brave. 
"  The  muster-place  be  Lanrick  mead  — 
Instant  the  time — speed,  Malise,  speed  !" 
Like  heath-bird  when  the  hawks  pursue, 
A  barge  across  Loch  Katrine  flew; 
High,  stood  the  henchman  on  the  prow; 
So  rapidly  the  barge-men  row. 
The  bubbles, where  they  launch'd  the  boat, 
Were  all  unbroken  and  afloat. 
Dancing  in  foam  and  ripple  still. 
When  it  had  near'd  the  mainland  hill; 
And  from  the  silver  beach's  siilc 
Still  was  the  prow  three  fatliom  wide. 
When  lightly  bounded  to  the  land 
The  messenger  of  blood  and  brand. 


Speed,  Malise,  speed  !  the  dun  deer's  hide 
On  fleeter  foot  was  never  tied.'^ 
Speed,  Malise,  speed  !  such  cause  of  haste 
Thine  active  sinews  never  braced. 
Bend  'gainst  the  steepy  hill  thy  breast. 
Burst  down  like  torrent  from  its  crest; 
With  short  and  springing  footstep  pass 
The  trembling  bog  and  false  morass. 


146 


THE  LADY  OF   THE   LAKE. 


Canto  III. 


Across  the  brook  like  roebuck  bound, 
And  thread  the  brake  like  questing  hound; 
The  crag  is  high,  the  scaur  is  deep. 
Yet  shrink  not  from  the  desperate  leap : 
Parch'd  are  thy  burning  lips  and  brow, 
Yet  by  the  fountain  pause  not  now; 
Herald  of  battle,  fate,  and  fear, 
Stretch  onward  in  thy  fleet  career  ! 
The    wounded    hind    thou    track'st    not 

now, 
Pursuest    not    maid    through  greenwood 

bough, 
Nor  pliest  thou  now  thy  flying  pace, 
With  rivals  in  the  mountain  race; 
But  danger,  death,  and  warrior  deed. 
Are  in  thy  course  —  speed,  Malise,  speed  ! 


Fast  as  the  fatal  symbol  flies, 
In  arms  the  huts  and  hamlets  rise, 
From  winding  glen,  from  upland  brown. 
They  pour'd  each  hardy  tenant  down. 
Nor  slack'd  the  messenger  his  pace; 
He  show'd  the  sign,  he  named  the  place. 
And,  pressing  forward  like  the  wind, 
Left  clamor  and  surprise  behind. 
The  fisherman  forsook  the  strand. 
The  swarthy  smith  took  dirk  and  brand; 
With  changed  cheer,  the  mower  blithe 
Left  in  the  half-cut  swathe  the  scythe; 
The  herds  without  a  keeper  stray' d, 
The  plough  was  in  mid-furrow  staid, 
The  falc'ner  toss'd  his  hawk  away. 
The  hunter  left  the  stag  at  bay; 
Prompt  at  the  signal  of  alarms. 
Each  son  of  Alpine  rush'd  to  arms; 
So  swept  the  tumult  and  affray 
Along  the  margin  of  Achray. 
Alas  !  thou  lovely  lake  !  that  e'er 
Thy  banks  should  echo  sounds  of  fear  ! 
The  rocks,  the  bosky  thickets,  sleep 
So  stilly  on  thy  bosom  deep, 
The  lark's  blithe  carol,  from  the  cloud, 
Seems  for  the  scene  too  gayly  loud. 


Speed,  Malise,  speed !  the  lake  is  past, 

Duncraggan's  huts  appear  at  last. 

And  peep,  like  moss-grown  rocks,  half 

seen. 
Half  hidden  in  the  copse  so  green; 
There  may'st  thou  rest,  thy  labor  done, 
Their  Lord  shall  speed  the  signal  on.  — 


As  stoops  the  hawk  upon  his  prey, 
The  henchman  shot  him  down  the  way. 
—  What  woeful  accents  load  the  gale? 
The  funeral  yell,  the  female  wail ! 
A  gallant  hunter's  sport  is  o'er, 
A  valiant  warrior  fights  no  more. 
Who,  in  the  battle  or  the  chase. 
At  Roderick's  side  shall  fill  his  place  !  — 
Within  the  hall,  where  torches'  ray 
Supplies  the  excluded  beams  of  day, 
Lies  Duncan  on  his  lowly  bier. 
And  o'er  him  streams  his  widow's  tear. 
His  stripling  son  stands  mournful  by. 
His  youngest  weeps,  but  knows  not  why; 
The  village  maids  and  matrons  round 
The  dismal  coronach  resound.'-^ 


CORONACH. 
He  is  gone  on  the  mountain, 

He  is  lost  to  the  forest. 
Like  a  summer-dried  fountain. 

When  our  need  was  the  sorest. 
The  font,  reappearing. 

From  the  rain-drops  shall  borrow, 
But  to  us  comes  no  cheering, 

To  Duncan  no  morrow  ! 

The  hand  of  the  reaper 

Takes  the  ears  that  are  hoary, 
But  the  voice  of  the  weeper 

Wails  manhood  in  glory. 
The  autumn  winds  rushing 

Waft  the  leaves  that  are  searest. 
But  our  flower  was  in  flushing. 

When  blighting  was  nearest. 

Fleet  foot  on  the  correi,* 

Sage  counsel  in  cumber. 
Red  hand  in  the  foray. 

How  sound  is  thy  slumber ! 
Like  the  dew  on  the  mountain. 

Like  the  foam  on  the  river. 
Like  the  bubble  on  the  fountain. 

Thou  art  gone,  and  forever ! 

XVII. 
See  Stumah,t  who,  the  bier  beside. 
His  master's  corpse  with  wonder  eyed, 

*  Correi,  the  hollow  side  of  the  hill  where 
game  usually  lies. 

t  The  name  of  a  dog.  The  word  is  Celtic  for 
"faithful." 


Canto  III. 


THE    GATHERING. 


147 


Poor  Stumnh  !   whom  his  least  halloo 
Could  send  like  lightning  o'er  the  dew, 
Bristles  his  crest,  and  points  his  ears, 
As  if  some  stranger  step  he  hears. 
Tis  not  a  mourner's  muffled  tread. 
Who  comes  to  sorrow  o'er  the  dead. 
But  headlong  haste,  or  deadly  fear, 
Urge  the  precipitate  career. 
All  stand  aghast: — unheeding  all. 
The  henchman  bursts  into  the  hall; 
Before  the  dead  man's  bier  he  stood; 
HeldforththeCrossl>esmear'dwithbloo;l: 
"The  muster-place  is  Lanrick  mead; 
Speed  forth  the  signal !  clansmen, speed  !" 


Angus,  the  heir  of  Duncan's  line, 
Sprung  forth  and  seized  the  fatal  sign. 
In  haste  the  stripling  to  his  side 
His  father's  dirk  and  broadsword  tied; 
But  when  he  saw  his  mother's  eye 
Watch  him  in  speechless  agony. 
Back  to  her  open'd  arms  he  flew, 
r»ess'd  on  her  lips  a  fond  adieu  — 
"Alas  !"  shesoljb'd, — "and yet,  begone, 
And  speed  thee  forth, like  Duncan's  son  !" 
One  look  he  cast  upon  the  bier, 
Dash'd  from  his  eye  the  gathering  tear. 
Breathed  deep  to  clear  his  laboring  breast. 
And  toss'd  aloft  his  bonnet  crest. 
Then,  like  the  high-bred  colt, when, freed, 
First  he  essays  his  fire  and  speed. 
He  vanish'd,  and  o'er  moor  and  moss 
Sped  forward  with  the  Fiery  Cross. 
Suspended  was  the  widow's  tear. 
While  yet  his  footsteps  she  could  hear; 
And  when  she  niark'd  the  henchman's  eye 
Wet  with  unwonted  sympathy, 
"  Kinsman,"  she  said,  "  his  race  is  run, 
That  should  have  sped  thine  errand  on; 
The  oak  has  fall'n,  —  the  sapling  bough 
Is  all  Duncraggan's  shelter  now. 
Yet  trust  I  well,  his  duty  done. 
The  orphan's  God  will  guard  my  son.  — 
And  you,  in  many  a  danger  true, 
At  Duncan's  hest  your  blades  that  drew. 
To  arms,  and  guard  that  orphan's  head! 
Let  babes  and  women  wail  the  dead." 
Then  weapon-clang,  and  martial  call, 
Resounded  through  the  funeral  hall. 
While  from  the  walls  the  attendant  band 
Snatch'd  sword  and  targe,  with  hurried 
hand; 


And  short  and  flitting  energy 
Glanced  from  the  mourner's  sunken  eye, 
As  if  the  sounds  to  warrior  dear. 
Might  rouse  her  Duncan  from  his  bier. 
But  faded  soon  that  borrow 'd  force, 
Grief  claim'd  his  right,  and  tears  their 

course. 

XIX. 
Bcnledi  saw  the  Cross  of  Fire; 
It  glanced  like  lightning  up  Strath-Ire. 
O'er  dale  and  hill  the  summons  flew. 
Nor  rest  nor  pause  young  Angus  knew; 
The  tear  that  gather'd  in  his  eye 
He  left  the  mountain  breeze  to  dry; 
Until,  where  Teith's  young  waters  roll, 
Betwixt  him  and  a  wooded  knoll. 
That  graced  the  sable  strath  with  green. 
The  chapel  of  St.  Bride  was  seen. 
Swoln  was  the  stream,  remote  the  bridge. 
But  Angus  paused  not  on  the  edge; 
Though  the  dark  waves  danced  dizzily. 
Though  reel'd  his  sympathetic  eye. 
He  dash'd  amid  the  torrent's  roar: 
His  right  hand  high  the  crosslet  bore, 
His  left  the  pole-axe  grasp'd,  to  guide 
And  stay  his  footing  in  the  tide. 
He  stumbled  twice  —  the  foam  splash'd 

high. 
With  hoarser  swell  the  stream  raced  by; 
And  had  he  fall'n,  —  forever  there. 
Farewell  Duncraggan's  orphan  heir  ! 
But  still,  as  if  in  parting  life, 
Firmer  he  grasp'd  the  Cross  of  strife. 
Until  the  opposing  bank  he  gain'd. 
And  up  the  chapel  pathway  strain'd. 


A  blithesome  rout,  that  morning  tide. 
Had  sought  the  chapel  of  St.  Bride. 
Her  troth  Tombea's  Mary  gave 
To  Norman,  heir  of  Armandave, 
And,  issuing  from  the  Gothic  arch. 
The  bridal  now  resumed  their  march. 
In  rude,  but  glad  procession,  came 
Bonneted  sire  and  coif-clad  dame; 
And  plaided  youth,  with  jest  and  jeer. 
Which  snooded  maiden  would  not  hear; 
And  children,  that,  unwitting  why. 
Lent  the  gay  shout  their  shrilly  cry; 
And  minstrels,  that  in  measures  vied 
Before  the  young  and  bonny  bride. 
Whose  downcast  eye  and  cheek  disclose 
The  tear  and  blush  of  morning  rose 


148 


THE   LADY   OF   THE   LAKE. 


Canto  III. 


With  virgin  step,  and  bashful  hand, 
She  held  the  'kerchief's  snowy  band; 
The  gallant  bridegroom  by  her  side, 
Beheld  his  prize  with  victor's  pride, 
And  the  glad  mother  in  her  ear 
Was  closely  whispering  word  of  cheer. 


Who  meets  them  at  the  churchyard  gate? 
'i'lie  messenger  of  fear  and  fate ! 
Haste  in  his  hurried  accent  lies. 
And  grief  is  swimming  in  his  eyes. 
All  dripping  from  the  recent  flood, 
I'anting  and  travel-soil'd  he  stood, 
The  fatal  sign  of  fire  and  sword 
Held    forth,    and   spoke  the    appointed 

word:  — 
"  The  muster-place  is  I>anrick  mead; 
•Speed  forth  the  signal !  Norman,  speed  !  " 
And  must  he  change  so  soon  the  hand. 
Just  link'd  to  his  by  holy  band, 
For  the  fell  Cross  of  blood  and  brand? 
And  must  the  day,  so  blithe  that  rose. 
And  promised  rapture  in  the  close. 
Before  its  setting  hour,  divide 
The  bridegroom  from  the  plighted  bride? 
O  fatal  doom  !  —  it  must !  it  must ! 
Clan-Alpine's  cause,  her  Chieftain's  trust, 
Her  summons  dread,  brook  no  delay; 
Stretch  to  the  race  —  away  I  away ! 


Yet  slow  he  laid  his  plaid  aside. 
And,  lingering,  eyed  his  lovely  bride. 
Until  he  saw  the  starting  tear 
Speak  woe  he  might  not  stop  to  cheer; 
Then,  trusting  not  a  second  look, 
In  haste  he  sped  him  up  the  brook. 
Nor  backward  glanced,  till  on  the  heath 
Where  Lubnaig's  lake  supplies  the  Teith. 
— -What  in  the  racer's  lx)som  stirr'd? 
The  sickening  pang  of  hope  deferr'd, 
.•\nd  memory,  with  a  torturing  train 
Of  all  his  morning  visions  vain. 
Mingled  with  love's  impatience,  came 
The  manly  thirst  for  martial  fame; 
The  stormy  joy  of  mountaineers. 
Ere  yet  they  rush  upon  the  spears; 
And  zeal  for  Clan  and  Chieftain  burning, 
And  hope,  from  well-fought  field  return- 
ing. 
With  war's  red  honors  on  his  crest, 
To  clasp  his  Mary  to  his  breast. 


Stung  by  such  thoughts,  o'er  bank  and 

brae, 
Like  fire  from  flint  he  glanced  away, 
While  high  resolve,  antl  feeling  strong. 
Burst  into  voluntary  song. 


The  heath  this  night  must  be  my  bed, 
The  bracken*  curtain  for  my  head. 
My  lullaby  the  warder's  tread. 

Far,  far  from  love  and  thee,  Mary; 
To-morrow  eve,  more  stilly  laid, 
My  couch  may  be  my  bloody  plaid, 
My  vesper  song,  thy  wail,  sweet  maid! 

It  will  not  waken  me,  Mary  ! 
I  may  not,  dare  not,  fancy  now 
The  grief  that  clouds  thy  lovely  brow; 
I  dare  not  think  upon  thy  vow. 

And  all  it  promised  me,  Mr.ry. 
No  fond  regret  must  Norman  know; 
When  bursts  Clan-Alpine  on  the  foe. 
His  heart  must  be  like  bended  bow, 

His  foot  like  arrow  free,  Mary. 

A  time  will  come  with  feeling  fraught, 
For,  if  I  fall  in  battle  fought. 
Thy  hapless  lover's  dying  thought 

Shall  be  a  thought  on  thee,  Mary. 
And  if  return'd  from  conquer'd  foes. 
How  blithely  will  the  evening  close. 
How  sweet  the  linnet  sing  repose, 

To  my  young  bride  and  me,  Mary  ! 


Not  faster  o'er  thy  heathery  braes, 
Balquidder,  speeds  the  midnight  blaze,** 
Rushing,  in  conflagration  strong. 
Thy  deep  ravines  and  dells  along. 
Wrapping  thy  cliffs  in  purple  glow. 
And  reddening  the  dark  lakes  below; 
Nor  faster  speeds  it,  nor  so  far, 
As  o'er  thy  heaths  the  voice  of  war. 
The  signal  roused  to  martial  coil 
The  suUen  margin  of  Loch  Voil, 
Waked   still    Loch   Doine,    and    to   the 

source 
Alarm'd,  Balvaig,  thy  swampy  course; 
Thence  southward  turn'd  its  rapid  road 
Adown  Strath-Gartney's  valley  broad, 

•  Fem. 


Canto  III. 


THE    GATHERING. 


14$ 


Till  rose  in  arms  each  man  might  claim 
A  portion  in  Clan-Alpine's  name, 
From  the  gray  sire,  whose  trembling  hand 
Could  hardly  buckle  on  his  brand, 
To  the  raw  boy,  whose  shaft  and  bow 
Were  yet  scarce  terror  to  the  crow. 
Kach  valley,  each  scquester'd  glen, 
Mustor'd  its  little  horde  of  men, 
That  met  as  torrents  from  the  height 
In  Highland  dales  their  streams  unite, 
Still  gathering,  as  they  pour  along; 
A  voice  more  loud,  a  tide  more  strong. 
Till  at  tlie  rendezvous  they  stood. 
By  inindrcds,  prompt  for  blows  and  blood; 
Kach  trainM  to  arms  since  life  began, 
Owning  no  tie  but  to  his  clan. 
No  oath,  but  by  his  Chieftain's  hand. 
No  law,  but  Roderick  Dhu's  command. 

XXV. 

That  summer  morn  had  Roderick  Dhu 
.Survcy'd  the  skirts  of  Kenvenue, 
And  sent  his  scouts  o'er  hill  and  heath. 
To  view  the  frontiers  of  MeiUeith. 
All  backward  came  with  news  of  truce; 
Still  lay  each  martial  Graeme  and  Bruce, 
In  Rednock  courts  no  horsemen  wait. 
No  banner  waved  on  Cardross  gate. 
On  Duchray's  towers  no  beacon  shone. 
Nor  scared  the  herons  from  Loch  Con; 
All  seem'd  at  peace.  — Now,  wot  ye  why 
The  chieftain,  with  such  anxious  eye. 
Ere  to  the  muster  he  repair. 
This     western     frontier     scann'd     with 

care  ?  — 
In  Bcnvenue's  most  darksome  cleft, 
A  fair,  though  cruel,  pledge  was  left; 
For  Douglas,  to  his  jiromise  true. 
That  morning  from  the  isle  withdrew, 
And  in  a  deep  sequester'd  dell 
Had  sought  a  low  and  lonely  cell. 
By  many  a  bard,  in  Celtic  tongue, 
Has  Coir-nan-Uriskin  been  sung;  ^^ 
A  softer  name  the  Saxons  gave. 
And  call'd  the  grot  the  Goblin-cave. 

XXVI. 

It  was  a  wild  and  strange  retreai, 
As  e'er  was  trod  by  outlaw's  feet. 
The  dell,  upon  the  mountain's  crest, 
Yawn'd  like  a  gash  on  warrior's  breast; 
Its  trench  had  staid  full  many  a  rock, 
Hurl'd  by  primeval  earthquake  shock 


From  Benvenue's  gray  summit  wild, 
And  here,  in  random  ruin  piled. 
They  frown'd  incumbent  o'er  the  spot, 
And  form'd  the  rugged  sylvan  grot. 
The  oak  and  birch,  with  mingled  shade. 
At  noontide  there  a  twilight  made. 
Unless  when  short  and  sudden  shone 
Some  straggling  beam  on  cliff  or  stone. 
With  such  a  glimpse  as  propTiet's  eye 
Gains  on  thy  depth.  Futurity. 
No  murmur  waked  the  solemn  still. 
Save  tinkling  of  a  fountain  rill; 
But  when  the  wind  chafed  with  the  lake, 
A  sullen  sound  would  upward  break. 
With  dashing  hollow  voice,  that  spoke 
The  incessant  war  of  wave  and  rock. 
Suspended  cliffs  with  hideous  sway 
Seem'd  nodding  o'er  the  cavern  gray. 
From  such  a  den  the  wolf  had  sprung. 
In  such  the  wild-cat  leaves  her  young; 
Yet  Douglas  and  his  daughter  fair 
Sought  for  a  space  their  safety  there. 
Gray  Superstition's  whisper  dread 
Debarr'd  the  spot  to  vulgar  tread : 
For  there,  she  said,  did  fays  resort. 
And  satyrs*  hold  their  sylvan  court. 
By  moonlight  tread  their  mystic  maze, 
And  blast  the  rash  beholder's  gaze. 


Now  eve,  with  western  shadows  long, 
Floated  on  Katrine  l)right  and  strong. 
When  Roderick,  with  a  chosen  few, 
Repass'd  the  heights  of  Benvenue. 
Alx)ve  the  Goblin-cave  they  go. 
Through  the  wild  pass  of  Beal-nam-bo: 
The  prompt  retainers  speed  before. 
To  launch  the  shallop  from  the  shore, 
For  'cross  Toch  Katrine  lies  his  way 
To  view  the  passes  of  Achray, 
And  place  his  clansmen  in  array. 
Yet  lags  the  chief  in  musing  mind, 
Unwonted  sight,  his  men  behind. 
A  single  page,  to  bear  his  sword. 
Alone  attended  on  his  lord; 
The  rest  their  w.ay  through  thickets  break, 
And  soon  await  him  by  the  lake. 
It  was  a  fair  and  gallant  sight. 
To    view    them    from    the    neighboring 
height, 

*  The  Highlanders  h.id  a  mythological  satyr 
•ailed  ID  lit. 


ISO 


THE  LADY  OF   THE  LAKE. 


Canto  III. 


By  the  low-levell'd  sunbeam's  light ! 
For  strength  and  stature,  from  the  clan 
Each  warrior  was  a  chosen  man, 
As  even  afar  might  well  be  seen. 
By  their  proud  step  and  martial  mien. 
Their  feathers  dance,  their  tartans  float, 
Their  targets  gleam,  as  by  the  Iwat 
A  wild  and  war-like  group  they  stand, 
That  well  became  such  mountain-strand. 


The  Chief,  with  step  reluctant,  still 

Was  lingering  on  the  craggy  hill, 

Hard  by  where  turn'd  apart  the  road 

To  Douglas's  obscure  abode. 

It  was  but  with  that  dawning  morn. 

That  Roderick  Dhu  had  proudly  sworn 

To  drown  his  love  in  war's  wild  roar. 

Nor  think  of  Ellen  Douglas  more; 

But  he  who  stems  a  stream  with  sand, 

And  fetters  flame  with  flaxen  band, 

Has  yet  a  harder  task  to  prove  — 

By  firm  resolve  to  conquer  love ! 

Eve  finds  the  Chief,  like  restless  ghost, 

Still  hovering  near  his  treasure  lost; 

For  though  his  haughty  heart  deny 

A  parting  meeting  to  his  eye. 

Still  fondly  strains  his  anxious  ear, 

The  accents  of  her  voice  to  hear, 

And  inly  did  he  curse  the  breeze 

That  waked  to  sound  the  rustling  trees. 

But  hark !  what  mingles  in  the  strain  ? 

It  is  the  harp  of  Allan-Bane, 

That  wakes  its  measure  slow  and  high. 

Attuned  to  sacred  minstrelsy. 

What  melting  voice  attends  the  strings? 

'Tis  Ellen,  or  an  angel,  sings. 

XXIX. 
HYMN    TO   THE    VIRGIN. 

Ave  Maria  !  maiden  mild  ! 

Listen  to  a  maiden's  prayer ! 
Thou  canst  hear  though  from  the  wild. 

Thou  canst  save  amid  despair. 
Safe  may  we  sleep  beneath  thy  care. 

Though  banish'd,  outcast,  and  reviled, 
Maiden  !  hear  a  maiden's  prayer; 

Mother,  hear  a  suppliant  child  ! 

Ave  Maria  ! 
Ave  Maria  !  undefiled ! 

The  flinty  couch  we  now  must  share 
Shall  seem  with  down  of  eider  piled. 

If  thy  protection  hover  there. 


The  murky  cavern's  heavy  air 

Shall    breathe   of   balm    if    thou  hast 
smiled; 
Then,  Maiden  !  hear  a  maiden's  prayer; 

Mother,  list  a  suppliant  child  ! 

Ave  Maria  ! 
Ave  Maria  !  stainless  styled  ! 

Foul  demons  of  the  earth  and  air. 
From  this  their  wanton  haunt  exiled. 

Shall  flee  before  thy  presence  fair. 
We  bow  us  to  our  lot  of  care, 

Beneath  thy  guidance  reconciled; 
Hear  for  a  maid  a  maiden's  prayer. 

And  for  a  father  hear  a  child  ! 

Ave  Maria  ! 


Died  on  the  harp  the  closing  hymn.  — 
Unmoved  in  attitude  and  limb. 
As  list'ning  still,  Clan-Alpine's  lord 
Stood  leaning  on  his  heavy  sword, 
Until  the  page,  with  humble  sign. 
Twice  pointed  to  the  sun's  decline. 
Then  while  his  plaid  he  round  him  cast, 
"  It  is  the  last  time —  'tis  the  last," 
He    mutter'd  thrice,  —  "  the    last   time 

e'er 
That  angel  voice  shall  Roderick  hear  ! " 
It  was  a  goading  thought  —  his  stride 
Hied  hastier  down  the  mountain-side; 
Sullen  he  flung  him  in  the  boat, 
And  instant  'cross  the  lake  it  shot. 
They  landed  in  that  silver)'  bay. 
And  eastward  held  their  hasty  way, 
Till  with  the  latest  beams  of  light. 
The  band  arrived  on  Lanrick  height, 
Where  muster'd,  in  the  vale  below, 
Clan-Alpine's  men  in  martial  show 


A  various  scene  the  clansmen  made; 
Some    sate,    some    stood,    some   slowly 

stray'd; 
But  most  with  mantles  folded  round. 
Were  couch'd  to  rest  upon  the  ground. 
Scarce  to  be  known  by  curious  eye, 
From  the  deep  heather  where  they  lie. 
So  well  was  match'd  the  tartan  screen 
With  heath-bell  dark  and  brackens  green; 
Unless  where,  here  and  there,  a  blade. 
Or  lance's  point,  a  glimmer  made, 
Like  glow-worm  twinkling   through  the 

shade. 


Canto  IV. 


THE  PROPHECY. 


IS» 


But  when,  advancing  through  the  gloom, 
They  saw  the  Chieftain's  eagle-plume. 
Their  shout  of  welcome,  shrill  and  wide. 
Shook  the  steep  mountain's  steady  side. 
Thrice  it  arose,  and  lake  and  fell 
Three  times  return'd  the  martial  yell; 
It  died  upon  Bochastle's  plain, 
And  Silence  claim'd  her  evening  reign. 


CANTO   FOURTH. 

THE    PROPHECY. 
I. 

"  The  rose  is  fairest  when  'tis  budding 

new, 
And  hope  is  brightest  when  it  dawns 

from  fears; 
The  rose  is  sweetest  wash'd  with  morn- 
ing dew. 
And  love  is  loveliest  when  embalm'd  in 

tears. 
O  wilding  rose,  whom  fancy  thus  endears, 
I    bid    your    blossoms    in    my    bonnet 

wave. 
Emblem  of  hope  and  love  through  future 

years ! " 
Thus   spoke  young   Norman,   heir  of 

Armandave, 
What  time  the  sun  arose  on  Vennachar's 

broad  wave. 

II. 

Such  fond  conceit,  half  said,  half  5ung, 
Love     prompted     to    the    bridegroom's 

tongue. 
All  while  he  stripp'd  the  wild-rose  spray. 
His  axe  and  bow  beside  him  lay. 
For  on  a  pass  'twixt  lake  and  wood, 
A  wakeful  sentinel  he  stood. 
Hark !  on  the  rock  a  footstep  rung, 
And  instant  to  his  arms  he  sprung. 
"  Stand,  or  thou  diest !  —  What,  Malise? 

—  soon 
Art  thou  return'd  from  Braes  of  Doune. 
By  thy  keen  step  and  glance  I  know. 
Thou  bring'st  us  tidings  of  the  foe,"  — 
(For  while  the  Fiery  Cross  hied  on. 
On  distant  scout  had  Malise  gone.) 
"  Where  sleeps  the  Chief?"  the  hench- 
man said.  — 
"  Apart,  in  yonder  misty  glade*. 


To  his  lone  couch  I'll  be  your  guide."  — 
Then  call'd  a  slumberer  by  his  side, 
And  stirr'd  him  with  his  slacken'd  bow  — 
"  Up,  up,  Glentarkin !  rouse  thee,  ho! 
We  seek  the  Chieftain;    on  the  track. 
Keep  eagle  watch  till  I  come  back." 


Together  up  the  pass  they  sped: 
' '  What  of  the  f  oemen  ?  "  Norman  said.  — 
"  Varying  reports  from  near  and  far; 
This  certain  —  that  a  band  of  war 
Has  for  two  days  been  ready  boune, 
At  prompt    command,    to   march    from 

Doune ; 
King   James,    the   while   with   princely 

powers. 
Holds  revelry  in  Stirling  towers. 
Soon  will  this  dark  and  gathering  cloud 
Speak  on  our  glens  in  thunder  loud. 
Inured  to  bide  such  bitter  bout, 
The  warrior's  plaid  may  bear  it  out; 
But,  Norman,  how  wilt  thou  provide 
A  shelter  for  thy  bonny  bride?  " 
"  What !  know  ye  not   that   Roderick's 

care 
To  the  lone  isle  hath  caused  repair 
Each  maid  and  matron  of  the  clan. 
And  every  child  and  aged  man 
Unfit  for  arms;    and  given  his  charge. 
Nor  skiff  nor  shallop,  boat  nor  barge. 
Upon  these  lakes  shall  float  at  large, 
But  all  beside  the  islet  moor. 
That  such  dear  pledge  may  rest  secure  ?  " 


"  'Tis  well  advised — the  Chieftain's  plan 

Bespeaks  the  father  of  his  clan. 

But  wherefore  sleeps  Sir  Roderick  Dhu 

Apart  from  all  his  followers  true?"  — 

"  It  is  because  last  evening-tide 

Brian  an  augury  hath  tried. 

Of  that  dread  kind  which  must  not  be 

Unless  in  dread  extremity. 

The  Taghairm  call'd;   by  which,  afar, 

Our  sires  foresaw  the  events  of  war.*^ 

Duncraggan's  milk-white  bull  theyslew.'' 


"  Ah  !  well  the  gallant  brute  I  knew  ! 
The  choicest  of  the  prey  we  had. 
When  swept  our  merry-men  Gallangad. 


152 


THE   LADY   OF   THE   LAKE. 


Canto  IV. 


His  hide  was  snow,  his  horns  were  dark, 
His  red  eye  glow'd  Hke  fiery  spark; 
So  fierce,  so  tameless,  and  so  fleet, 
Sore  did  he  cumber  our  retreat. 
And  kept  our  stoutest  kernes  in  awe, 
Even  at  the  pass  of  Beal  'maha. 
But  steep  and  flinty  was  the  road, 
And  sharp  tiie  hurrying  pikemen's  goad. 
And  when  we  came  to  Dennan's  Row, 
A  chikLmijiht  scatheless  stroke  his  brow." 


"That  bull  was  slain:   his  recking  hide 
They  stretch'd  the  cataract  Ijeside, 
Whose  waters  their  wild  tumult  toss 
Adown  the  black  and  craggy  boss 
Of  that  huge  cliff,  whose  ample  verge 
Tradition  calls  the  Hero's  Targe. ^^ 
Couch'd  on  a  shelve  beneath  its  l)rink. 
Close  where  the  thundering  torrents  sink. 
Rocking  beneath  their  headlong  sway. 
And  drizzled  by  the  ceaseless  spray. 
Midst  groan  of  rock,  and  roar  of  stream, 
The  wizard  waits  prophetic  dream. 
Nor  distant  rests  the  Chief;  —  but  hush  ! 
See,  gliding  slow  through  mist  and  bush, 
The  hermit  gains  yon  rock,  and  stands 
To  gaze  upon  our  slumbering  bauds. 
Seems  he  not,  Malise,  like  a  ghost. 
That  hovers  o'er  a  slaughter'd  host? 
Or  raven  on  the  V>lastcd  oak, 
That,  watching  while  the  deer  is  broke. 
His  morsel  claims  with  sullen  croak?  " 


"  Peace  !   peace  !  to  other  than  to  me. 
Thy  words  were  evil  augury; 
But  still  I  hold  Sir  Roderick's  blade 
Clan-Alpine's  omen  and  her  aid. 
Not  aught  that,  glean 'd  from  heaven  or  hell, 
Yon  fiend-begotten  monk  can  tell. 
The  Chieftain  joins  him,  see  —  and  now, 
Together  they  descend  the  brow." 


And  as  they  came,  with  Alpine's  Lord 
The  Hermit  Monk  held  solemn  word :  — 
"  Roderick  !   it  is  a  fearful  strife. 
For  man  endow'd  with  mortal  life. 
Whose  shroud  of  sentient  clay  can  still 
Feel  feverish  pang  and  fainting  chill. 


Whose  eye  can  stare  in  stony  trance, 

Whose  hair  can  rouse  like  warrior's  lance, 

'Tis  hard  for  such  to  view  unfurl'd 

The  curtain  of  the  future  world. 

Yet,  witness  every  quaking  limb, 

My  sunken  pulse,  my  eyeballs  dim. 

My  soul  with  harrowing  anguish  toruj  — 

This  for  my  Chieftain  have  I  liorne !  — 

The  shapes  that  sought  my  fearful  couch, 

A  human  tongue  may  ne'er  avouch; 

No  mortal  man,- — save  he,  who,  bred 

Between  the  living  and  the  dead. 

Is  gifted  beyond  nature's  law,  — 

Had  e'er  survived  to  say  he  saw. 

At  length  the  fatal  answer  came, 

In  characters  of  living  flame  ! 

Not  spoke  in  word,  nor  blazed  in  scroll, 

But  borne  and  branded  on  my  soul;  — 

Which  spills  the  forkmost  i-oeman's 

LIFE, 

That      party     conquers     in      the 
strife!  "  ** 


"  Thanks,  Brian,  for  thy  zeal  and  care  ! 
Good  is  thine  augury,  and  fair. 
Clan-Alpine  ne'er  in  battle  stood. 
But  first  our  broadswords  tasted  blood. 
A  surer  victim  still  I  know, 
Self-offer'd  to  the  auspicious  blow; 
A  spy  has  sought  my  land  this  morn,  — 
No  eve  shall  witness  his  return  ! 
My  followers  guard  each  pass's  mouth, 
To  east,  to  westward,  and  to  south; 
Red  Murdoch,  bribed  to  be  his  guide, 
Has  charge  to  lead  his  steps  aside, 
Till,  in  deep  path  or  dingle  brown, 
He  light  on  those  shall  bring  him  liown. 
—  But  see,  who  comes  his  news  to  show  ! 
Malise  !  what  tidings  of  the  foe?  "  — 


"  At  Doune,  o'er  many  a  spear  and  glaive 

Two  Barons  proud  their  banners  wave. 

I  saw  the  Moray's  silver  star, 

And  mark'd  the  sable  pale  of  Mar."  — 

"  By  Alpine's  soul,  high  tidings  those  ! 

I  love  to  hear  of  worthy  foes. 

When  move  they  on?  "  —  "To-morrow's 

noon 
Will  see  them  here  for  battle  boune."  *  — 

*  Ready. 


Canto  IV. 


THE   PROPHECY. 


151 


"  Then  shall  it  see  a  meeting  stern  !  — 
But,  for  the  place — say,  coukist  thou  learn 
Naught  of  the  friendly  clans  of  Earn? 
Strengthen'd  by  them,  we  well  might  bide 
The  battle  on  Benledi's  side. 
Thou  couldst  not  ?  — Well !  Clan-Alpine's 

men 
Shall  man  the  Trosachs'  shaggy  glen; 
Within  Loch  Katrine's  gorge  we'll  fight. 
All  in  our  maids'  and  matrons'  sight. 
Each  for  his  hearth  and  household  fire, 
Father  for  child,  and  son  for  sire,  — 
Lover  for  maid  beloved !  —  But  why  — 
Is  it  the  breeze  affects  mine  eye? 
Or  dost  thou  come,  ill-omcn'd  tear  ! 
A  messenger  of  doubt  or  fear? 
No !  sooner  may  the  Saxon  lance 
Unfix  Benledi  from  his  stance. 
Than  doubt  or  terror  can  pierce  through 
The  unyielding  heart  of  Roderick  Dhu  ! 
'Tis  stubborn  as  his  trusty  targe.  — 
Eachtohispost ! — all  know  their  charge." 
The  pibroch  sounds,  the  bands  advance, 
The    broadswords    gleam,    the    banners 

dance, 
Ol^edient  to  the  Chieftain's  glance. 
—  I  turn  me  from  the  martial  roar. 
And  seek  Coir-Uriskin  once  more. 


Where  is  the  Douglas?  —  he  is  gone; 
And  Ellen  sits  on  the  gray  stone 
Fast  l)y  the  cave,  and  makes  her  moan; 
While  vainly  Allan's  words  of  cheer 
Are  pour'd  on  her  unheeding  ear.  — 
"  He  will  return  —  Dear  lady,  trust !  — 
With  joy  return;  — he  will  —  he  must. 
Well  was  it  time  to  seek,  afar. 
Some  refuge  from  impending  war. 
When  e'en  Clan-Alpine's  rugged  swarm 
Are  cow'd  by  the  approaching  storm. 
I  saw  their  boats  with  many  a  light, 
Floating  the  livelong  yesternight, 
.Shifting  like  flashes  darted  forth 
By  the  red  streamers  of  the  north; 
I  mark'd  at  morn  how  close  they  ride, 
Thick  moor'd  by  the  lone  islet's  side. 
Like  wild-ducks  couching  in  the  fen, 
When  stoops  the  hawk  upon  the  glen. 
Since  this  rude  race  dare  not  abide 
The  peril  on  the  mainland  side, 
Shall  not  thy  noble  father's  care 
Some  safe  retreat  for  thee  prepare?  "  — 


"  No,  Allan,  no !   Pretext  so  kind 
My  wakeful  terrors  could  not  blind. 
When  in  such  tender  tone,  yet  grave, 
Douglas  a  parting  blessing  gave. 
The  tear  that  glisten'd  in  his  eye 
Drown'd  not  his  purpose  fix'd  on  high. 
My  soul,  though  feminine  and  weak, 
Can  image  his;    e'en  as  the  lake, 
Itself  disturbed  by  slightest  stroke, 
Reflects  the  invulnerable  rock. 
He  hears  report  of  battle  rife. 
He  deems  himself  the  cause  of  strife. 
I  saw  him  redden,  when  the  theme 
Turn'd,  Allan,  on  thine  idle  dream. 
Of  Malcolm  Grieme,  in  fetters  bound. 
Which  I,  thou  saidst,  about  him  wound. 
Think'st    thou    he    trow'd     thine    omen 

aught  ? 
Oh  no  !  'twas  apprehensive  thought 
For  the  kind  youth,  —  for  Roderick  too — 
(Let  me  be  just)  that  friend  so  true; 
In  danger  both,  and  in  our  cause ! 
Minstrel,  the  Douglas  dare  not  pause. 
Why  else  that  solemn  warning  given, 
'  If  not  on  earth,  we  meet  in  heaven  !  ' 
Why  else,  to  Cambuskenneth's  fane. 
If  eve  return  him  not  again, 
Am  I  to  hie,  and  make  me  known? 
Alas  !  he  goes  to  Scotland's  throne. 
Buys  his  friend's  safety  with  his  own;  — 
He  goes  to  do  —  what  I  had  done. 
Had  Douglas'  daughter  been  his  son  !  " 


"Nay,  lovely  Ellen  !  — dearest,  nay! 
If  aught  should  his  return  delay, 
He  only  named  yon  holy  fane 
As  fitting  place  to  meet  again. 
Be  sure  he's  safe;   and  for  the  Graeme,- 
Heaven's  blessing  on  his  gallant  name  ! 
My  vision'd  sight  may  yet  prove  true. 
Nor  bode  of  ill  to  him  or  you. 
When  did  my  gifted  dream  beguile? 
Think  of  the  stranger  at  the  isle, 
And  think  upon  the  harpings  slow. 
That  presaged  this  approaching  woe? 
Sooth  was  my  prophecy  of  fear; 
Believe  it  when  it  augurs  cheer. 
Would  we  had  left  this  dismal  spot ! 
Ill  luck  still  haunts  a  fairy  grot. 


154 


THE  LADY   OF   THE  LAKE. 


Canto  IV. 


Of  such  a  wondrous  tale  I  know  — 
Dear  lady,  change  that  look  of  woe, 
My  harp  was  wont  thy  grief  tocheer. 


"  Well,  be  it  as  thou  wilt;   I  hear, 
But  cannot  stop  the  bursting  tear." 
The  Minstrel  tried  his  simple  art, 
But  distant  far  was  Ellen's  heart. 


BALLAD. 

Alice  Brand. 

Merry  it  is  in  the  good  greenwood, 
Where    the    mavis  *  and   merle  t    are 
singing. 
When  the  deer  sweeps  by,  and  the  hounds 
are  in  cry, 
And  the  hunter's  horn  is  ringing. 

"  O  Alice  Brand,  my  native  land 

Is  lost  for  love  of  you; 
And  we  must  hold  by  wood  and  wold. 

As  outlaws  wont  to  do. 

"  O  Alice,  'twas  all  for  thy  locks  so  bright, 
And  'twas  all  for  thine  eyes  so  blue, 

Tliat  on  the  night  of  our  luckless  flight. 
Thy  brother  bold  I  slew. 

"  Now  must  I  teach  to  hew  the  beech 
The  hand  that  held  the  glaive. 

For  leaves  to  spread  our  lowly  bed, 
And  stakes  to  fence  our  cave. 

"  And  for  vest  of  pall,  thy  fingers  small, 

That  wont  on  harp  to  stray, 
A  cloak  must  sheer  from  the  slaughter'd 
deer. 

To  keep  the  cold  away."  — 

"  O  Richard  !    if  my  brother  died, 

'Twas  but  a  fatal  chance. 
For  darkling  was  the  battle  tried, 

And  fortune  sped  the  lance. 

"  If  pall  and  vair  no  more  I  wear. 

Nor  thou  the  crimson  sheen. 
As  warm,  we'll  say,  is  the  russet  gray. 

As  gay  the  forest  green. 

*  Mavis y  a  thrush. 
t  Alerle,  a  blackbird. 


"  And,  Richard,  if  our  lot  be  hard, 

And  lost  thy  native  land. 
Still  Alice  has  her  own  Richard, 

And  he  his  Alice  Brand." 

xin. 

BALLAD   CONTINUED. 
'Tis  merry,  'tis  merry,  in  good  greenwood. 

So  blithe  Lady  Alice  is  singing; 
On  thebeech's  pride,  and  oak 'sbrownside. 

Lord  Richard's  axe  is  ringing. 

Up  spoke  the  moody  Elfin  King, 
Who  wonn'd  within  the  hill, — 

Like  wind  in  the  porch  of  a  ruin'd  church. 
His  voice  was  ghostly  shrill. 

'  'Why  sounds  yon  stroke  on  beech  and  oak , 
Our  moonlit  circle's  screen? 

Or  who  comes  here  to  chase  the  deer. 
Beloved  of  our  Elfin  Queen?  ^•'' 

Or  who  may  dare  on  wold  to  wear 
The  fairies'  fatal  green  ?  "** 

"Up,  Urgan,  up!  to  yon  mortal  hie. 
For  thou  wert  christen'd  man;  ^' 

For  cross  or  sign  thou  wilt  not  fly. 
For  mutter'd  word  or  ban. 

"  Lay  on  him  the  curse  of  the  wither'd 
heart. 
The  curse  of  the  sleepless  eye; 
Till  he  wish  and  pray  that  his  life  would 
part. 
Nor  yet  find  leave  to  die." 

XIV. 
BALLAD   CONTINUED. 

'Tis  merry,  'tis  merry,  in  good  greenwood, 
Though  the  birds  have  still 'd  their  sing- 

The  evening  blaze  doth  Alice  raise. 
And  Richard  is  fagots  bringing. 

Up  Urgan  starts,  that  hideous  dwarf 

Before  Lord  Richard  stands, 
And,  as  he  cross'd  and  bless'd  himself, 
"  I  fear  not  sign,"  quoth  the  grisly  elf, 

"  That  is  made  with  bloody  hands." 

But  out  then  spoke  she,  Alice  Brand, 

That  woman  void  of  fear,  — 
"  And  if  there's  blood  upon  his  hand, 

'Tis  but  the  blood  of  deer."  — 


Tanto  IV. 


THE  PROPHECY. 


155 


"  Now  loud  thou  liest,  thou  bold  of  mood  ! 

It  cleaves  unto  his  hand, 
The  stain  of  thine  own  kindly  blood, 

The  blood  of  Ethert  Brand." 

Then  forward  stepp'd  she,  Alice  Brand, 

And  made  the  holy  sign, — 
"  And  if  there's  blood  on  Richard's  hand, 

A  spotless  hand  is  mine. 

"  And  I  conjure  thee,  thou  Demon  elf. 
By  Him  whom  Demons  fear, 

I'o  show  us  whence  thou  art  thyself, 
And  what  thine  errand  here?"  — 


BALLAD   CONTLNUED. 

"  'Tis  merry,  'tis  merry  in  Fairy-land, 
When  fairy  birds  are  singing. 

When  the  court  doth  ride  by  their  mon- 
arch's side, 
With  bit  and  bridle  ringing; 

"  And  gayly  shines  the  Fairy-land  — 

But  all  is  glistening  show. 
Like  the  idle  gleam  that  December's  beam 

Can  dart  on  ice  and  snow. 

"  And  fading,  like  that  varied  gleam, 

Is  our  inconstant  shape, 
Who  now  like  knight  and  lady  seem, 

And  now  like  dwarf  and  ape. 

"  It  was  between  the  night  and  day, 
When  the  Fairy  King  has  power. 
That  I  sunk  down  in  a  sinful  fray. 
And  'twixt  life  and  death,  was  snatch'd 
away 
To  the  joyless  Elfin  bower.  . 

"  But  wist  I  of  a  woman  bold. 
Who  thrice  my  brow  durst  sign, 

I  might  regain  my  mortal  mould, 
As  fair  a  form  as  thine." 

She  cross'd  him  once  —  she  cross'd  him 
twice  — 

That  lady  was  so  brave; 
The  fouler  grew  his  goblin  hue. 

The  darker  grew  the  cave. 

She  cross'd  him  thrice,  that  lady  bold; 

He  rose  beneath  her  hand 
The  fairest  knight  on  Scottish  mould. 

Her  brother,  Ethert  Brand! 


Merry  it  is  in  good  greenwood, 

when  the  mavis  and  merle  are  singing, 

But   merrier    were  they  in   Dunfermline 
gray, 
When  all  the  bells  were  ringing. 


Just  as  the  minstrel  sounds  were  staid, 
A  stranger  climb'd  the  steepy  glade: 
His  martial  step,  his  stately  mien, 
His  hunting  suit  of  Lincoln  green, 
His  eagle  glance,  remembrance  claims  — 
Tis  Snowdoun's  Knight,  'tis  James  Fitz- 

Jamcs. 
Ellen  beheld  as  in  a  dream, 
Then,     starting,     scarce     suppress'd    a 

scream : 
"  O  stranger  !  in  such  hour  of  fear, 
What  evil  hap  has  brought  thee  here  ?  "  — 
"  An  evil  hap  how  can  it  be. 
That  bids  me  look  again  on  thee? 
By  promise  bound,  my  former  guide 
Met  me  betimes  this  morning  tide. 
And  marshall'd,  over  bank  and  bourne. 
The  happy  path  of  my  return."  — 
"The  happy  path  ! — what !  said  he  naught 
Of  war,  of  battle  to  be  fought. 
Of  guarded  pass?  "  —  "  No,  by  my  faith  ! 
Nor  saw  I  aught  could  augur  scathe."  — 
"  O  haste  thee,  Allan,  to  the  kern, 
—  Yonder  his  tartans  I  discern; 
Learn  thou  his  purpose,  and  conjure 
That  he  will  guide  the  stranger  sure !  — 
What  prompted  thee,  unhappy  man? 
The  meanest  serf  in  Roderick's  clan 
Had  not  been  bribed  by  love  or  fear, 
Unknown  to  him  to  guide  ♦f'ee  here."  — 


"  Sweet  Ellen,  dear  my  life  must  be, 
Since  it  is  worthy  care  from  thee; 
Yet  life  I  hold  but  idle  Vjreath, 
When  love  or  honor's  weigh'd  with  death. 
Then  let  me  profit  by  my  chance, 
And  speak  my  purpose  bold  at  once. 
I  come  to  bear  thee  from  a  wild. 
Where  ne'er  before  such  blossom  smiled, 
By  this  soft  hand  to  lead  thee  far 
From  frantic  scenes  of  feud  and  war. 
Near  Bochastle  my  horses  wait; 
They  bear  us  soon  to  Stirling  gate, 
I'll  place  thee  in  a  lovely  bower, 
I'll  guard  thee  like  a  tender  flower"  — 


156 


THE   LADY   OF   THE   LAKE. 


Canto  IV, 


"  O  !  hush,  Sir  Knight !  'twere  female  art, 
To  say  I  do  not  read  thy  heart; 
Too  much,  before,  my  selfish  ear 
Was  idly  soothed  my  praise  to  hear. 
That  fatal  bait  hath  lured  thee  back. 
In  deathful  hour,  o'er  dangerous  track; 
And  how,  O  how,  can  I  atone 
The  wreck  my  vanity  brought  on ! 
One  way  remains  — -  I'll  tell  him  all  — 
Yes !  struggling  bosom,  forth  it  shall ! 
Thou,  whose  light  folly  bears  the  blame. 
Buy  thine  own  pardon  with  thy  shame  ! 
Hut  first  —  my  father  is  a  man 
Outlaw'd  and  exiled,  under  ban; 
The  price  of  blood  is  on  his  head, 
With  me  'twere  infamy  to  wed.  — 
Still  wouldst  thou  speak  ?  —  then  hear  the 

truth ! 
Fitz-James,  there  is  a  noble  youth,  — 
If  yet  he  is  !  —  exposed  for  me 
And  mine  to  dread  extremity  — ■ 
Thou  hast  the  secret  of  my  heart: 
Forgive,  be  generous,  and  depart!  " 

XVIII. 
Fitz-James  knew  every  wily  train 
A  lady's  fickle  heart  to  gain; 
But  here  he  knew  and  felt  them  vain. 
There  shot  no  glance  from  Ellen's  eye. 
To  give  her  steadfast  speech  the  lie; 
In  maiden  confidence  she  stood. 
Though  mantled  in  her  cheek  the  blood. 
And  told  her  love  with  such  a  sigh 
Of  deep  and  hopeless  agony. 
As  death  had  seal'd  her  Malcolm's  doom. 
And  she  sat  sorrowing  on  his  tomb. 
Hope  vanish'd  from  Fitz- James's  eye, 
But  not  with  hope  fled  sympathy. 
He  proffcr'd  to  attend  her  side. 
As  brother  would  a  sister  guide.  — 
"  O  !  little  know'st  thou  Roiierick's  heart. 
Safer  for  both  we  go  a])art. 
O  haste  thee,  and  from  Allan  learn. 
If  thou  may'st  trust  yon  wily  kern." 
With  hand  upon  his  forehead  laid, 
The  conflict  of  his  mind  to  shade, 
A  parting  step  or  two  he  made; 
Then, assome  thought  had  cross'dhis brain. 
He  paused,  and  turn'd,  and  came  again :  — 


*'  Hear,  lady,  yet  a  parting  word !  — 
It  chanced  in  fight  that  my  poor  sword 


Preserved  the  life  of  Scotland's  lord. 
This  ring  the  grateful  monarch  gave. 
And  l)ade  when  I  had  boon  to  crave. 
To  bring  it  back,  and  boldly  claim 
The  recompense  that  I  would  name. 
Ellen,  I  am  no  courtly  lord. 
But  one  who  lives  by  lance  and  sword. 
Whose  castle  is  his  helm  and  shield. 
His  lordship  the  embattled  field. 
What  from  a  prince  can  I  demand, 
Who  neither  reck  of  state  nor  land? 
Ellen,  thy  hand  —  the  ring  is  thine; 
Each  guard  and  usher  knows  the  sign. 
Seek  thou  the  king  without  delay; 
This  signet  shall  secure  thy  way; 
And  claim  thy  suit,  whate'er  it  be. 
As  ransom  of  his  pledge  to  me." 
He  placed  the  goklen  circlet  on, 
I'aused  — ■  kiss'd    her    hand  —  and    then 

was  gone. 
The  aged  Minstrel  stood  aghast. 
So  hastily  Fitz-James  shot  past. 
He  join'd  his  guide,  and  wending  down 
The  ridges  of  the  mountain  brown. 
Across  the  stream  they  look  their  way. 
That  joins  Loch  Katrine  to  Achray. 

XX. 
All  in  the  Trosachs'  glen  was  still. 
Noontide  was  sleeping  on  the  hill; 
.Sudden    his    guide    whoop'd    loud    and 

high.— 
"  Murdoch  !  was  that  a  signal  cry?  "  — 
I  le  stammer 'd  forth,  — •  "  I  shout  to  scare 
Von  raven  from  his  dainty  fare." 
He  look'd  —  he  knew  the  raven's  prey. 
His  own   brave  steed:  —  "Ah!  gallant 

gray  ! 
For  thee  —  for   me,   perchance  —  'twer^' 

well 
We  ne'er  had  seen  the  Trosachs'  dell.  — 
Murdoch,  move  first  —  but  silently; 
Whistle  or  whoop,  and  thou  shalt  die  \  ' 
Jealous  and  sullen  on  they  fared. 
Each  silent,  each  upon  his  guard. 

XXI. 

Now  wound  the  path  its  dizzy  ledge 
Around  a  precipice's  edge. 
When  lo  !   a  wasted  female  form. 
Blighted  by  wrath  of  sun  and  storm, 
In  tatter'd  weeds  and  wild  array, 
Stood  on  a  cliff  beside  the  way, 


Canto  IV 


THE  PROPHECY. 


157 


And  glancing  round  her  restless  eye, 
Upon  the  wood,  the  rock,  the  sky, 
Seem'd  naught  to  mark,  yet  all  to  spy. 
Her    brow    was    wreath'd    with    gaudy 

broom ; 
With  gesture  wild  she  waved  a  plume 
Of  feathers,  which  the  eagles  fling 
To  crag  and  cliff  from  dusky  wing; 
Such  spoils  her  desperate  step  had  sought, 
Where  scarce  was  footing  for  the  goat. 
The  tartan  plaid  she  first  descried. 
And  shriek'd  till  all  the  rocks  replied; 
As  loud  she  laugh'd  when  near  they  drew, 
For  then  the  Lowland  garb  she  knew; 
And  then  her  hands  she  wildly  wrung. 
And  then  she  wept,  and  then  she  sung  — 
She  sung  !  —  the  voice,  in  better  time, 
Perchance  to  harp  or  lute  might  chime; 
And  now,  tho'  strain'd  and  roughen'd, 

still 
Rung  wildly  sweet  to  dale  and  hill :  — 


"  They  bid  me  sleep,  they  bid  me  pray. 
They    say    my    brain    is    warp'd    and 
wrung  — 
I  cannot  sleep  on  Highland  brae, 

I  cannot  pray  in  Highland  tongue. 
But  were  I  now  where  Allan  *  glides, 
O^  heard  my  native  Devan's  tides, 
Si)  sweetly  would  I  rest,  and  pray 
That  Heaven  would  close  my  wintry  day  ! 

"  'Twas  thus  my  hair  they  bade  me  braid, 
They  made  me  to  the  church  repair; 

It  was  my  bridal  morn  they  said. 

And  my  true  love  would  meet  me  there. 

But  woe  betide  the  cruel  guile. 

That  drown'd  in  blood  the  morning  smile  ! 

And  woe  betide  the  fairy  dream  ! 

I  only  waked  to  sob  and  scream." 


"  Who  is  this  maid?  what  means  her  lay? 
She  hovers  o'er  the  hollow  way. 
And  flutters  wide  her  mantle  gray. 
As  the  lone  heron  spreads  his  wing. 
By  twilight,  o'er  a  haunted  spring. "  — 

*  AUati  and  Devan,  two  rivers  running  through 
Stirling  Plain. 


"  'Tis  Blanche  of  Devan,"  Murdoch  said, 
"  A  crazed  and  captive  Lowland  maid, 
Ta'en  on  the  morn  she  was  a  bride, 
When  Roderick  foray'd  Devan-side. 
The  gay  bridegroom  resistance  made, 
And  felt  our  Chief's  unconquer'd  blade. 
I  marvel  she  is  now  at  large. 
But    oft    she    'scapes    from    Maudlin's 

charge.  — 
Hence,  brain-sick    fool!" — He   raised 

his  bow :  — 
"  Now,  if  thou  strikest  her  but  one  blow, 
I'll  pitch  thee  from  the  cliff  as  far 
As  ever  peasant  pitch'd  a  bar !  "  — 
"Thanks,  champion,  thanks!  "  the  Ma- 
niac cried. 
And  press'd  her  to  Fitz-James's  side. 
"  See  the  gray  pennons  I  prepare. 
To  seek  my  true-love  through  the  air; 
I  will  not  lend  that  savage  groom. 
To  break  his  fall,  one  downy  plume ! 
No  !  —  deep  amid  disjointed  stones. 
The  wolves  shall  batten  on  his  bones. 
And  then  shall  his  detested  plaid, 
By  bush  and  brier  in  mid  air  staid. 
Wave  forth  a  banner  fair  and  free. 
Meet  signal  for  their  revelry."  — 


"  Hush    thee,    poor    maiden,     and    l)e 

still!"  — 
"  O  !  thou  look'st  kindly,  and  I  will.  — 
Mine  eye  has  dried  and  wasted  been. 
But  still  it  loves  the  Lincoln  green; 
And,  though  mine  ear  is  all  unstrung. 
Still,  still  it  loves  the  Lowland  tongue. 

"  For  O  my  sweet  William  was  forester 
true, 
He  stole  poor  Blanche's  heart  away  ! 
His  coat  it  was  all  of  the  greenwood 
hue, 
And  so  blithely  he  trill'd  the  Low 
land  lay ! 

"  It  was  not  that  I  meant  to  tell, 
But  thou  art  wise  and  gucssest  well." 
Then,  in  a  low  and  broken  tone. 
And  hurried  note,  the  song  went  on. 
Still  on  the  Clansman,  fearfully, 
She  fix'd  her  apprehensive  eye; 
Then  turn'd  it  on  the  Knight,  and  then 
Her  look  glanced  wildly  o'er  the  glen :  -^ 


158 


THE   LADY  OF   THE  LAKE. 


Canto  IV. 


"  The  toils  are  pitch'd,  and  the  stakes 
are  set, 
Ever  sing  merrily,  merrily; 
The  bows  they  bend,  and  the  knives 
they  whet. 
Hunters  live  so  cheerily. 

"  It  was  a  stag,  a  stag  of  ten,* 
Bearing  its  branches  sturdily; 

He  came  stately  down  the  glen, 
Ever  sing  hardily,  hardily. 

"  It  was  there  he  met  with  a  wounded 
doe. 

She  was  bleeding  deathfully; 
She  warn'd  him  of  the  toils  lielow, 

O,  so  faithfully,  faithfully ! 

"  He  had  an  eye,  and  he  could  heed, 

Ever  sing  warily,  warily; 
He  had  a  foot,  and  he  could  speed  — 

Hunters  watch  so  narrowly." 


Fitz-James's  mind  was  passion-toss'd. 
When  Ellen's  hints  and  fears  were  lost; 
But  Murdoch's  shout  suspicion  wrought. 
And  Blanche's  song  conviction  brought. 
Not  like  a  stag  that  spies  the  snare, 
But  lion  of  the  hunt  aware. 
He  waved  at  once  his  blade  on  high, 
"  Disclose  thy  treachery,  or  die  !  " 
Forth  at  full  speed  the  Clansman  flew. 
But  in  his  race  his  lx)w  he  drew. 
The  shaft  just  grazed  Fitz-James's  crest, 
And  thrill'd  in  Blanche's  faded  breast.  — 
Murdoch  of  Alpine  !   prove  thy  speed. 
For  ne'er  had  Alpine's  son  such  need ! 
With  heart  of  fire,  and  foot  of  wind, 
The  fierce  avenger  is  behind  ! 
Fate  judges  of  the  rapid  strife  — 
The  forfeit  death  —  the  prize  is  life  ! 
Thy  kindred  ambush  lies  before. 
Close  couch'd  upon  the  heathery  moor; 
Them  couldst  thou  reach ! — It  may  not  be, 
Thine  ambush'd  kin  thou  ne'er  shalt  see, 
The  fiery  Saxon  gains  on  thee ! 
—  Resistless  speeds  the  deadly  thrust. 
As  lightning  strikes  the  pine  to  dust; 

•  Of  ten  branches  to  his  antlers :  a  royal  or 
ooble  deer. 


With   foot   and    hand    Fitz-James   must 

strain. 
Ere  he  can  win  his  blade  again. 
Bent  o'er  the  fallen,  with  falcon  eye, 
He  grimly  smiled  to  see  him  die; 
Then  slower  wended  back  his  way. 
Where  the  poor  maiden  bleeding  lay. 


She  sate  beneath  the  birchen  tree. 
Her  elbow  resting  on  her  knee; 
She  had  withdrawn  the  fatal  shaft, 
And  gazed  on  it,  and  feebly  laugh'd; 
Her  wreath  of  broom  and  feathers  gray. 
Daggled  with  blood,  beside  her  lay. 
The  Knight  to  stanch  the  life-stream  tried. 
"  Stranger,  it  is  in  vain  !  "  she  cried. 
"  This  hour  of  death  has  given  me  more 
Of  reason's  power  than  years  before; 
For,  as  these  ebbing  veins  decay, 
My  frenzied  visions  fade  away. 
A  helpless  injured  wretch  I  die, 
And  something  tells  me  in  thine  eye. 
That  thou  wert  mine  avengef  born.  — 
Seest  thou  this  tress? — O!  still  I've  worn 
This  little  tress  of  yellow  hair. 
Through  danger,  frenzy,  and  despair ! 
It  once  was  bright  and  clear  as  thine, 
But  blood  and  tears  have  dimm'd  its  shine. 
I  will  not  tell  thee  when  'twas  shred, 
Nor  from  what  guiltless  victim's  head  — 
My  brain  would  turn  !  — but  it  shall  wave 
Like  plumage  on  thy  helmet  brave, 
Till  sun  and  wind  shall  bleach  the  stain, 
.A.nd  thou  wilt  bring  it  me  again. 
I  waver  still.  —  O  God!  more  bright 
Let  reason  beam  her  parting  light !  — 
O  !  by  thy  knighthood's  honor'd  sign. 
And  for  thy  life  preserved  by  mine. 
When  thou  shalt  see  a  darksome  man, 
Who  boasts  him  Chief  of  Alpine's  Clan, 
With  tartans  broad  and  shadowy  plume, 
And  hand  of  blood,  and  brow  of  gloom. 
Be  thy  heart  bold,  thy  weapon  strong, 
And   wreak    poor    Blanche   of    Devan's 

wrong !  — 
They  watch  for  thee  by  pass  and  fell   .  .   . 
Avoid  the  path  .   .   .  O  God !   .   .   .  fare- 
well." 

XXVIII. 

A  kindly  heart  had  brave  Fitz-James; 
Fast  pour'd  his  eyes  at  pity's  claims, 


Canto  IV. 


THE  PROPHECY. 


IS9 


And  now  with  mingled  grief  and  ire, 
He  saw  the  murder'd  maid  expire. 
"  God,  in  my  need,  be  my  relief, 
As  I  wreak  this  on  yonder  Chief  !  " 
A  lock  from  Blanche's  tresses  fair 
He  blended  with  her  bridegroom's  hair; 
The  mingled  braid  in  blood  he  dyed, 
And  placed  it  on  his  bonnet-side : 
"  By  Him  whose  word  is  truth !  I  swear, 
No  other  favor  will  I  wear. 
Till  this  sad  token  I  imbrue 
In  the  best  blood  of  Roderick  Dhu ! 
—  But  hark  !  what  means  yon  faint  hal- 
loo? 
The  chase  is  up,  —  but  they  shall  know. 
The  stag  at  bay's  a  dangerous  foe." 
Barr'd  from  the  known  Imt  guarded  way, 
Through  copse  and  cliffs  Fitz-James  must 

stray, 
And  oft  must  change  his  desperate  track. 
By  stream  and  precipice  turn'd  back. 
Heartless,  fatigued,  and  faint,  at  length. 
From  lack  of  food  and  loss  of  strength. 
He  couch'd  him  in  a  thicket  hoar, 
And  thought  his  toils  and  perils  o'er:  — 
"  Of  all  my  rash  adventures  past. 
This  frantic  feat  must  prove  the  last ! 
Who  e'er  so  mad  but  might  haveguess'd, 
That  all  this  Highland  hornet's  nest 
Would  muster  up  in  swarms  so  soon 
As  e'er  they  heard  of  bands  at  Doune?  — 
Like  bloodhounds  now  they  search  meout. 
Hark  to  the  whistle  and  the  shout !  — 
If  farther  through  the  wilds  I  go, 
I  only  fall  upon  the  foe: 
I'll  couch  me  here  till  evening  gray, 
Then  darkling  try  my  dangerous  way." 


The  shades  of  eve  come  slov.'ly  down. 
The  woods  are  wrapt  in  deeper  brown, 
The  owl  awakens  from  her  dell. 
The  fox  is  heard  upon  the  fell; 
Enough  remains  of  glimmering  light 
To  guide  the  wanderer's  steps  aright. 
Yet  not  enough  from  far  to  show 
His  figure  to  the  watchful  foe. 
With  cautious  step,  and  ear  awake. 
He  climbs  the  crag  and  threads  the  brake; 
And  not  the  summer  solstice,  there, 
Temper'd  the  midnight  mountain  air, 
But  every  breeze,  that  swept  the  wold, 
Benumb'd  his  drenched  limbs  with  cold. 


In  dread,  in  danger,  and  alone, 
Famish'd  and  chill'd,  through  ways  un- 
known. 
Tangled  and  steep,  he  journey 'd  on; 
Till,  as  a  rock's  huge  point  he  turn'd, 
A  watch-fire  close  before  him  burn'd. 


Beside  its  embers  red  and  clear, 
Bask'd,  in  his  plaid,  a  mountaineer; 
And  up  he  sprung  with  sword  in  hand,  — 
"Thy     name     and    purpose!     Saxon, 

stand ! "  — 
"  A  stranger."  —  "  What  dost  thou  re- 
quire ?  " 
"  Rest  and  a  guide,  and  food  and  fire. 
My  life's  beset,  my  path  is  lost, 
The  gale  has  chill'd  my  limbs  with  frost. " 
"Art    thou    a  friend  to  Roderick?"  — 

"No."  — 
"  Thou  darest  not  call  thyself  a  foe?  "  — 
"  I  dare  !  to  him  and  all  the  band 
He  brings  to  aid  his  murderous  hand."  — 
"  Bold  words  !  —  but,  though  the  beast 

of  game 
The  privilege  of  chase  may  claim. 
Though  space  and  law  the  stag  we  lend, 
Ere  hound  we  slip,  or  bow  we  bend. 
Who  ever  reck'd,  where,  how,  or  when. 
The  prowling  fox  was  trapp'd  or  slain?  ^* 
Thus  treacherous  scouts, — yet  sure  they  lie. 
Who  say  thou  camest  a  secret  spy !  ' ' 
'  *  They  do,  by  Heaven  !  —  Come  Roderick 

Dhu, 
And  of  his  clan  the  boldest  two. 
And  let  me  but  till  morning  rest, 
I  write  the  falsehood  on  their  crest."  — 
"If  by  the  blaze  I  mark  aright, 
Thou    bear'st    the    belt    and    spur    of 

Knight."  — 
"  Then  by  these  tokens  mayest  thou  know 
Each  proud  oppressor's  mortal  foe."  — 
"  Enough,  enough;  sit  down  and  share 
A  soldier's  couch,  a  soldier's  fare." 


He  gave  him  of  his  Highland  cheer, 
The  harden'd  flesh  of  mountain  deer;*® 
Dry  fuel  on  the  fire  he  laid, 
And  bade  the  Saxon  share  his  plaid. 
He  tended  him  like  welcome  guest. 
Then  thus  his  further  speech  address'd : — 


i6o 


THE   LADY   OF   THE  LAKE. 


Canto  V. 


"  Stranger,  I  am  to  Roderick  Dhu 
A  clansman  born,  a  kinsman  true; 
Each  word  against  his  honor  spoke, 
Demands  of  me  avenging  stroke; 
Yet  more,  —  upon  thy  fate,  'tis  said, 
A  mighty  augury  is  laid. 
It  rests  with  me  to  wind  my  horn,  — 
Thou  art  with  numbers  overborne; 
It  rests  with  me,  here,  brand  to  l^rand, 
Worn  as  thou  art,  to  bid  thee  stand : 
But,  not  for  clan,  nor  kindred's  cause. 
Will  I  depart  from  honor's  laws; 
To  assail  a  wearied  man  were  shame, 
And  '  stranger  '  is  a  holy  name; 
Guidance,  and  rest,  and  food,  and  fire. 
In  vain  he  never  must  require. 
Then  rest  thee  here  till  dawn  of  day; 
Myself  will  guide  thee  on  the  way, 
O'er  stock  and  stone,  through  watch  and 

ward. 
Till  past  Clan-Alpine's  outmost  guard. 
As  far  as  Coilantogle's  ford; 
From  thence  thy  warrant  is  thy  sword. " — 
"  I  take  thy  courtesy,  by  Heaven, 
As  freely  as  'tis  nobly  given !  " 
"Well,  rest  thee;    for  the  bittern's  cry 
Sings  us  the  lake's  wild  lullaby." 
With  that  he  shook  the  gather 'd  heath. 
And  spread  his  plaid  upon  the  wreath; 
And  the  brave  foemen,  side  by  side, 
Lay  peaceful  down  like  lirothcrs  tried. 
And  slept  until  the  dawning  beam 
Purpled  the  mountain  and  the  stream. 


CANTO   FIFTH. 

THE    COMBAT. 
I. 

Fair  as  the  earliest  beam  of  eastern  light, 
When  first,  by  the  bewilder'd  pilgrim 
spied, 
It  smiles  upon  the  dreary  brow  of  night. 
And  silvers  o'er  the  torrent's  foaming 
tide. 
And  lights  the  fearful  path  on  mountain 
side;  — 
Fair  as  that  beam,  although  the  fairest 
far. 
Giving  to  horror  grace,  to  danger  pride. 
Shine    martial    Faith,  and    Courtesy's 
bright  star. 
Through    all    the    wrcckful    storms    that 
cloud  the  brow  of  War. 


That  early  beam,  so  fair  and  sheen. 
Was  twinkling  through  the  hazel  screen, 
When,  rousing  at  its  glimmer  red, 
The  warriors  left  their  lowly  bed, 
Look'd  out  upon  the  dappled  sky, 
Mutter'd  their  soldier  matins  by. 
And  then  awaked  their  fire,  to  steal. 
As  short  and  rude,  their  soldier  meal. 
That  o'er,  the  Gael*  around  him  threw 
His  graceful  plaid  of  varied  hue. 
And,  true  to  promise,  led  the  way. 
By  thicket  green  and  mountain  gray. 
A  wildering  path  !  — they  winded  now 
Along  the  precipice's  brow. 
Commanding  the  rich  scenes  beneath, 
The  windings  of  the  Forth  and  Teith, 
And  all  the  vales  Ixineath  that  lie. 
Till  Stirling's  turrets  melt  in  sky; 
Then,  sunk  in  copse,  their  farthest  glance 
Gain'd  not  the  length  of  horseman'slance. 
'Twas  oft  so  steep,  the  foot  was  fain 
Assistance  from  the  hand  to  gain; 
So  tangled  oft,  that,  bursting  through, 
Each  hawthorn  shed  her  showers  of  dew, 
That  diamond  dew,  so  pure  and  clear. 
It  rivals  all  but  Beauty's  tear  ! 


At  length  they  came  where,  stern  and 

steep, 
The  hill  sinks  down  upon  the  deep. 
Here  Vennachar  in  silver  flows. 
There,  ridge  on  ridge,  Benledi  ro.se; 
Ever  the  hollow  path  twined  on, 
Beneath     steep    bank    and    threatening 

stone; 
A  hundred  men  might  hold  the  post 
With  hardihood  against  a  host. 
The  rugged  mountain's  scanty  cloak 
Was  dwarfish  shrubs  of  birch  and  oak, 
With  shingles  liare,  and  cliffs  between. 
And  patches  bright  of  bracken  green, 
And  heather  black,  that  waved  so  high. 
It  held  the  copse  in  rivalry. 
But  where  the  lake  slept  deep  and  still. 
Dank  osiers  fringed  the  swamp  and  hill; 
And  oft  lx>th  path  and  hill  were  torn. 
Where  wintry  torrents  down  had  lx)rne, 

*  The  Scottish  HiRlilander  calls  himself  Gael 
or  Gaul,  and  terms  tjie  I»wlanders  Sassenach, 
or  Saxons. 


Canto  V. 


THE    COMBAT. 


i6i 


And  heap'd  upon  the  cumlter'd  land 
Its  wreck  of  gravel,  rocks,  and  sand 
So  toilsome  was  the  road  to  trace. 
The  guide,  abating  of  his  pace. 
Led  slowly  through  the  pass's  jaws. 
And  ask'd  Fitz-James,  by  what  strange 

cause 
Me  sought  these  wilds?  traversed  by  few. 
Without  a  pass  from  Roderick  Dhu. 


"  Brave  Gael,  my  pass  in  danger  tried. 
Hangs  in  my  belt  and  by  my  side; 
^'et,  sooth  to  tell,"  the  Saxon  said, 
•*  I  dreamt  not  now  to  claim  its  aid. 
When  here,  but  three  days  since,  I  came, 
Bewilder'd  in  pursuit  of  game. 
All  seem'd  as  peaceful  and  as  still 
As  the  mist  slumlx-ring  on  yon  hill; 
Thy  dangerous  Chief  was  then  afar. 
Nor  soon  expected  back  from  war. 
Thus  said,  at  least,  my  mountain-guide. 
Though  deep,  perchance,  the  villain  lied." 
"  Vet  why  a  second  venture  try?  " 
"  A  warrior  thou,  and  ask  me  why !  — 
Moves  our  free  course  by  such  fix'd  cause. 
As  gives  the  poor  mechanic  laws? 
Enough,  I  sought  to  drive  away 
The  lazy  hours  of  peaceful  day: 
Slight  cause  will  then  suffice  to  guide 
A  Knight's  free  footsteps  far  and  wide  — 
A  falcon  flown,  a  greyhound  stray'd, 
The  merry  glance  of  mountain  maid; 
Or,  if  a  path  be  dangerous  known. 
The  danger's  self  is  lure  alone." 


"  Thy  secret  keep,  I  urge  thee  not:  — 
Vet,  ere  again  ye  sought  this  sjx)t. 
Say,  heard  ye  naught  of  Lowland  war, 
.Against  Clan-.Mpine,  raised  by  Mar?" 
— "  No,  by  my  word; — of  Ixinds  prepared 
To  guard  King  James's  sjwrts  I  heard; 
Nor  doubt  I  aught,  but,  when  they  hear 
This  muster  of  the  mountaineer, 
Their  pennons  will  abroad  be  flung. 
Which    else    in    Doune    had    peaceful 

hung."  — 
"  Free  be  they  flung  !  —  for  we  were  loth 
Their  silken  folds  should  feast  the  moth. 
Free  be  they  flung !  —  as  free  shall  wave 
Clan-Alpine's  pine  in  banner  brave. 


But,  Stranger,  peaceful  since  you  came, 
Bewilder'd  in  the  mountain  game, 
Wlience  the  bold  boast  by  which  you  show 
Vich-Alpine's  vow'd  and  mortal  foe?  "  — 
"  Warrior,  but  yester-morn,  I  knew 
Naught  of  thy  Chieftain,  Roderick  Dhu, 
Save  as  an  outlaw 'd  desperate  man, 
The  chief  of  a  rebellious  clan. 
Who,  in  the  Regent's  court  and  sight. 
With  ruflian  dagger  stabb'd  a  knight: 
Vet  this  alone  might  from  his  part 
Sever  each  true  and  loyal  heart." 


Wrathful  at  such  arraignment  foul, 
Dark  lower'd  the  clansman's  sable  scowl, 
A  space  he  paused,  then  sternly  said:  — 
"And  heard'st    thou  why  he  drew  his 

blade? 
Heard'st  thou  that  shameful  word  and 

blow 
Brought  Roderick's  vengeance  on  his  foe? 
What  reck'd  the  Chieftain  if  he  stood 
On  Highland  heath,  or  Holy-Rood? 
He  rights  such  wrong  where  it  is  given. 
If  it  were  in  the  court  of  heaven."  — 
"Still  was  it  outrage;  — yet,  'tis  true. 
Not  then  claim'd  sovereignty  his  due; 
While  Albany,  with  feeble  hand, 
Held  Iwrrow'd  truncheon  of  command,*' 
The  young  King,  mew'd  in  Stirling  tower. 
Was  stranger  to  respect  and  power. 
But  then,  thy  Chieftain's  robber  life !  — 
Winning  mean  prey  by  causeless  strife. 
Wrenching  from  ruin'd  Lowland  swain 
His  herds  and  harvest  rear'd  in  vain.  — 
Methinks  a  soul,  like  thine,  shouhl  scorn 
The  spoils  from  such  foul  foray  borne." 


The  Gael  lieheld  him  grim  the  while. 
And  answer'd  with  disdainful  smile:  — 
"Saxon,  from  yonder  mountain  high, 
I  mark'd  thee  send  delighted  eye. 
Far  to  the  south  and  east,  where  lay, 
Extended  in  succession  gay. 
Deep  waving  fields  and  pastures  green. 
With  gentle  slopes  and  groves  between,  — 
These  fertile  plains,  that  soften'd  vale, 
Were  once  the  birthright  of  the  Gael; 
The  stranger  came  with  iron  hand. 
And  from  our  fathers  reft  the  land. 


l62 


THE  LADY  OF   THE   LAKE. 


Canto  V. 


Where  dwell  we  now  ?     See  rudely  swell 
"^rag  over  crag,  and  fell  o'er  fell, 
'^sk  we  this  savage  hill  we  tread, 
For  fatten'd  steer  or  household  bread: 
Ask  we  for  flocks  these  shingles  dry. 
And  well  the  mountain  might  reply :  — 
'  To  you,  as  to  your  sires  of  yore, 
Belong  the  target  and  claymore  ! 
I  give  you  shelter  in  my  breast, 
Your  own  good  blades  must  win  the  rest.' 
Pent  in  this  fortress  of  the  North, 
Think'st  thou  we  will  not  sally  forth, 
To  spoil  the  spoiler  as  we  may. 
And  from  the  robber  rend  the  prey? 
Ay,  by  my  soul !  —  While  on  yon  plain 
The  Saxon  rears  one  shock  of  grain; 
While,  of  ten  thousand  herds,  there  strays 
But  one  along  yon  river's  maze,  — 
The  Gael,  of  plain  and  river  heir, 
Shall,  with  strong  hand,  redeem  his  share. 
Where  live  the  mountain  chiefs  who  hold. 
That  plundering  Lowland  field  and  fold 
Is  aught  but  retribution  true? 
Seek  other  cause  'gainst  Roderick  Dhu." 


Answer'd    Fitz- James:  —  "And,    if    I 

sought, 
Think'st  thou  no  other  could  be  brought? 
What  deem  ye  of  my  path  waylaid  ? 
My  life  given  o'er  to  ambuscade?"  — 
"  As  of  a  meed  to  rashness  due: 
Hadst  thou  sent  warning  fair  and  true,  — 
'  I  seek  my  hound,  or  falcon  stray'd, 
I  seek,  good  faith,  a  Highland  maid,' — 
Free  hadst  thou  been  to  come  and  go; 
But  secret  path  marks  secret  foe. 
Nor  yet,  for  this,  even  as  a  spy, 
Hadst  thou,  unheard,  been  doom'd  to  die. 
Save  to  fulfil  an  augury."  — 
"  Well,  let  it  pass;    nor  will  I  now 
Fresh  cause  of  enmity  avow. 
To  chafe  thy  mood  and  cloud  thy  brow. 
Enough,  I  am  by  promise  tied 
To  match  me  with  this  man  of  pride: 
Twice  have  I  sought  Clan-Alpine's  glen 
In  peace;   but  when  I  come  agen, 
I  come  with  banner,  brand,  and  bow, 
As  leader  seeks  his  mortal  foe. 
For  love-lorn  swain,  in  lady's  bower. 
Ne'er  panted  for  the  appointed  hour. 
As  I,  until  before  me  stand 
This  rebel  Chieftain  and  his  band !  "  — 


"  Have,  then,  thy  wish !  "  —  He  whistled 

shrill. 
And  he  was  answer'd  from  the  hill; 
Wild  as  the  scream  of  the  curlew. 
From  crag  to  crag  the  signal  flew. 
Instant,     through     copse     and     hepU». 

arose 
Bonnets,  and  spears,  and  bended  bows; 
On  right,  on  left,  above,  below. 
Sprung  up  at  once  the  lurking  foe; 
From  shingles  gray  their  lances  start, 
The  bracken  bush  sends  forth  the  dart, 
The  rushes  and  the  willow-wand 
Are  bristling  into  axe  and  brand. 
And  every  tuft  of  broom  gives  life 
To  plaided  warrior  arm'd  for  strife. 
That  whistle  garrison'd  the  glen 
At  once  with  full  five  hundred  men, 
As  if  the  yawning  hill  to  heaven 
A  subterranean  host  had  given. 
Watching  their  leader's  beck  and  will. 
All  silent  there  they  stood,  and  still. 
Like  the  loose  crags,  whose  threatening 

mass 
Lay  tottering  o'er  the  hollow  pass. 
As  if  an  infant's  touch  could  urge 
Their  headlong  passage  down  the  verge. 
With  step  and  weapon  forward  flung. 
Upon  the  mountain-side  they  hung. 
The  Mountaineer  cast  glance  of  pride 
Along  Benledi's  living  side. 
Then  fix'd  his  eye  and  sable  brow 
Full  on  Fitz-James :  —  "  How  say'st  thou 

now? 
These  are  Clan-Alpine's  warriors  true; 
And,  Saxon,  —  I  am  Roderick  Dhu  !  " 


Fitz-James  was  brave:  — Though  to  his 

heart 
The  life-blood  thrill'd  with  sudden  start, 
He  mann'd  himself  with  dauntless  air, 
Return'd  the  chief  his  haughty  stare, 
His  back  against  a  rock  he  bore. 
And  firmly  placed  his  foot  before :  — 
"  Come  one,  come  all !  this  rock  shall  fly 
From  its  firm  base  as  soon  as  I." 
Sir  Roderick  mark'd, — and  in  his  eyes 
Respect  was  mingled  with  surprise. 
And  the  stern  joy  which  warriors  feel 
In  foemen  worthy  of  their  steel. 


Canto  V. 


THE    COMBAT. 


163 


Short  space  he  stood ;  —  then  waved  his 

hand: 
Down  sunk  the  disappearing  band; 
Each  warrior  vanish'd  where  he  stood, 
In  broom  or  bracken,  heath  or  wood; 
Sunk  brand,  and  spear,  and  bended  bow, 
In  osiers  pale  and  copses  low; 
It  seem'd  as  if  their  mother  Earth 
Had  swallow'd  up  her  warlike  birth. 
The  wind's  last  breath  had  toss'd  in  air, 
Pennon,  and  plaid,  and  plumage  fair,  — 
The  next  but  swept  a  lone  hill-side, 
Where  heath  and  fern  were  waving  wide. 
The  sun's  last  glance  was  glinted  back 
From  spear  and  glaive,  from  targe  and 

jack,  — 
The  next,  all  unreflected  shone 
On  bracken  green  and  cold  gray  stone. 


Fitz- James  look'd  round  —  yet  scarce  be- 
lieved 
The  witness  that  his  sight  received; 
Such  apparition  well  might  seem 
Delusion  of  a  dreadful  dream. 
Sir  Roderick  in  suspense  he  eyed. 
And  to  his  look  the  Chief  replied:  — 
"Fear   naught  —  nay,  that  I   need   not 

say  — 
But  —  doubt  not  aught  from  mine  array. 
Thou  art  my  guest;  —  I  pledged  my  word 
As  far  as  Coilantogle  ford : 
Nor  would  I  call  a  clansman's  brand 
For  aid  against  one  valiant  hand. 
Though  on  our  strife  lay  every  vale 
Rent  by  the  Saxon  from  the  Gael. 
So  move  we  on; —  I  only  meant 
To  show  the  reed  on  which  you  leant. 
Deeming  this  path  you  might  pursue 
Without  a  pass  from  Roderick  Dhu."'*i 
They  moved:  — I  said    Fitz- James  was 

brave, 
As  ever  knight  that  belted  glaive; 
Yet  dare  not  say,  that  now  his  blood 
Kept  on  its  wont  and  temper'd  flood. 
As,  following  Roderick's  stride,  he  drew 
That  seeming  lonesome  pathway  through. 
Which  yet,  by  fearful  proof,  was  rife 
With  lances,  that,  to  take  his  life, 
Waited  but  signal  from  a  guide. 
So  late  dishonor'd  and  defied. 
Ever,  by  stealth,  his  eye  sought  round 
The  vanish'd  guardians  of  the  ground. 


And  still,  from  copse  and  heather  deep. 
Fancy  saw  spear  and  broadsword  peep. 
And  in  the  plover's  shrilly  strain. 
The  signal  whistle  heard  again. 
Nor  breathed  he  free  till  far  behind 
The  pass  was  left;  for  then  they  wind 
Along  a  wide  and  level  green, 
Where  neither  tree  nor  tuft  was  seen. 
Nor  rush,  nor  bush  of  broom  was  near, 
To  hide  a  bonnet  or  a  spear. 


The  Chief  in  silence  strode  before, 
And  reach'd  that  torrent's  sounding  shore. 
Which,  daughter  of  three  mighty  lakes. 
From  Vennachar  in  silver  breaks, 
Sweeps  through  the  plain,  and  ceaseless 

mines 
On  Bochastle  the  mouldering  lines. 
Where  Rome,  the  Empress  of  the  world. 
Of  yore  her  eagle  wings  unfurl'd.*^ 
And  here  his  course  the  Chieftain  staid. 
Threw  down  his  target  and  his  plaid. 
And  to  the  Lowland  warrior  said :  — 
"  Bold  Saxon  !  to  his  promise  just, 
Vich- Alpine  has  discharged  his  trust. 
This  murderous  Chief,  this  ruthless  man, 
This  head  of  a  rebellious  clan. 
Hath  led  thee  safe  through  watch  and 

ward 
Far  past  Clan-Alpine's  outmost  guard. 
Now,  man  to  man,  and  steel  to  steel, 
A  chieftain's  vengeance  thou  shalt  feel. 
See  here,  all  vantageless  I  stand, 
Arm'd,  like  thyself,  with  single  brand  :*^ 
For  this  is  Coilantogle  ford. 
And  thou  must  keep  thee  with  thy  sword." 


The  Saxon  paused:  —  "I  ne'er  delay'd. 
When  foeman  bade  me  draw  my  blade; 
Nay,  more,  brave    Chief,   I    vow'd    thy 

death ; 
Yet  sure  thy  fair  and  generous  faith. 
And  my  deep  debt  for  life  preserved, 
A  better  meed  have  well  deserved : 
Can  naught  but  blood  our  feud  atone? 
Are  there  no  means?  "  —  "  No,  Stranger, 

none ! 
And  hear,  — to  fire  thy  flagging  zeal,  — 
The  Saxon  cause  rests  on  thy  steel: 
For  thus  spoke  Fate,  by  prophet  bred 
Between  the  living  and  the  dead: 


164 


THE   LADY   OF   THE  LAKE. 


Canto  V 


'  Who  spills  the  foremost  foeman's  life, 
His  party  conquers  in  the  strife.'  "  — 
"  Then,  by  my  word,"  the  Saxon  said, 
"  The  riddle  is  al  eady  read. 
Seek  yonder  brak    beneath  the  cliff,  — 
There  lies  Red  Murdoch,  stark  and  stiff. 
Thus  Fate  has  solv  d  her  prophecy, 
Then  yield  to  Fate,  and  not  to  me. 
To  James,  at  Stirling,  let  us  go. 
When,  if  thou  wilt  he  still  his  foe. 
Or  if  the  King  shall  not  agree 
To  grant  thee  grace  and  favor  free, 
I  pliglit  mine  honor,  oath,  and  word, 
That,  to  thy  native  strengths  restored. 
With  each  advantage  shalt  thou  stand, 
Tliat  aids  thee  now  to  guard  thy  land." 


Dark  lightning  flash'd  from  Roderick's 

eye:  — 
"  Soars  thy  presumption,  then,  so  high. 
Because  a  wretched  kern  ye  slew, 
Homage  to  name  to  Roderick  Dhu? 
He  yields  not,  he,  to  man  nor  Fate ! 
Thou  add'st  but  fuel  to  my  hate:  — 
My  clansman's  blood  demands  revenge. 
Not  yet  prepared  ?  —  Ry  heaven,  I  change 
My  thought,  and  hold  thy  valor  light 
As  that  of  some  vain  carpet-knight. 
Who  ill-deserved  my  courteous  care, 
And  whose  best  boast  is  but  to  wear 
A  braid  of  his  fair  lady's  hair."  — 
"  I  thank  thee,  Roderick,  for  the  word  ! 
It  nerves  my  heart,  it  steels  my  sword; 
For  I  have  sworn  this  braid  to  stain 
In  the  best  blood  that  warms  thy  vein. 
Now,    truce,    farewell !    and,    ruth,    be 

gone !  — 
Yet  think  not  that  by  thee  alone, 
Proud  Chief !  can  courtesy  be  shown  ! 
Though    not    from    copse,  or    heath,  or 

cairn, 
Start  at  my  whistle  clansmen  stern, 
Of  this  small  horn  one  feeble  blast 
Would  fearful  odds  against  thee  cast. 
But  fear   not — doubt  not' — which  thou 

wilt  — 
We  try  this  quarrel  hilt  to  hilt."  — 
Then  each  at  once  his  falchion  drew, 
Each  on  the  ground  his  scabbard  tiirew, 
Each    look'd    to   sun,    and    stream,   and 

jilain. 
As  wliat  they  ne'er  might  sec  again; 


Then  foot,  and  point,  and  eye  opposed, 
In  dubious  strife  they  darkly  closed. 


I'll  fared  it  then  with  Roderick  Dhu, 
That  on  the  field  his  targe  he  threw,*^ 
Whose  brazen  studs  and  tough  bull-hide 
Had  death  so  often  dash'd  aside; 
For,  train'd  abroad  his  arms  to  wield, 
I*"itz- James's  blade  was  sword  and  shield. 
He  practised  every  pass  and  ward, 
To  thrust,  to  strike,  to  feint,  to  guard; 
While  less  expert,  though  stronger  far. 
The  Gael  maintain'd  unequal  war. 
Three  times  in  closing  strife  they  stood, 
And  thrice  the  Saxon's  blade  drank  blood; 
No  stinted  draught,  no  scanty  tide, 
The  gushing  flood  the  tartans  dyed. 
Fierce  Roderick  felt  the  fatal  drain, 
And  shower'd  his  blows  like  wintry  rain; 
And,  as  firm  rock,  or  castle-roof. 
Against  the  winter  shower  is  proof. 
The  foe,  invulnerable  still, 
Foil'd  his  wild  rage  by  steady  skill: 
Till,  at  advantage  ta'en,  his  brand 
Forced  Roderick's  weapon  from  his  hand, 
And  backward  borne  upon  the  lea, 
Brought  the  proud  chieftain  to  his  knee. 


"  Now,  yield  thee,  or  by  Him  who  made 
The  world,  thy  heart's   blood  dyes    my 

blade!" 
"Thy  threats,  thy  mercy,  I  defy! 
Let  recreant  yield,  who  fears  to  die." 
—  Like  adder  darting  from  his  coil. 
Like  wolf  that  dashes  through  the  toil. 
Like  mountain-cat  who  guards  her  young. 
Full  at  Fit7.-James's  throat  he  sprung; 
Received,  but  reck'd  not  of  a  wound, 
And  lock'd  his  arms  his  foeman  round.  — 
Now,  gallant  .Saxon,  hcild  thine  own  ! 
No  maiden's  hand  is  round  thee  thrown  ! 
That  desperate  grasp  thy  frame  might  feel, 
'I'hrough  bars  of  brass  and  triple  steel !  — 
They  tug,  they  strain  !  down,  down  they 

go. 
The  (iael  above,  Fitz-James  below: 
The  Chieftain's    gripe    his    throat    com- 

press'd. 
His  knee  was  planted  on  his  breast; 
His  clotted  locks  he  backward  threw, 
Across  his  brow  his  hand  he  drew, 


Canto  V. 


THE   COMBAT. 


165 


From  blood  and  mist  to  clear  his  sight, 
Then  gleam'd  aloft  his  dagger  bright !  — 
—  But  hate  and  fury  ill  supplied 
The  stream  of  life's  exhausted  tide, 
And  all  too  late  the  advantage  came, 
To  turn  the  odds  of  deadly  game; 
For,  while  the  dagger  gleam'd  on  high, 
Reel'd  soul  andsense,reerdbrain  andeye, 
Down  came  the  blow !  but  in  the  heath 
The  erring  blade  found  bloodless  sheath. 
Tile  struggling  foe  may  now  unclasp 
1  he  fainting  Chief's  relaxing  grasp; 
Unwounded  from  the  dreadful  close, 
]>ut  breathless  all,  Fitz-James  arose. 


He  falter'd  thanks  to  Heaven  for  life, 
Redeem'd,    unhoped,    from     desperate 

strife; 
Next  on  his  foe  his  look  he  cast, 
Whose  every  gasp  appear'd  his  last; 
In  Roderick's  gore  he  dipp'd  the  braid :  — 
"  Poor  Blanche  !  thy  wrongs  are  dearly 

paid: 
Yet  with  thy  foe  must  die  or  live, 
The  praise  that  Faith  and  Valor  give.  ' 
With  that  he  blew  a  bugle-note. 
Undid  the  collar  from  his  throat, 
Unbonneted,  and  by  the  wave 
Sate  down  his  brow  and  hands  to  lave. 
Then  faint  afar  are  heard  the  feet 
Of  rushing  steeds  in  gallop  fleet; 
The  sounds  increase,  and  now  are  seen 
Four  mounted  squires  in  Lincoln  green : 
Two  who  bear  lance,  and  two  who  lead. 
By  loosen'd  rein,  a  saddled  steed; 
Each  onward  held  his  headlong  course. 
And  by  Fitz-James  rein'd  up  his  horse, — 
With  wonder  view'd  the  bloody  spot.  — 
— "  Exclaim  not,  gallants!  question  not. 
You,  Herbert  and  Luffness,  alight. 
And  bind  the  wounds  of  yonder  knight; 
Let  the  gray  palfrey  bear  his  weight, 
We  destined  for  a  fairer  freight, 
And  bring  him  on  to  Stirling  straight : 
I  will  before  at  better  speed. 
To  seek  fresh  horse  and  fitting  weed. 
The  sun  rides  high; — I  must  be  boune,* 
To  see  the  archer-game  at  noon : 
But  lightly  Bayard  clears  the  lea,  — 
De  Vaux  and  Herries,  follow  me. 

*  Boune,  prepared. 


"Stand,  Bayard,  stand!" — The  steed 

obey'd, 
With  arching  neck  and  bending  head. 
And  glancing  eye  and  quivering  ear. 
As  if  he  loved  his  lord  to  hear. 
No  foot  Fitz-James  in  stirrup  staid. 
No  grasp  upon  the  saddle  laid. 
But  wreath'd  his  left  hand  in  the  mane. 
And  lightly  bounded  from  the  plain, 
Turn'd  on  the  horse  his  armed  heel. 
And  stirr'd  his  courage  with  the  steel. 
Bounded  the  fiery  steed  in  air. 
The  rider  sate  erect  and  fair, 
Then  like  a  bolt  from  steel  crossbow 
Forth  launch'd,  along  the  plain  they  go. 
They  dash'd  that  rapid  torrent  through. 
And  up  Carhonie's  hill  they  flew; 
Still  at  the  gallop  prick'd  the  Knight, 
His  merry-men  follow'd  as  they  might. 
Along  thy  banks,  swift  Teith  !  they  ride, 
And  in  the  race  they  mock  thy  tide; 
Torry  and  Lendrick  now  are  past. 
And  Deanstown  lies  behind  them  cast : 
They  rise,  the  banner'd  towers  of  Doune, 
They  sink  in  distant  woodland  soon; 
Blair-Drummond  sees  the  hoof  strike  fire. 
They  sweep  like  breeze  through  Ochter- 

tyre; 
They  mark  just  glance  and  disapf)ear 
The  lofty  brow  of  ancient  Kier; 
They    bathe    their    coursers'    sweltering 

sides. 
Dark  Forth !  amid  thy  sluggish  tides. 
And  on  the  opposing  shore  take  ground, 
With    plash,    with    scramble,    and    with 

bound. 
Right-hand  they  leave  thy  cliffs,  Craig- 

Forth ! 
And  soon  the  bulwark  a»f  the  North, 
Gray  Stirling,  with  her  towers  and  town, 
Upon  their  fleet  career  look'd  down. 


As  up  the  flinty  path  they  strain'd 
Sudden  his  steed  the  leader  rein'd; 
A  signal  to  his  squire  he  flung. 
Who  instant  to  his  stirrup  sprung: — 
"  Seest  thou,  De  Vaux,  yon  woodsman 

gray. 
Who  town-ward  holds  the  rocky  way. 
Of  stature  tall  and  poor  array? 


t66 


THE  LADY  OF   THE  LAKE. 


Canto  V. 


Mark'st  thou  the  firm,  yet  active  Ktride, 
With  which  he  scales  the  mountain-side? 
Know'st  thou  from  whence  he  comes,  or 

whom?  " — 
"  No,  by  my  word  ;  —  a  burly  groom 
He  seems,  who  in  the  field  or  chase 
A  baron's  train  would  nobly  grace."  — 
"  Out,  out,  De  Vaux  !  can  fear  supply, 
And  jealousy,  no  sharper  eye? 
Afar,  ere  to  the  hill  he  drew. 
That  stately  form  and  step  I  knew; 
Like  form  in  Scotland  is  not  seen. 
Treads  not  such  step  on  Scottish  green. 
'Tis  James  of  Douglas,  by  Saint  Serle ! 
The  uncle  of  the  banish'd  Earl. 
Away,  away,  to  court,  to  show 
The  near  approach  of  dreaded  foe: 
The  King  must  stand  upon  his  guard : 
Douglas  and  he  must  meet  prepared." 
Then   right-hand  wheel'd   their    steeds, 

and  straight, 
They  won  the  castle's  postern  gate. 


The  Douglas,  who  had  bent  his  way 
From  Cambuskenneth's  abbey  gray. 
Now,  as  he  climb'd  the  rocky  shelf, 
Held  sad  communion  with  himself:  — 
"Yes,  all  is  true  my  fears  could  frame: 
A  prisoner  lies  the  noble  Gr?eme, 
And  fiery  Roderick  soon  will  feel 
The  vengeance  of  the  royal  steel. 
I,  only  I,  can  ward  their  fate,— 
God  grant  the  ransom  come  not  late ! 
The  Abbess  hath  her  promise  given. 
My  child  shall  be  the  bride  of  Heaven;  — 

—  Be  pardon'd  one  repining  tear! 

For    He,   who    gave    her,   knows    how 

dear, 
How  excellent !  but  that  is  by. 
And  now  my  business  is  —  to  die. 

—  Ye  towers  !  within  whose  circuit  dread 
A  Douglas  by  his  sovereign  bled; 

And  thou,  O  sad  and  fatal  mound  !  * 
That  oft  hast  heard  the  death-axe  sound, 
As  on  the  noblest  of  the  land 
Fell  the  stern  headsman's  bloody  hand, — 
The  dungeon,  block,  and  nameless  tomb 
Prepare  —  for  Douglas  seeks  his  doom  ! 

—  But  hark  !  what  blithe  and  jolly  peal 
Makes  the  Franciscan  steeple  reel? 

*  A  mound  on  the  north-east  of  Stiriing  Castle 
where  State  criminals  were  executed. 


And  see  !  upon  the  crowded  street. 

In  motley  groups  what  masquers  meet ! 

Banner  and  pageant,  pipe  and  drum. 

And  merry  morrice-dancers  come. 

I  guess,  by  all  this  quaint  array. 

The  burghers  hold  their  sports  to-day.*^ 

James  will  be  there;  he  loves  such  show, 

Where  the  good  yeoman  bends  his  bow. 

And  the  tough  wrestler  foils  his  foe, 

As  well  as  where,  in  proud  career. 

The  high-borne  tilter  shivers  spear. 

I'll  follow  to  the  Castle-park, 

And  play  my  prize; — King  James  shall 

mark. 
If  age  has  tamed  these  sinews  stark. 
Whose  force  so  oft,  in  happier  days. 
His  boyish  wonder  loved  to  praise." 


The  castle  gates  were  open  flung, 

The    quivering    drawbridge    rock'd    and 

rung. 
And  echo'd  loud  the  flinty  street 
Beneath  the  coursers'  clattering  feet. 
As  slowly  down  the  steep  descent 
Fair  Scotland's  King  and  nobles  went. 
While  all  along  the  crowded  way 
Was  jubilee  and  loud  huzza. 
And  ever  James  was  bending  low. 
To  his  white  jennet's  saddle-bow. 
Doffing  his  cap  to  city  dame. 
Who  smiled  and  blush'd  for  pride  and 

shame. 
And  well  the  simperer  might  be  vain, — 
He  chose  the  fairest  of  the  train. 
Gravely  he  greets  each  city  sire, 
Commends  each  pageant's  quaint  attire. 
Gives  to  the  dancers  thanks  aloud. 
And  smiles  and  nods  upon  the  crowd. 
Who  rend  the  heavens  with  their  acclaims, 
"Long  live  the  Commons'  King,  King 

James !  " 
BehindtheKingthrong'd  peer  and  knight. 
And  noble  dame  and  damsel  bright. 
Whose  fiery  steeds  ill  brook'd  the  stay 
Of  the  steep  street  and  crowded  way. 
—  But  in  the  train  you  might  discern 
Dark  lowering  brow  and  visage  stern; 
There   nobles   mourn'd    their    pride   re- 

strain'd. 
And  the  mean  burgher's  joys  disdain 'd; 
And  chiefs,  who,  hostage  for  their  clan. 
Were  each  from  home  a  banish'd  man. 


Canto  V. 


THE    COMBAT. 


167 


There  thought  upon  their  own  gray  tower, 
Their  waving  woods,  their  feudal  power. 
And  deem'd  themselves  a  shameful  part 
Of  pageant  which  they  cursed  in  heart. 


Now,  in  the  Castle-park,  drew  out 
Their  checker'd  bands  the  joyous  rout. 
There  morricers,  with  bell  at  heel. 
And  blade  in  hand,  their  mazes  wheel; 
15ut  chief,  beside  the  butts,  there  stand 
Bold  Robin  Hood  *»  and  all  his  band, — 
Friar  Tuck  with  quarterstaff  and  cowl. 
Old  Scathelocke  with  his  surly  scowl, 
Maid  Marion,  fair  as  ivory  bone, 
Scarlet,  and  Mutch,  and  Little  John; 
Their  bugles  challenge  all  that  will. 
In  archery  to  prove  their  skill. 
The  Douglas  bent  a  bow  of  might,  — 
His  first  shaft  centred  in  the  white. 
And  when  in  turn  he  shot  again, 
His  second  split  the  first  in  twain. 
From  the  King's  hand  must  Douglas  take 
A  silver  dart,  the  archer's  stake; 
Fondly  he  watch'd,  with  watery  eye, 
Some  answering  glance  of  sympathy,  — 
No  kind  emotion  made  reply ! 
Indifferent  as  to  archer  wight, 
The  monarch  gave  the  arrow  bright. 


Now,  clear  the  ring !  for,  hand  to  hand, 
The  manly  wrestlers  take  their  stand. 
Two  o'er  the  rest  superior  rose. 
And  proud  demanded  mightier  foes, 
Nor  called  in  vain:  for  Douglas  came. 
—  For  life  is  Hugh  of  Larbert  lame; 
Scarce  better  John  of  Alloa's  fare, 
Whom  senseless  home  his  comrades  bear. 
Prize  of  the  wrestling  match,  the  King 
To  Douglas  gave  a  golden  ring," 
While  coldly  glanced  his  eye  of  blue, 
As  frozen  drop  of  wintry  dew. 
Douglas  would  speak,  but  in  his  breast 
His  struggling  soul  his  words  suppress'd; 
Indignant  then  he  turn'd  him  where 
Their  arms  the  brawny  yeomen  bare. 
To  hurl  the  massive  bar  in  air. 
When    each    his    utmost    strength    had 

shown. 
The  Douglas  rent  an  earth-fast  stone 
F>om  its  deep  bed,  then  heaved  it  high. 
And  sent  the  fragment  through  the  skir. 


A  rood  beyond  the  farthest  mark;  — 

And  still  in  Stirling's  royal  park. 

The  gray-hair'd  sires,  who  know  the  past. 

To  strangers  point  the  Douglas-cast, 

And  moralize  on  the  decay 

Of  Scottish  strength  in  modern  day. 

XXIV. 

The  vale  with  loud  applauses  rang, 
The  Ladies'  Rock  sent  back  the  clang. 
The  King,  with  look  unmoved,  bestow'd 
A  purse  well  fill'd  with  pieces  broad. 
Indignant  smiled  the  Douglas  proud. 
And  threw  the  gold  among  the  crowd. 
Who  now,  with  anxious  wonder,  scan. 
And  sharper  glance,  the  dark  gray  man; 
Till  whispers  rose  among  the  throng. 
That  heart  so  free,  and  hand  so  strong, 
Must  to  the  Douglas  blood  belong; 
The  old  men  mark'd,  and  shook  the  head. 
To  see  his  hair  with  silver  spread. 
And  wink'd  aside,  and  told  each  son, 
Of  feats  upon  the  English  done, 
Ere  Douglas  of  the  stalwart  hand 
Was  exiled  from  his  native  land. 
The  women  praised  his  stately  form. 
Though    wreck'd    by    many    a   winter's 

storm  ! 
The  youth  with  awe  and  wonder  saw 
His  strength  surpassing  Nature's  law. 
Thus  judged,  as  is  their  wont,  the  crowd, 
Till  murmur  rose  to  clamors  loud. 
But  not  a  glance  from  that  proud  ring 
Of  peers  who  circled  round  the  King, 
With  Douglas  held  communion  kind. 
Or  call'd  the  banish'd  man  to  mind; 
No,  not  from  those  who,  at  the  chase. 
Once  held  his  side  the  honor'd  place, 
Begirt  his  Ixtard,  and,  in  the  field. 
Found  safety  underneath  his  shield; 
For  he,  whom  royal  eyes  disown. 
When  was  his  form  to  courtiers  known ! 


The  Monarch  saw  the  gambols  flag. 
And  bade  let  loose  a  gallant  stag. 
Whose  pride,  the  holiday  to  crown. 
Two    favorite    greyhounds    should    pull 

down. 
That  venison  free,  and  Bordeaux  wine. 
Might  serve  the  archery  to  dine. 
But  Lufra,  —  whom  from  Douglas'  side 
Nor  bribe  nor  threat  could  e'er  divide, 


1 68 


THE  LADY   OF   THE  LAKE. 


Canto  V« 


The  fleetest  hound  in  all  the  North,  — 
Brave  Lufra  saw,  and  darted  forth. 
She  left  the  royal  hounds  mid-way, 
And  dashing  on  the  antler'd  prey. 
Sunk  her  sharp  muzzle  in  his  flank, 
And  deep  the  flowing  life-blood  drank. 
The  King's  stout  huntsman  saw  the  sport 
By  strange  intruder  broken  short. 
Came  up,  and  with  his  leash  unbound. 
In  anger  struck  the  noble  hound. 
—  The  Douglas  had  endured,  that  morn, 
The  King's  cold  look,  the  nobles'  scorn, 
And  last,  and  worst  to  spirit  proud, 
Had  borne  the  pity  of  the  crowd; 
But  Lufra  had  been  fondly  bred. 
To  share  his  board,  to  watch  his  bed, 
And  oft  would  Ellen  Lufra's  neck 
In  maiden  glee  with  garlands  deck; 
They  were  such  playmates,  that  with  name 
Of  Lufra,  Ellen's  image  came. 
His  stifled  wrath  is  brimming  high, 
In  darken'd  brow  and  flashing  eye: 
As  waves  before  the  bark  divide, 
The  crowd  gave  way  before  his  stride; 
Needs  but  a  buffet  and  no  more. 
The  groom  lies  senseless  in  his  gore. 
Such  blow  no  other  hand  could  deal. 
Though  gauntleted  in  glove  of  steel. 


Then  clamor'd  loud  the  royal  train. 
And  brandish'd  swords  and  staves  amain. 
Butstern  the  Baron's  warning:  —  "Back  ! 
Back,  on  your  lives,  ye  menial  pack ! 
Beware  the  Douglas.  — Yes!   behold, 
King  James!  the  Douglas,  doom'd  of  old. 
And  vainly  sought  for  near  and  far, 
A  victim  to  atone  the  war, 
A  willing  victim,  now  attends. 
Nor    craves     thy     grace    but     for     his 

friends."  — 
"  Thus  is  my  clemency  repaid? 
Presumptuous  Lord  !  "  the  monarch  said; 
"  Of  thy  misproud  ambitious  clan, 
Thou,  James  of  Bothwell,  wert  the  man. 
The  only  man,  in  whom  a  foe 
My  woman-mercy  would  not  know : 
But  shall  a  Monarch's  presence  brook 
Injurious  blow,  and  haughty  look?  — 
What  ho  !   the  Captain  of  our  Guard  ! 
Give  the  offender  fitting  ward,  — 
Break  off  the  sports  !  "  —  for  tumult  rose. 
And  yeomen  'gan  to  bend  their  bows,  — 


"Break  off  the    sports!"  he  said,  and 

frown'd, 
"  And    bid    our     horsemen     clear    the 

ground," 


Then  uproar  wild  and  misarray 
Marr'd  the  fair  form  of  festal  day. 
The  horsemen  prick'd  among  the  crowd, 
Kepell'd  by  threats  and  insult  loud; 
To  earth  are  borne  the  old  and  weak. 
The  timorous  fly,  the  women  shriek ; 
With  flint,  with  shaft,  with  staff,  with  bar, 
The  hardier  urge  tumultuous  war. 
At  once  round  Douglas  darkly  sweep 
The  royal  spears  in  circle  deep, 
And  slowly  scale  the  pathway  steep; 
While  on  the  rear  in  thunder  pour 
The  rabble  with  disorder'd  roar. 
With  grief  the  noble  Douglas  saw 
The  Commons  rise  against  the  law. 
And  to  the  leading  soldier  said :  — 
"Sir  John  of  Hyndford !  'twas  my  blade 
That  knighthood  on  thy  shoulder  laid; 
For  that  good  deed,  permit  me  then 
A  word  with  these  misguided  men :  — 


"  Hear,  gentle  friends!  ere  yet  for  me 

Ye  break  the  bands  of  fealty. 

My  life,  my  honor,  and  my  cause, 

I  tender  free  to  Scotland's  laws. 

Are  these  so  weak  as  must  require 

The  aid  of  your  misguided  ire  ! 

Or,  if  I  suffer  causeless  wrong. 

Is  then  my  selfish  rage  so  strong, 

My  sense  of  public  weal  so  low, 

That,  for  mean  vengeance  on  a  foe. 

Those  chords  of  love  I  should  unbind. 

Which  knit  my  country  and  my  kind  ? 

Oh  no !  Believe,  in  yonder  tower 

It  will  not  sooth  my  captive  hour, 

To  know  those   spears  our    foes  should 

dread. 
For  me  in  kindred  gore  are  red; 
To  know,  in  fruitless  brawl  begun. 
For  me,  that  mother  wails  her  son; 
For  me,  that  widow's  mate  expires; 
For  me,  that  orphans  weep  their  sires; 
That  patriots  mourn  insulted  laws, 
And  curse  the  Douglas  for  the  cause. 
O  let  your  patience  ward  such  ill, 
And  keep  your  right  to  love  me  still !  " 


Canto  V. 


THE    COMBAT. 


169 


XXIX. 
The  crowd's  wild  fury  sunk  again 
In  tears,  as  tempests  melt  in  rain. 
With  lifted  hands  and  eyes,  they  pray'd 
For  blessings  on  his  generous  head, 
Who  for  his  country  felt  alone. 
And  prized  her  blood  beyond  his  own. 
Old  men,  upon  the  verge  of  life, 
Bless'd  him  who  staid  the  civil  strife; 
And  mothers  held  their  babes  on  high, 
The  self-devoted  Chief  to  spy. 
Triumphant  over  wrongs  and  ire. 
To  whom  the  prattlers  owed  a  sire : 
Even    the    rough    soldier's    heart    was 

moved ; 
As  if  behind  some  bier  beloved, 
With  trailing  arms  and  drooping  head. 
The  Douglas  up  the  hill  he  led. 
And  at  the  Castle's  battled  verge 
With  sighs  resign 'd  his  honor 'd  charge. 

XXX. 

The  offended  Monarch  rode  apart. 
With  bitter  thought  and  swelling  heart. 
And  would  not  now  vouchsafe  again 
Through    Stirling    streets    to    lead    his 

train. 
"O  Lennox,  who  would  wish  to  rule 
This  changeling  crowd,  this  common  fool  ? 
Hear'st  thou,"    he   said,  "the  loud  ac- 
claim, 
With  which  they  shout  the  Douglas' name  ? 
With  like  acclaim,  the  vulgar  throat 
Strain'd  for  King  James   their  morning 

note; 
With  like  acclaim  they  hail'd  the  day 
When  first  I  broke  the  Douglas'  sway; 
And  like  acclaim  would  Douglas  greet, 
If  he  could  hurl  me  from  my  seat. 
Who  o'er  the  herd  would  wish  to  reign, 
Fantastic,  fickle,  fierce,  and  vain ! 
Vain  as  the  leaf  upon  the  stream. 
And  fickle  as  a  changeful  dream; 
Fantastic  as  a  woman's  mood. 
And  fierce  as  Frenzy's  fever'd  blood. 
Thou  many-headed  monster-thing, 

0  who  would  wish  to  be  thy  king  ! 

XXXI. 
"But  soft !  what  messenger  of  speed 
Spurs  hitherward  his  panting  steed  ? 

1  guess  his  cognizance  afar  — 

What  from  our  cousin,  John  of  Mar?  '' 


"  He  prays,  my  liege,  your  sports  keep 

bound 
Within  the  safe  and  guarded  ground: 
For  some  foul  purpose  yet  unknown,  — 
Most  sure  for  evil  to  the  throne,  — 
The  outlaw'd  Chieftain,  Roderick  Dhu, 
Has  summon 'd  his  rebellious  crew; 
'Tis  said,  in  James  of  Bothwell's  aid 
These  loose  banditti  stand  array'd. 
The  Earl  of  Mar,  this  morn,  from  Doune, 
To    break    their    muster    march 'd,    and 

soon 
Your  grace  will  hear  of  battle  fought; 
But  earnestly  the  Earl  besought. 
Till  for  such  danger  he  provide, 
With  scanty  train  you  will  not  ride."  — 

XXXII. 

"Thou  warn'st  me  I  have  done  amiss,  — 
I  should  have  earlier  look'd  to  this: 
I  lost  it  in  this  bustling  day. 
—  Retrace  with  speed  thy  former  way; 
Spare  not  for  spoiling  of  thy  steed. 
The  best  of  mine  shall  be  thy  meed. 
Say  to  our  faithful  Lord  of  Mar, 
We  do  forbid  the  intended  war : 
Roderick,  this  morn,  in  single  fight, 
VVas  made  our  prisoner  by  a  knight; 
And  Douglas  hath  himself  and  cause 
Submitted  to  our  kingdom's  laws. 
The  tidings  of  their  leaders  lost 
Will  soon  dissolve  the  mountain  host. 
Nor  would  we  that  the  vulgar  feel. 
For  their  Chief's  crimes,  avenging  steel. 
Bear  Mar  our  message,  Braco:   fly  !  " 
He    turn'd    his   steed,  —  "My    liege,  I 

hie. — 
Yet,  ere  I  cross  this  lily  lawn, 
I  fear  the  broadswords  will  be  drawn." 
The  turf  the  flying  courser  spurn'd. 
And  to  his  towers  the  King  return'd. 


Ill  with  King  James's  mood  that  day 
Suited  gay  feast  and  minstrel  lay; 
Soon  were  dismiss'd  the  courtly  throng, 
And  soon  cut  short  the  festal  song. 
Nor  less  upon  the  sadden'd  town 
The  evening  sunk  in  sorrow  down. 
The  burghers  spoke  of  civil  jar. 
Of  rumor'd  feuds  and  mountain  war, 
Of  Moray,  Mar,  and  Roderick  Dhu, 
All  up  in  arms: — the  Douglas  too. 


I70 


THE  LADY   OF   THE   LAKE. 


Canto  VI. 


They  moiirn'd  him  pent  within  the  hold, 
"  Where     stout   Earl     William    was    of 

old,"  —  * 
And  there  his  word  the  speaker  staid, 
And  finger  on  his  lip  he  laid, 
Or  pointed  to  his  dagger  blade. 
But  jaded  horsemen,  from  the  west, 
At  evening  to  the  Castle  press'd; 
And  busy  talkers  said  they  bore 
Tidings  of  fight  on  Katrine's  shore; 
At  noon  the  deadly  fray  begun, 
And  lasted  till  the  set  of  sun. 
Thus  giddy  rumor  shook  the  town, 
Till  closed  the  Night  her  pennons  brown. 


CANTO   SIXTH. 

THE    GUARD-ROOM. 
I. 

The  sun,  awakening,  through  the  smoky 
air 
Of  the  dark  city  casts  a  sullen  glance. 
Rousing  each  caitiff  to  his  task  of  care, 

Of  sinful  man  the  sad  inheritance; 
Summoning    revellers   from   the   lagging 
dance, 
Scaring  the  prowling  robber  to  his  den ; 
Gilding  on  battled   tower   the  warder's 
lance, 
And  warning  student  pale  to  leave  his 
pen. 
And  yield  his  drowsy  eyes  to  the  kind 
nurse  of  men. 

What  various  scenes,  and  O !  what  scenes 
of  woe, 
Are  witness'd  by  that  red  and  struggling 
beam '. 
The  fever*d  patient  from  his  pallet  low. 
Through   crowded   hospital  beholds  it 
stream; 
The  ruin'd  maiden  trembles  at  its  gleam. 
The  debtor  wakes  to  thought  of  gyve 
and  jail, 
The  love-lorn  wretch  starts  from  torment- 
ing dream; 
The  wakeful  mother,  by  the  glimmer- 
ing pale. 
Trims  her  sick  infant's  couch,  and  soothes 
his  feeble  wail. 

•  He  had  been  stabbed  by  Jaines  II.  iu  Stir- 
ling Castle. 


At  dawn  the  towers  of  Stirling  rang 

With  soldier-step  and  weapon-clang, 

While  drums,  with  rolling  note,  foretell 

Relief  to  weary  sentinel. 

Through  narrow  loop  and  casement  barr'd, 

The  sunbeams  sought  the  Court  of  Guard, 

And,  struggling  with  the  smoky  air. 

Deaden 'd  the  torches'  yellow  glare. 

In  comfortless  alliance  shone 

The    lights   through   arch   of    blacken 'd 

stone, 
And  show'd  wild  shapes  in  gaib  of  war. 
Faces  deform'd  with  beard  and  scar, 
All  haggard  from  the  midnight  watch, 
And  fever'd  with  the  stern  debauch; 
For  the  oak  table's  massive  board. 
Flooded  with  wine,  with  fragments  stored, 
And  beakers  drain'd,  and  cups  o'erthrown, 
Show'd    in    what    sport    the    night    had 

flown. 
Some,  weary,  snored  on  floor  and  bench; 
.Some  lalxjr'd  still  their  thirst  to  quench; 
Some,  chill 'd  with  watching,  spread  their 

hands 
O'er  the  huge  chimney's  dying  brands. 
While  round  them,  or  beside  them  flung. 
At  every  step  their  harness  rung. 


These  drew  not  for  their  fields  the  sword. 
Like  tenants  of  a  feudal  lord, 
Nor  own'd  the  patriarchal  claim 
Of  chieftain  in  their  leader's  name; 
Adventurers  they,  from  far  wh(3  roved. 
To  live  by  battle  which  they  loved. *•* 
There  the  Italian's  clouded  face; 
The  swarthy  Spaniard's  there  you  trace; 
The  mountain-loving  Switzer  ther>; 
More  freely  breathed  in  mountain  air; 
The  Fleming  there  despised  the  soil. 
That  paid  so  ill  the  laborer's  toil; 
Their   rolls  showed   French  and  German 

name; 
And  merry  England's  exiles  came. 
To  share,  with  ill-concealed  disdain, 
Of  Scotland's  pay  tlie  scanty  gain. 
All  brave  in  arms,  well  train'd  to  wield 
The  heavy  lialberd,  brand,  and  shield; 
In  camps  licentious,  wild,  and  bold; 
In  pillage  fierce  and  unconfroH'd; 
And  now,  by  holylide  and  feast, 
From  rules  of  discipline  released. 


Canto  VI. 


THE    GUARD-ROOM. 


171 


They  held  debate  of  bloody  fray. 
Fought  'Iwixt  Loch  Katrine  and  Achray. 
Fierce  was  their  speech,  and,  mid  their 

words. 
Their  hands  oft  grappled  to  their  swords ; 
Nor  sunk  their  tone  to  spare  the  ear 
Of  wounded  comrades  groaning  near. 
Whose  mangled  limbs,  and  bodies  gored. 
Bore  token  of  the  mountain  sword. 
Though,    neighboring    to    the    Court    of 

Guard, 
Their    prayers   and    feverish   wails   were 

heard ! 
Sad  burden  to  the  ruffian  joke, 
And  savage  oath  by  fury  spoke  !  — 
At  length  up-started  John  of  Brent, 
A  yeoman  from  the  banks  of  Trent; 
A  stranger  to  respect  or  fear. 
In  peace  a  chaser  of  the  deer. 
In  host  a  hardy  mutineer. 
But  still  the  boldest  of  the  crew. 
When  deed  of  danger  was  to  do. 
He    grieved,  that    day,  their    games   cut 

short. 
And  marr'd  the  dicer's  brawling  sport, 
And  shouted  loud:  —  "  Renew  the  bowl ! 
And,  while  a  merry  catch  I  troll, 
I>ct  each  the  buxom  chorus  bear. 
Like  brethren  of  the  brand  and  spear." 


V. 

soldier's  song. 

Our   vicar  still  preaches  that   Peter    and 

Poule 
Laid  a  swinging  long  curse  on  the  bonny 

brown  bowl, 
That    there's   wrath    and   despair    in   the 

Ixjnny  black-jack. 
And  the  seven  deadly  sins  in  a  flagon  of 

sack; 
Vet  whoop,  Barnaby !  off  with  thy  liquor. 
Drink  upsees*  out,  and  a  fig  for  the  vicar  ! 

Our  vicar  he  calls  it  damnation  to  sip 
The  ripe  ruddy  dew  of  a  woman's  dear  lip. 
Says  that  Beelzebub  lurks  in  her  kerchief 

so  sly. 
And  Apollyon  shoots  darts  from  her  merry 

black  eye. 

•  A  Dutdi  health,  or  drinking  word. 


Vet  whoop.  Jack  !  kiss  Gillian  the  quicker, 
Till  she  bloom  like  a  rose,  and  a  fig  for  the 
vicar ! 

Our  vicar  thus  preaches — and  why  should 

he  not? 
For  the  dues  of  his  cure  are  the  placket 

and  pot; 
And  'tis  right  of  his  office  poor  laymen 

to  lurch. 
Who  infringe  the  domains  of  our  good 

Mother  Church. 
Yet   whoop,  bully-boys !    off    with  your 

liquor, 
Sweet  Marjorie's  the  word,  and  a  fig  for 

the  vicar ! 


The  warder's  challenge,  heard  without, 
Staid  in  mid-roar  the  merry  shout. 
A  soldier  to  the  portal  went,  — 
"  Here  is  old  Bertram,  sirs,  of  Ghent, 
And,  —  beat  for  jubilee  the  drum  ! 
A  maid  and  minstrel  with  him  come." 
Bertram,  a  Fleming,  gray  and  scarr'd. 
Was  entering  now  the  Court  of  Guard, 
A  harper  with  him,  and  in  plaid, 
All  muffled  close,  a  mountain  maid. 
Who  backward  shrunk  to  'scape  the  view 
Of  the  loose  scene  and  boisterous  crew. 
"What  news?  "  they  roar'd:  —  "I  only 

know. 
From  noon  till  eve  we  fought  with  foe, 
As  wild  and  as  untamable 
As  the  rude  mountains  where  they  dwell; 
On  both  sides  store  of  blood  is  lost. 
Nor  much  success  can  either  boast." 
"  But  whence  thy  captives,  friend?  such 

spoil 
As  theirs  must  needs  reward  thy  toil. 
Old  dost  thou  wax,  and  wars  grow  sharp; 
Thou  now  hast  glee-maiden  and  harp ! 
Get  thee  an  ape,  and  trudge  the  land. 
The  leader  of  a  juggler  band."** 

VII. 

"No,  comrade; — no  such  fortune  mine. 
After  the  fight  these  sought  our  line. 
That  aged  harper  and  the  girl. 
And,  having  audience  of  the  Earl, 
Mar  bade  I  should  purvey  them  steed. 
And  bring  them  hitherward  with  speed. 


172 


THE  LADY  OF   THE   LAKE. 


Canto  VI. 


Forbear  your  mirth  and  rude  alarm, 
For  none  shall  do  them  shame  or  harm." 
"  Hear  ye   his   boast  ?  "    cried  John    of 

Brent, 
Ever  to  strife  and  jangling  bent; 
"Shall  he  strike  doe  beside  our  lodge, 
And  yet  the  jealous  niggard  grudge 
To  pay  the  forester  his  fee? 
I'll  have  my  share,  howe'er  it  be. 
Despite  of  Moray,  Mar,  or  thee." 
Bertram  his  forward  step  withstood; 
And,  burning  with  his  vengeful  mood. 
Old  Allan,  though  unfit  for  strife. 
Laid  hand  upon  his  dagger-knife; 
But  Ellen  boldly  stcpp'd  between, 
And  dropp'd  at  once  the  tartan  screen :  — 
So,  from  his  morning  cloud,  appears 
The  sun  of  May,  through  summer  tears. 
The  savage  soldiery,  amazed, 
As  on  descended  angel  gazed; 
Even  hardy  Brent,  abash'd  and  tamed, 
Stood  half  admiring,  half  ashamed. 


Boldly  she  spoke :  —  "  Soldiers,  attend  ! 

My  father  was  the  soldier's  friend; 

Cheer'd  him  in  camps,  in  marches  led. 

And  with  him  in  the  battle  bled. 

Not  from  the  valiant,  or  the  strong, 

Should  exile's  daughter  suffer  wrong."  — 

Answer'd  De  Brent,  most  forward  still 

In  every  feat  or  good  or  ill :  — 

"  I  shame  me  of  the  part  I  play'd; 

And  thou  an  outlaw's  child,  poor  maid  ! 

An  outlaw  I  by  forest  laws, 

And  merry  Needwood  knows  the  cause. 

Poor  Rose, — if  Rose  be  living  now,"  — 

He  wiped  his  iron  eye  and  brow,  — 

"  Must  l)ear  such  age,  I  think,  as  thou. — 

Hear  ye,  my  mates;    I  go  to  call 

The  Captain  of  our  watch  to  hall : 

There  lies  my  halberd  on  the  floor; 

And  he  that  steps  my  halberd  o'er, 

To  do  the  maid  injurious  part, 

My  shaft  shall  quiver  in  his  heart !  — 

Beware  loose  speech,  or  jesting  rough :  — 

Ye  all  know  John  de  Brent.     Enough." 


Their  Captain  came,  a  gallant  young,  — 
(Of  Tullibardine's  house  he  sprung,) 
Nor  wore  he  yet  the  spurs  of  knight; 
Gay  was  his  mien,  his  humor  light, 


And,  though  l)y  courtesy  controll'd. 
Forward  his  speech,  his  bearing  bold. 
The  high-born  maiden  ill  could  brook 
The  scanning  of  his  curious  look 
And  dauntless  eye; — and  yet,  in  sooth, 
Young  Lewis  was  a  generous  youth; 
But  Ellen's  lovely  face  and  mien, 
111  suited  to  the  garb  and  scene, 
Might  lightly  bear  construction  strange, 
And  give  loose  fancy  scope  to  range. 
"  Welcome  to  Stirling  towers,  fair  maid! 
Come  ye  to  seek  a  champion's  aid, 
On  palfrey  white,  with  harper  hoar. 
Like  errant  damosel  of  yore  ? 
Does  thy  high  quest  a  knight  require, 
Or  may  the  venture  suit  a  squire?  " 
Her  dark  eye  flash'd;  —  she  paused  and 

sigh'd:  — 
"  O  what  have  I  to  do  with  pride  ! 
Through  scenes  of    sorrow,  shame,  and 

strife, 
A  suppliant  for  a  father's  life, 
I  crave  an  audience  of  the  King. 
Behold,  to  back  my  suit,  a  ring. 
The  royal  pledge  of  grateful  claims. 
Given  by  the  Monarch  to  Fitz-James." 


The  signet-ring  young  Lewis  took. 

With  deep  respect  and  alter'd  look; 

And  said :  —  "  This  ring  our  duties  own; 

And  pardon,  if  to  worth  unknown. 

In  semblance  mean  obscurely  veil'd. 

Lady,  in  aught  my  folly  fail'd. 

Soon  as  the  day  flings  wide  his  gates, 

The  King  shall  know  what  suitor  waits. 

Please  you,  meanwhile,  in  fitting  bo'ver 

Repose  you  till  his  waking  hour; 

Female  attendance  shall  obey 

Your  hest,  for  service  or  array. 

Permit  I  marshal  you  the  way." 

But,  ere  she  follow'd,  with  the  grace 

And  open  lx>unty  of  her  race. 

She  bade  her  slender  purse  be  shared 

Among  the  soldiers  of  the  guard. 

The  rest  with  thanks  their  guerdon  took; 

But  Brent,  with  shy  and  awkward  look, 

On  the  reluctant  maiden's  hold 

Forced  bluntly  back  the  proffer'd  gold  :  — 

"  Forgive  a  haughty  English  heart. 

And  O  forget  its  ruder  part ! 

The  vacant  purse  shall  be  my  share, 

Which  in  my  barret-cap  I'll  bear. 


CANTO   VI. 


THE    GUARD-ROOM. 


^11 


Perchance,  in  jeopardy  of  war, 
Where  gayer  crests  may  keep  afar." 
With  thanks — 'twas  all  she  could  —  the 

maid 
His  rugged  courtesy  repaid. 


When  Ellen  forth  with  Lewis  went, 
Allan  made  suit  to  John  of  Brent:  — 
"  My  lady  safe,  O  let  your  grace 
Ciive  me  to  see  my  master's  face ! 
His  minstrel  I,  —  to  share  his  doom 
Bound  from  the  cradle  to  the  tomb. 
Tenth  in  descent,  since  first  my  sires 
Waked  for  his  noble  house  their  lyres, 
Nor  one  of  all  the  race  was  known 
But  prized  its  weal  alx)ve  their  own. 
With  the  Chief's  birth  begins  our  care; 
Our  harp  must  soothe  the  infant  heir. 
Teach    the    youth    tales    of    fight,    and 

grace 
His  earliest  feat  of  field  or  chase; 
In  peace,  in  war,  ouv  rank  we  keep, 
We  cheer  his  board,  we  soothe  his  sleep. 
Nor  leave  him  till  we  pour  our  verse  — 
A  doleful  tribute  !  —  o'er  his  hearse. 
Then  let  me  share  his  captive  lot; 
It  is  my  right  — deny  it  not !  "  — 
"  Little  we  reck,"  said  John  of  Brent, 
"  We  Southern  men,  of  long  descent; 
Nor  wot  we  how  a  name  —  a  word  — 
Makes  clansmen  vassals  to  a  lord: 
Vet  kind  my  noble  landlord's  part, — 
God  bless  the  house  of  Beaudesert ! 
And,  but  I  loved  to  drive  the  deer. 
More  than  to  guide  the  laboring  steer, 
I  had  not  dwelt  an  outcast  here. 
Come,  good  old  Minstrel,  follow  me; 
Thy  Lord  and  Chieftain  shall  thou  see." 


Then,  from  a  rusted  iron  hook, 
A  bunch  of  ponderous  keys  he  took, 
Lighted  a  torch,  and  Allan  led 
Through  grated  arch  and  passage  dread. 
Portals  theypass'd,  where,  deep  within, 
Spoke  prisoner's  moan,  and  fetters'  din; 
Through  rugged  vaults,   where,  loosely 

stored, 
Lay   wheel,  and   axe,   and   headsman's 

sword. 
And  many  an  hideous  engine  grim. 
For  wrenching  joint,  and  crushing  limb,  I 


By  artist  form'd,  who  deem'd  it  shame 
And  sin  to  give  their  work  a  name. 
They  halted  at  a  low-brow'd  porch, 
And  Brent  to  Allan  gave  the  torch, 
While  bolt  and  chain  he  backward  roll'd. 
And  made  the  bar  unhasp  its  hold. 
They  enter'd:  —  'twas  a  prison-room 
Of  stern  security  and  gloom. 
Vet  not  a  dungeon;  for  the  day 
Through  lofty  gratings  found  its  way. 
And  rude  and  antique  garniture 
Deck'd  the  sad  walls  and  oaken  floor; 
Such  as  the  rugged  days  of  old 
Deem'd  fit  for  captive  noble's  hold. 
"Here,"  said  De  Brent,  "thou  mayst 

remain 
Till  the  Leech  visit  him  again. 
Strict  is  his  charge,  the  warders  tell, 
To  tend  the  noble  prisoner  well." 
Retiring  then,  the  bolt  he  drew. 
And  the  lock's  murmurs  growl'd  anew. 
Roused  at  the  sound,  from  lowly  bed 
A  captive  feebly  raised  his  head; 
The    wondering    Minstrel    look'd,  and 

knew  — 
Not  his  dear  lord,  but  Roderick  Dhu! 
For,    come     from    where    Clan-Alpine 

fought, 
They,  erring,  deem'd  the  Chief  he  sought. 


As  the  tall  ship,  whose  lofty  prore 
Shall  never  stem  the  billows  more. 
Deserted  by  her  gallant  band, 
Amid  the  breakers  lies  astrand,  — 
So,  on  his  couch,  lay  Roderick  Dhu ! 
And  oft  his  fever'd  limbs  he  threw 
In  toss  abrupt,  as  when  her  sides 
Lie  rocking  in  the  advancing  tides. 
That    shake    her    frame    with    ceaseless 

beat. 
Yet  cannot  heave  her  from  her  seat;  — 
O  !  how  unlike  her  course  at  sea ! 
Or  his  free  step  on  hill  and  lea !  — 
Soon  as  the  Minstrel  he  could  scan:  — 
"  What  of  thy  lady?  — of  my  clan?  — 
My  mother  ?  —  Douglas  ?  —  tell  me  all  I 
Have  they  been  ruin'd  in  my  fall? 
Ah,  yes!  or  wherefore  art  thou  here? 
Vet   speak,  —  speak    boldly,  —  do    not 

fear."  — 
(For  Allan,  who  his  mood  well  knew, 
Was  choked  with  grief  and  terror  too.)  — 


174 


THE  LADY   OF  THE  LAKE. 


Canto  V^L 


"Who  fought — who  fled?  —  Old  man, 

be  brief;  — 
Some    miglit  —  for    they    had    lost   their 

Chief. 
Who  basely  live  ? — who  bravely  died  ?" — 
'■O   calm   thee,    Chief!"    the    Minstrel 

cried, 
"Ellei   is    safe!"  —  "For    that,   thank 

Heaven  !  "  — 
"  And  liopes  are  for  the  Douglas  given;  — 
The  f^ady  Margaret,  too,  is  well; 
And,  for  thy  clan,  ^on  field  or  fell. 
Has  never  harp  of  minstrel  told. 
Of  combat  fought  so  true  and  bold. 
Thy  stately  Pine  is  yet  unl>ent, 
rhough  many  a  goodly  bough  is  rent." 


The  Chieftain  rear'd  his  form  on  high. 
And  fever's  fire  was  in  his  eye; 
But  ghastly,  pale,  and  livid  streaks 
Checker'd  his  swarthy  brow  and  cheeks. 
— •"  Hark,  Minstrel!    I  have  heard  thee 

play, 
With  measure  bold,  on  festal  day. 
In  yon  lone  isle,   .   .    .   again  where  ne'er 
Shall  harper  play,  or  warrior  hear  !    .   .   . 
That  stirring  air  that  peals  on  high. 
O'er  Dermid's  race  our  victory.  — 
Strike  it!^' — -and  then,  (for  well  thou 

canst,) 
Free  from  thy  minstrel- spirit  glanced. 
Fling  me  the  picture  of  the  fight, 
When  met  my  clan  the  Saxon  miglit. 
I'll  listen,  till  my  fancy  hears 
The  clang  of  swords,  the  crash  of  spears  ! 
These   grates,   these   walls,   shall  vanish 

then. 
For  the  fair  field  of  fighting  men. 
And  my  free  spirit  burst  away. 
As  if  it  soar'd  from  battle  fray." 
The  trembling  Bard  with  awe  obey'd,  — 
Slow  on  the  harp  his  hand  he  laid; 
But  soon  remembrance  of  the  sight 
He  witness'd  from  the  mountain's  height. 
With  what  old  Bertram  told  at  night, 
Awaken'd  the  full  power  of  song. 
And  bore  him  in  career  along;  — 
As  shallop  launch'd  on  river's  tide, 
That  slow  and  fearful  leaves  the  side, 
But,  when  it  feels  the  middle  stream, 
Drives    downward    swift    as    lightning's 

beam. 


BATTLE  OF   BEAL'    AN    DUINE.*! 

"The  Minstrel  came  once  more  to  vfew 
The  eastern  ridge  of  Benvenue, 
For,  ere  he  parted,  he  would  say 
Farewell  to  lovely  Loch  Achray  — 
Where  shall  he  find,  in  foreign  land. 
So  lone  a  lake,  so  sweet  a  strand  ! 
There  is  no  breeze  upon  the  fern. 

Nor  ripple  on  the  lake. 
Upon  her  eyry  nods  the  erne. 

The  tleer  has  sought  the  brake; 
'l"he  small  birds  will  not  sing  aloud. 

The  springing  trout  lies  still, 
So  darkly  glooms  yon  thunder  cloud, 
That  swathes,  as  with  a  purple  shroud, 

Benledi's  distant  hill. 
Is  it  the  thunder's  solemn  sound 
That  mutters  deep  and  dread. 
Or  echoes  from  the  groaning  ground 

The  warrior's  measured  tread? 
Is  it  the  lightning's  quivering  glance 

That  on  the  thicket  streams. 
Or  do  they  flash  on  spear  and  lance 
The  sun's  retiring  beams? 
—  I  see  the  dagger-crest  of  Mar, 
I  see  the  Moray's  silver  star, 
Wave  o'er  the  cloud  of  Saxon  war. 
That  up  the  lake  comes  winding  far ! 
To  hero  boune  for  battle-strife. 

Or  bard  of  martial  lay, 
'Twere  worth  ten  years  of  peaceful  life, 
One  glance  at  their  array ! 


"Their    light-aim'd    archers    far    and 
near 

.Survey'd  the  tangled  ground. 
Their    centre    ranks,    with    pike    and 
spear, 

A  twilight  forest  frown'd, 
Their  barded  horsemen,  in  the  rear. 

The  stern  battalia  crown'd. 
No  cymbal  clash'd,  no  clarion  rang. 

Still  were  the  pipe  and  drum; 
Save  heavy  tread,  and  armor's  clang. 

The  sullen  march  was  dumb. 
There  breathed  no  wind  their  crests  to 
shake, 

Or  wave  their  flags  abroad; 
Scarce  the  frail  aspen  seem'd  to  quake, 

That  shadow 'd  o'er  their  road. 


Canto  VI. 


THE   GUARD-ROOM. 


175 


Their  vaward  scouts  no  tidings  bring. 

Can  rouse  no  lurking  foe, 
Nor  spy  a  trace  of  living  thing, 

Save  when  they  stirr'd  the  roe; 
The  host  moves  like  a  deep-sea  wave, 
Where  rise  no  rocks  its  pride  to  brave, 
High-swelling,  dark,  and  slow. 
The  lake  is  pass'd,  and  now  they  gain 
A  narrow  and  a  broken  plain 
Before  the  Trosachs'  rugged  jaws; 
And  here  the  horse  and  spearmen  pause. 
While  to  explore  the  dangerous  glen, 
1  )ive  through  the  pass  the  archer-men. 


"  At  once  there  rose  so  wild  a  yell 
Within  that  dark  and  narrow  dell, 
As  all  the  fiends,  from  heaven  that  fell. 
Had  peal'd  the  banner-cry  of  hell ! 
Forth  from  the  pass  in  tumult  driven. 
Like  chaff  lx;fore  the  wind  of  heaven, 

The  archery  appear; 
For  life  !  for  life  !  their  flight  they  ply  — 
And  shriek,  and  shout,  and  V)attle-cry, 
And  plaids  and  bonnets  waving  high. 
And  broadswords  flashing  to  the  sky. 

Are  maddening  in  the  rear. 
Onward  they  drive,  in  dreadful  race, 

Pursuers  and  pursued; 
Before  that  tide  of  flight  and  chase. 
How  shall  it  keep  its  rooted  place. 

The  spearmen's  twilight  wood?  — 
'Down,    down,'     cried     Mar,    'your 
lances  down  ! 
Bear  l>ack  both  friend  and  foe  !  '  — 
Like  reeds  Ijefore  the  tempest's  frown. 
That  serried  grove  of  lances  brown 

At  once  lay  levell'd  low; 
And  closely  shouldering  side  to  side. 
The  bristling  ranks  the  onset  bide.  — 
'  We'll  quell  the  savage  mountaineer. 
As  their  Tinchel  *  cows  the  game ! 
They  come  as  fleet  as  forest  deer, 
We'll  drive  them  back  as  tame.'  — 


"  Bearing  before  them,  in  their  course. 
The  relics  of  the  archer  force, 

*  A  circle  of  sportsmen,  who,  by  surrounding 
a  great  space,  and  gradually  narrowing,  brouglit 
immense  quantities  of  deer  together,  which 
usually  made  desperate  efforts  to  lireak  through 
the  Thutiel. 


Like  wave  with  crest  of  sparkling  foam. 
Right  onward  did  Qan-Alpine  come. 
Above  the  tide,  each  broadsword  bright 
Was  brandishing  like  beam  of  light, 

Each  targe  was  dark  below; 
And  with  the  ocean's  mighty  swing. 
When  heaving  to  the  tempest's  wing. 
They  hurl'd  them  on  the  foe. 
I  heard  the  lance's  shivering  crash, 
As  when  the  whirlwind  rends  the  ash, 
I  heard  the  broadsword's  deadly  clang, 
As  if  a  hundred  anvils  rang ! 

But  Moray  wheel 'd  his  rearward  rank 
Of  horsemen  on  Clan-Alpine's  flank, 
— '  My  banner-man,  advance  ! 
I  see,'  he  cried,  'their  column  shake.  — 
Now,  gallants  !  for  your  ladies'  sake 

Upon  them  with  the  lance  ! '  — 
The  horsemen  dash'd  among  the  rout. 

As  deer  break  through  the  broom; 

Their  steeds  are  stout,  their  swords  are 

out. 

They  soon  make  lightsome  room. 

Clan-Alpine's  best  are  backward  Iwrne: 

Where,  where  was  Roderick  then ! 
One  blast  upon  his  bugle-horn 

Were  worth  a  thousand  men  ! 
And  refluent  through  the  pass  of  fear 

The  battle's  tide  was  pour'd; 
Vanish'd  the  Saxon's  struggling  spear, 

Vanish'd  the  mountain-sword. 
AsBracklinn'schasm,soblack  and  steep 

Receives  her  roaring  linn, 
As  the  dark  caverns  of  the  deep 
Suck  the  wild  whirlpool  in, 
So  did  the  deep  and  darksome  pass 
l^evour  the  ])attle's  mingled  mass: 
None  linger  now  upon  the  plain, 
Save  those  who  ne'er  shall  fight  again. 


"  Now  westward  rolls  the  battle's  din, 
That  deep  and  doubling  pass  within. 
— Minstrel,  away,  th"  work  of  fate 
Is  bearing  on:  its  issue  wait. 
Where  the  rude  Trosachs'  dread  defile 
Opens  on  Katrine's  lake  and  isle.  — 
Gray  Benvenue  I  soon  repass'd, 
Loch  Katrine  lay  beneath  me  cast. 
The  sun  is  set;  — the  clouds  are  met, 

The  lowering  scowl  of  heaven 
An  inky  hue  of  vivid  blue 

To  the  deep  lake  has  given; 


176 


THE  LADY  OF   THE   LAKE. 


Canto  VI. 


Strange  gusts  of  wind  from  mountain-glen 
Swept  o'er  the  lake,  then  sunk  agen. 
I  heeded  not  the  eddying  surge, 
Mine  eye  but  saw  the  Trosachs'  gorge, 
Mine  ear  but  heard  the  sullen  sound, 
Which    like    an    earthquake    shook    the 

ground. 
And  spoke  the  stern  and  desperate  strife 
That  parts  not  but  with  parting  life, 
Seeming,  to  minstrel  ear,  to  toll 
The  dirge  of  many  a  passing  soul. 
Nearer  it  comes  —  the  dim-wood  glen 
The  martial  flood  disgorged  agen, 

But  not  in  mingled  tide; 
The  pi  aided  warriors  of  the  North 
High  on  the  mountain  thunder  forth 

And  overhang  its  side; 
While  by  the  lake  below  appears 
The  dark'ning  cloud  of  Saxon  spears. 
At  weary  bay  each  shatter'd  band. 
Eyeing  their  foemen,  sternly  stand; 
Their  banners  stream  like  tatter'd  sail. 
That  flings  its  fragments  to  the  gale, 
And  broken  arms  and  disarray 
Mark'd  the  fell  havoc  of  the  day. 


"Viewing  the  mountain's  ridge  askance. 
The  Saxon  stood  in  sullen  trance, 
Till  Moray  pointed  with  his  lance, 

And  cried :  —  '  Behold  yon  isle  !  — 
See !   none  are  left  to  guard  its  strand. 
But  women  weak,  that  wring  the  hand: 
'Tis  there  of  yore  the  robber  band 

Their  booty  wont  to  pile; 
My  purse,  with  bonnet  pieces  store. 
To  him  will  swim  a  bow-shot  o'er. 
And  loose  a  shallop  from  the  shore. 
Lightly  we'll  tame  the  war-wolf  then. 
Lords  of  his  mate,  and  brood  and  den." 
Forth  from  the  ranks  a  spearman  sprung. 
On  earth  his  casque  and  corslet  rung. 

He  plunged  him  in  the  wave :  — 
All  saw  the  deed  —  the  purpose  knew, 
And  to  their  clamors  Benvenue 

A  mingled  echo  gave; 
The  Saxons  shout,  their  mate  to  cheer. 
The  helpless  females  scream  for  fear, 
And  yells  for  rage  the  mountaineer. 
'Twas  then,  as  by  the  outcry  riven, 
Pour'd  down  at  once  the  loweringheaven ; 
A  whirlwind  swept  Loch  Katrine's  breast. 
Her  billows  rear'd  their  snowy  crest. 


Well  for  the  swimmer  swell'd  they  high. 
To  mar  the  Highland  marksman's  eye; 
For  round  him   shower'd,  mid   rain  and 

hail. 
The  vengeful  arrows  of  the  Gael.  — 
In  vain.  —  He  nears  the  isle —  and  lo  ! 
His  hand  is  on  a  shallop's  bow. 
—  Just  then  a  flash  of  lightning  came. 
It  tinged  the  waves  and  strand  with  flame  ! 
I  mark'd  Duncraggan's  widow'd  dame. 
Behind  an  oak  I  saw  her  stand, 
A  naked  dirk  gleam'd  in  her  hand: 
It  darken'd,  — but  amid  the  moan 
Of  waves,  I  heard  a  dying  groan; 
Another  flash  !  —  the  spearman  floats 
A  weltering  corse  beside  the  boats. 
And  the  stern  matron  o'er  him  stood, 
Her  hand  and  dagger  streaming  blood. 


"  '  Revenge  !     revenge  !  '     the      Saxons 

cried, 
The  Gaels'  exulting  shout  replied. 
Despite  the  elemental  rage, 
Again  they  hurried  to  engage; 
But,  ere  they  closed  in  desperate  fight, 
Bloody  with  spurring  came  a  knight. 
Sprung  from  his  horse,  and,  from  a  crag. 
Waved  'twixt  the  hosts  a  milk-white  flag. 
Clarion  and  trumpet  by  his  side 
Rung  forth  a  truce-note  high  and  wide. 
While,  in  the  Monarch's  name,  afar 
A  herald's  voice  forbade  the  war. 
For  Bothwell's  lord,  and  Roderick  bold, 
Were  both,  he  said,  in  captive  hold." 
—  But  here  the  lay  made  sudden  stand  !  — 
The  harp  escaped  the  Minstrel's  hand  !  — 
Oft  had  he  stolen  a  glance,  to  spy 
How  Roderick  brook'd  his  minstrels)': 
At  first,  the  Chieftain,  to  the  chime, 
With  lifted  hand  kept  feeble  time; 
That  motion  ceased,  — yet  feeling  strong. 
Varied  his  look  as  changed  the  song; 
At  length,  no  more  his  deafen'd  ear 
The  minstrel  melody  can  hear; 
His   face  grows  sharp, — his  hands  are 

clench'd, 
As    if     some    pJing    his      heart-strings 

wrench'd; 
Set  are  his  teeth,  his  fading  eye 
Is  sternly  fix'd  on  vacancy; 
Thus  motionless,  and  moanless,  drew 
His  parting  breath,  stout  Roderick  Dhu  ! 


Canto  VI. 


THE   GUARD-ROOM. 


177 


Old  Allan-Bane  look'd  on  aghast. 
While  grim  and  still  his  spirit  pass'd: 
But  when  he  saw  that  life  was  fled, 
He  pour'd  his  wailing  o'er  the  dead. 

XXII. 

LAMENT. 
"  And  art  thou  cold  and  lowly  laid, 
Thy  foeman's  dread,  thy  people's  aid, 
Breadalbane's  boast, Clan-Alpine's  shade  ! 
for  thee  shall  none  a  requiem  say? 
— Forthee, — who  loved  the  minstrel'slay. 
For  thee,  of  Bothwell's  house  the  stay. 
The  shelter  of  her  exiled  line. 
E'en  in  this  prison-house  of  thine, 
I'll  wail  for  Alpine's  honor'd  Pine! 

"  What  groans  shall  yonder  valleys  fill ! 
W'hat  shrieks  of  grief  shall  rend  yon  hill ! 
What  tears  of  burning  rage  shall  thrill, 
When  mourns  thy  tribe  thy  battles  done. 
Thy  fall  before  the  race  was  won. 
The  sword  ungirt  ere  set  of  sun ! 
There  breathes  not  clansman  of  thy  line. 
But  would  have  given  his  life  for  thine.  — 
O  woe  for  Alpine's  honor'd  Pine !  — 

"  Sad  was  thy  lot  on  mortal  stage  !  — 
The  captive  thrush  may  brook  the  cage. 
The  prison'd  eagle  dies  for  rage. 
Brave  spirit,  do  not  scorn  my  strain ! 
And,  when  its  notes  awake  again. 
Even  she,  so  long  beloved  in  vain, 
Shall  with  my  harp  her  voice  combine. 
And  mix  her  woe  and  tears  with  mine, 
To  wail  Clan-Alpine's  honor'd  Pine." 


Ellen,  the  while,  with  bursting  heart, 

Remain'd  in  lordly  bower  apart, 

Where  play'd  with  many-color'd  gleams. 

Through  storied  pane  the  rising  beams. 

In  vain  on  gilded  roof  they  fall. 

And  lighten'd  up  a  tapestried  wall, 

And  for  her  use  a  menial  train 

A  rich  collation  spread  in  vain. 

The  banquet  proud,  the  chamber  gay. 

Scarce  drew  one  curious  glance  astray; 

Or,  if  she  look'd,  'twas  but  to  say, 

With  better  omen  dawn'd  the  day 

In  that  lone  isle,  where  waved  on  high 

The  dun-deer's  hide  for  canopy; 

Where  oft  her  uoble  father  shared 


The  simple  meal  her  care  prepared. 
While  Lufra,  crouching  by  her  side. 
Her  station  claim'd  with  jealous  pride. 
And  Douglas,  bent  on  woodland  game. 
Spoke  of  the  chase  to  Malcolm  Graeme, 
Whose  answer,  oft  at  random  made, 
The  wandering  of  his  thought  betray 'd.  — 
Those  who  such  simple  joys  have  known, 
Are  taught  to  prize  them  when  they're 

gone. 
But  sudden,  see,  she  lifts  hei  head  ! 
The  window  seeks  with  cautious  tread. 
What  distant  music  has  the  power 
To  win  her  in  this  woeful  hour ! 
'Twas  from  a  turret  that  o'erhung 
Her  latticed  bower,  the  strain  was  sung: 

XXIV. 
LAY  OF  THE  IMPRISONED  HUNTSMAN. 
"  My  hawk  is  tired  of  perch  and  hood, 
My  idle  greyhound  loathes  his  food. 
My  horse  is  weary  of  his  stall. 
And  I  am  sick  of  captive  thrall. 
I  wish  I  were,  as  I  have  been. 
Hunting  the  hart  in  forest  green. 
With  bended  bow  and  bloodhound  free. 
For  that's  the  life  is  meet  for  me, 

I  hate  to  learn  the  ebb  of  time. 
From  yon  dull  steeple's  drowsy  chime. 
Or  mark  it  as  the  sunbeams  crawl. 
Inch  after  inch  along  the  wall. 
The  lark  was  wont  my  matins  ring. 
The  sable  rook  my  vespers  sing. 
These  towers,  although  a  king's  they  be. 
Have  not  a  hall  of  joy  for  me. 

No  more  at  dawning  morn  I  rise. 
And  sun  myself  in  Ellen's  eyes. 
Drive  the  fleet  deer  the  forest  through. 
And  homeward  wend  with  evening  dew; 
A  blithesome  welcome  blithely  meet. 
And  lay  my  trophies  at  her  feet. 
While  fled  the  eve  on  wing  of  glee, — 
That  life  is  lost  to  love  and  me!  " 


The  heart-sick  lay  was  hardly  said. 
The  list'ner  had  not  turn'd  her  head. 
It  trickled  still,  the  starting  tear. 
When  light  a  footstep  struck  her  ear. 
And   Snowdoun's   graceful   Knight  was 
near. 


178 


THE   LADY  OF   THE   LAKE. 


Canto  VI. 


She  turn'd  the  hastier,  lest  again 
The  prisoner  should  renew  his  strain.  — 
"O  welcome,  brave  Fitz-James  !"  she  said. 
"  How  may  an  almost  orphan  maid 
Pay  the  deep  debt  "  —  "  O  say  not  so ! 
To  me  no  gratitude  you  owe. 
Not  mine,  alas !  the  boon  to  give, 
And  bid  thy  noble  father  live; 
I  can  but  be  thy  guide,  sweet  maid, 
With  Scotland's  king  thy  suit  to  aid. 
No  tyrant  he,  though  ire  and  pride 
May  lay  his  better  mood  aside. 
Come,  Ellen,  come  !  'tis  more  than  time, 
He  holds  his  court  at  morning  prime." 
With  beating  heart,  and  bosom  wrung, 
As  to  a  brother's  arm  she  clung. 
Gently  he  dried  the  falling  tear, 
And  gently  whisper'd  hope  and  cheer; 
Her  faltering  steps  half  led  half  staid. 
Through  gallery  fair,  and  high  arcade. 
Till,  at  his  touch,  its  wings  of  pride 
A  portal  arch  unfolded  wide. 


Within  'twas  brilliant  all  and  light, 
A  thronging  scene  of  figures  bright; 
It  glow'd  on  Ellen's  dazzled  sight. 
As  when  the  setting  sun  has  given 
Ten  thousand  hues  to  summer  even, 
And  from  their  tissue,  fancy  frames 
Aerial  knights  and  fairy  dames. 
Still  by  Fitz-James  her  footing  staid; 
A  few  faint  steps  she  forward  made, 
Then  slow  her  drooping  head  she  raised, 
And  fearful  round  the  presence  gazed 
For  him  she  sought,  who  own'd  this  state. 
The  dreaded  prince  whose  will  was  fate. 
She  gazed  on  many  a  princely  port. 
Might  well  have  ruled  a  royal  court; 
On  many  a  splendid  garb  she  gazed, 
Then  turn'd  bewilder'd  and  amazed. 
For  all  stood  bare;  and,  in  the  room, 
Fitz-James  alone  wore  cap  and  plume. 
To  him  each  lady's  look  was  lent; 
On  him  each  courtier's  eye  was  bent; 
Midst  furs  and  silks,  and  jewels  sheen. 
He  stood,  in  simple  Lincoln  green. 
The  centre  of  the  glittering  ring,  — 
And  Snowdoun's   Knight   is  Scotland's 
King.S"'^ 

XXVII. 

As  wreath  of  snow,  on  mountain-breast, 
Slides  from  the  rock  that  gave  it  rest, 


Poor  Ellen  glided  from  her  stay. 
And  at  the  Monarch's  feet  she  lay; 
No  word  her  choking  voice  commands,  — 
Sheshow'dthering,she  clasp'd  her  hands. 
O !   not  a  moment  could  he  brook. 
The  generous  prince,  that  suppliant  look  ! 
Gently  he  raised  her;    and,  the  while, 
Check'd  with  a  glance  the  circle's  smile; 
Graceful,  but  grave,  her  brow  he  kiss'd, 
And  bade  her  terrors  be  dismiss'd :  — 
"Yes,   Fair:    the  wandering  poor  Fitz- 

Jamos 
The  fealty  of  Scotland  claims. 
To  him  thy  woes,  thy  wishes,  bring; 
He  will  redeem  his  signet-ring. 
Ask  naught  for  Douglas;    yestcr  even. 
His  prince  and  he  have  much  forgiven. 
Wrong    hath    he    had    from    slanderous 

tongue, 
I,  from  his  rebel  kinsmen,  wrong. 
We  would  not,  to  the  vulgar  crowd. 
Yield  what  they  craved  with  clamor  loud; 
Calmly  we  heard  and  judged  his  cause, 
Our  council  aided,  and  our  laws. 
I  stanch'd  thy  father's  death-feud  stern 
With  stout  De  Vaux  and  gray  Glencairn ; 
And  Bothwell's  Lord  henceforth  we  own 
The  friend  and  bulwark  of  our  Throne. 
But,  lovely  infidel,  how  now? 
What  clouds  thy  misbelieving  brow? 
Lord  James  of  Douglas,  lend  thine  aid; 
Thou  must  confirm  this  doubting  maid." 


Then  forth  the  noble  Douglas  sprung. 
And  on  his  neck  his  daughter  hung. 
The  Monarch  drank,  that  happy  hour. 
The  sweetest,  holiest,  draught  of  Power, — 
When  it  can  say,  with  godlike  voice, 
Arise,  sad  Virtue,  and  rejoice  ! 
Yet  would  not  James  the  general  eye 
On  Nature's  raptures  long  should  pry. 
He  stepp'd  between:  —  "Nay,  Douglas, 

nay, 
Steal  not  my  proselyte  away ! 
The  riddle  'tis  my  right  to  read. 
That  brought  this  happy  chance  to  speed. 
Yes,  Ellen,  when  disguised  I  stray 
In  life's  more  low  but  happier  way, 
'Tis  under  name  which  veils  my  power, 
Nor  falsely  veils  —  for  Stirling's  tower 
Of  yore  the  name  of  Snowdoun  claims,^ 
And  Normans  call  me  James  Fitz-James. 


Canto  VI, 


THE    GUARD-ROOM. 


179 


Thus  watch  I  o'er  insulted  laws, 
Thus  learn  to  right  the  injured  cause."  — 
Then,  in  a  tone  apart  and  low,  — 
"  Ah,  little  traitress!  none  must  know 
What  idle  dream,  what  lighter  thought. 
What  vanity  full  dearly  bought, 
Join'd  to  thine  eye's  dark  witchcraft,  drew 
My  spell-bound  steps  to  Bcnvenue, 
In  dangerous  hour,  and  all  but  gave 
Thy  Monarch's  life  to  mountain  glaive  !  " 
Aloud  he  spoke :  —  "  Thou  still  dost  hold 
Tliat  little  talisman  of  gold, 
riedge  of  my  faith,  Fitz-James's  ring  — 
What  seeks  fair  Ellen  of  the  King?  " 


Full  well  the  conscious  maiden  guess'd 
He  probed  the  weakness  of  her  breast; 
But,  with  that  consciousness,  there  came 
A  lightening  of  her  fears  for  Graeme, 
And  more  she  deem'd  the  Monarch's  ire 
Kindled  'gainst  him,  who,  for  her  sire, 
Rebellious  broadsword  lx)ldly  drew; 
And,  to  her  generous  feeling  true, 
She  craved  the  grace  of  Roderick  Dhu. 
"  Forbear  thy  suit:  — the  King  of  Kings 
Alone  can  stay  life's  parting  wings. 
I  know  his  heart,  I  know  his  hand. 
Have  shared  his  cheer,  and  proved  his 

brand :  — 
My  fairest  earldom  would  I  give 
To  bid  Clan-Alpine's  Chieftain  live ! 
Hast  thou  no  other  boon  to  crave? 
No  other  captive  friend  to  save?  " 
Blushing,  she  turn'd  her  from  the  King, 
And  to  the  Douglas  gave  the  ring. 
As  if  she  wish'd  her  sire  to  speak 
The  suit  that  stain'd  her  glowing  cheek. — 
"  Nay,  then,  my  pledge  has  lost  its  force. 
And  stubborn  justice  holds  her  course. 
Malcolm,  come  forth  !" — And,  atthe  word, 
Down  kneel'd  the  Graeme  to  Scotland's 

Lord. 
"  For  thee,  rash  youth,  no  suppliant  sues. 
From  thee  may  Vengeance  claim  her  dues, 
Who,  nurtured  underneath  our  smile, 
Hast  paid  our  care  by  treacherous  wile, 
And  sought  amid  thy  faithful  clan, 
A  refuge  for  an  outlaw'd  man. 
Dishonoring  thus  thy  loyal  name.  — 
Fetters  and  warder  for  the  Grreme !  " 
His  chain  of  gold  the  King  unstrung, 
The  links  o'er  Malcolm's  neck  he  flunfj, 


Then  gently  drew  the  glittering  band. 
And  laid  the  clasp  on  Ellen's  hand. 


Harp  of  the  North,  farewell !     The  hills 
grow  dark. 
On  purple  peaks  a  deeper  shade  de- 
scending; 
In  twilight  copse  the  glow-worm  lights 
her  spark, 
Tlie  deer,  haU-s*en,  are  to  the  covert 
wending. 
Resume  thy   wizard   elm !    the  fountain 
lending. 
And  the  wild  breeze,  thy  wilder  min- 
strelsy; 
Thy  numbers  sweet  with  nature's  vespers 
blending. 
With  distant  echo  from  the  fold  and  lea, 
And  herd-boy's  evening  pipe,  and  hum 
of  housing  bee. 

Yet,  once  again,  farewell,  thou  Minstrel 
harp ! 
Yet,  once  again,  forgive  my  feeble  sway. 
And  little  reck  I  of  the  censure  sharp 

May  idly  cavil  at  an  idle  lay. 
Much  have  I  owed  thy  strains  on  life's 
long  way. 
Through    secret   woes   the   world    has 
never  known. 
When  on  the  weary  night  dawn'd  wearier 
day, 
And  bitterer  was  the  grief   devour'd 
alone. 
That  I  o'erlive  such  woes,  Enchantress  I 
is  thine  own. 

Hark !    as   my  lingering  footsteps  slow 
retire, 
Some  Spirit  of  the  Air  has  waked  thy 
string ! 
'Tis  now  a  seraph  bold,  with  touch  of  fire, 
'Tis  now  the  brush  of  Fairy's  frolic  wing. 
Receding  now,  the  dying  numbers  ring 
Fainter  and  fainter  down  the  rugged 
dell, 
And  now  the  mountain  breezes  scarcely 
bring 
A  wandering  witch-note  of  the  distant 
spell  — 
And  now,  'tis  silent  all !  —  Enchantress, 
fare  thee  well ! 


THE 

VISION  OF  DON  RODERICK. 


TO 

JOHN     WHITMORE,     ESQ. 

AND   TO   THE   COMMITTEE   OF   SUBSCRIBERS    FOR    RELIEF   OF   THE    PORTUGUESE 
SUFFERERS    IN    WHICH    HE    PRESIDES, 

THIS   POEM 

(THE  VISION  OF   DON  RODERICK), 

COMPOSED    FOR    THE    BENEFIT   OF   THE    FUND    UNDER   THEIR    MANAGEMENT, 
IS    RESPECTFULLY    INSCRIBED    BY 

WALTER    SCOTT. 


PREFACE. 


The  following  Poem  is  founded  upon  a  Spanish  Tradition,  particularly  detailed  in  the 
Notes  ;  but  bearing,  in  general,  that  Don  Roderick,  the  last  Gothic  King  of  Spain,  when 
the  Invasion  of  the  Moors  was  impending,  had  the  temerity  to  descend  into  an  ancient  vault 
near  Toledo,  the  opening  of  which  had  been  denounced  as  fatal  to  the  Spanish  Monarchy. 
The  legend  adds,  that  his  rash  curiosity  was  morticed  by  an  emblematical  representation 
of  those  Saracens  who,  in  the  year  714,  defeated  him  in  battle,  and  reduced  Spain  under 
their  dominion.  I  have  presumed  to  prolong  the  Vision  of  the  Revolutions  of  Spain  down 
to  the  present  evetttful  crisis  of  the  Peninsula  ;  and  to  divide  it,  by  a  supposed  change  of 
scene,  into  Three  Periods.  The  First  of  these  represents  the  Invasion  of  the  Moors,  the 
Defeat  and  Death  of  Roderick,  and  closes  with  the  peaceful  occupation  of  the  country  by  the 
Victors.  The  Second  Period  embraces  the  state  of  the  Peninsula,  when  the  conquests  of 
the  Spaniards  and  Portuguese  in  the  East  and  West  Indies  had  raised  to  the  highest  pitch 
the  renown  of  their  arms  ;  sullied,  however,  by  superstition  and  cruelty.  An  allusion  to  the 
inhumanities  of  the  Inquisition  terminates  this  picture.  The  Last  Part  of  the  Poem 
opens  with  the  state  of  Spain  previous  to  the  unparalleled  treachery  of  Buonaparte  ;  gives 
a  sketch  of  the  usttrpation  attempted  upon  that  unsuspicious  and  friendly  kingdom,  and 
terminates  with  the  arrival  of  the  British  succors.  It  may  be  farther  proper  to  mention, 
that  the  object  of  the  Poem  is  less  to  commemorate  or  detail  particular  incidents,  than  t>> 
exhibit  a  general  and  impressive  picture  of  the  several  periods  brought  upon  the  stage. 

Edinburgh, /mm^  24,  1811. 

180 


THE  VISION  OF  DON  RODERICK, 


Quid  dignum  memorare  tuis,  Hispania,  terns. 
Vox  humana  valet !  —  Claudian. 


INTRODUCTION. 


I 


Lives  there  a  strain,  whose  sounds  of 
mounting  fire 
May  rise  distinguish'd  o'er  the  din  of 
war; 
Or  died  it  with  yon  Master  of  the  Lyre, 
Who  sung  beleaguer'd  Ilion's    evil 
star? 
Such,  Wellington,  might  reach  thee 
from  afar, 
Wafting  itsdescant  wide  o'er  Ocean's 
range; 
Nor  shouts,  nor  clashing  arms,  its  mood 
could  mar, 
All  as  it  swell'd   'twixt  each  loud 
trumpet-change. 
That  clangs  to  Britain  victory,  to  Portugal 
revenge ! 


Yes  !  such  a  strain,  with  all  o'er-pouring 
measure. 
Might  melodize  with  each  tumultuous 
sound. 
Each  voice  of  fear  or  triumph,  woe  or 
pleasure. 
That  rings  Mondego's  ravaged  shores 
around; 
The  thund'ring  cry  of  hosts  with  con- 
quest crown'd. 
The  female  shriek,  the  ruin'd  peas- 
ant's moan. 
The  shout  of  captives  from  their  chains 
unbound, 
The    foil'd    oppressor's    deep    and 
sullen  groan, 
A  nation's  choral  hymn  for  tyranny  o'er- 
thrown. 


But  we,  weak  minstrels  of  a  laggard 
day, 
Skill'd    but    to    imitate    an    elder 
page, 
Timid  and  raptureless,  can  we  repay 
The  debt   thou  claim'st  in  this  ex- 
hausted age? 
Thou  givest  our  lyres  a   theme,  that 
might  engage 
Those  that  could  send  thy  name  o'er 
sea  and  land, 
While  sea  and  land  shall  last;  for  Ho- 
mer's rage 
A    theme;     a   theme    for    Milton's 
mighty  hand  — 
How  much  unmeet  for  us,  a  faint  degen- 
erate band ! 


Ye  mountains  stern  !  within  whose  rug- 
ged breast 
The  friends  of  Scottish  freedom  found 
repose; 
Ye  torrents  !  whose  hoarse  sounds  have 
soothed  their  rest. 
Returning   from   the    field  of   van- 
quish'd  foes; 
Say  have  ye    lost  each  wild  majestic 
close, 
That  erst  the  choir  of  Bards  or  Druids 
flung; 
What    time    their    hymn    of    victory 
arose, 
And  Cattraeth's  glens  with  voice  of 
triumph  rung. 
And    mystic    Merlin    harp'd,   «nd  gray- 
hair'd  Llywarch  sung!  ^ 


1 82 


THE    VISION  OF  DON  RODERICK. 


O !  if  your  wilds  such  minstrelsy  retain, 
As  sure  your  changeful  gales  seem 
oft  to  say, 
When  sweeping  wild  and  sinking  soft 
again, 
Like  trumpet-jubilee,  or  harp's  wild 
sway; 
If  ye  can  echo  such  triumphant  lay, 
Then  lend  the  note  to  him  has  loved 
you  long ! 
Who    pious    gathered    each    tradition 

That  floats  your  solitary  wastes  along. 
And  with  affection  vain  gave  them  new 
voice  in  song. 


For  not  till  now,  how  oft  soe'er  the  task 
Of  truant  verse  hath  lighten'd  graver 
care. 
From  Muse  or  Sylvan  was  he  wont  to 
ask. 
In  phrase  poetic,  inspiration  fair; 
Careless  he  gave  his  numbers  to  the  air. 
They  came  unsought  for,  if  applauses 
came; 
Nor   for  himself    prefers  he  now  the 
prayer ; 
Let  but  his  verse  befit  a  hero's  fame. 
Immortal    be    the     verse  !  —  forgot    the 
poet's  name. 


Hark,  from  yon  misty  cairn  their  answer 
tost: 
"  Minstrel !  the  fame  of  whose  ro- 
mantic lyre, 
Capricious-swelling  now,  may  soon  be 
lost, 
Like  the  light  flickering  of  a  cottage 
fire; 
If    to   such   task  jjresumptuous   thou 
aspire, 
Seek  not  from  us  the  meed  to  warrior 
due: 
Age    after    age    has   gathcr'd    son   to 
sire. 
Since  our  gray  cliffs  the  din  of  conflict 
knew, 
Or,  pealing  through  our  vales,  victorious 
bugles  blew. 


"Decay'd  our  old  traditionary  lore. 
Save  where  the  lingering  fays  renew 
their  ring, 
By  milk-maid  seen  beneath  the  haw- 
thorn hoar, 
Or  round  the  marge  of  Minchmore's 
haunted  spring :  '^ 
Save  where  their  legends  gray-hair'd 
shepherds  sing, 
That  now  scarce  win  a  listening  ear 
but  thine, 
Of  feuds  obscure,  and  Border  ravaging. 
And  rugged  deeds  recount  in  rugged 
line. 
Of    moonlight    foray   made   on    Teviot, 
Tweed,  or  Tyne. 


"  No !    search  romantic  lands,  where 

the  near  Sun 
Gives  with  unstinted  boon  ethereal 

flame. 
Where   the    rude    villager,    his    labor 

done. 
In  verse  spontaneous  ^  chants  some 

favor'd  name. 
Whether  Olalia's  charms   his    tribute 

claim, 
Her  eye  of  diamond,  and  her  locks  of 

jet; 
Or  whether,  kindling  at  the  deeds  of 

Graeme,* 
He    sing,    to    wild    Morisco    measure 

set. 
Old  Albin's  red  claymore,  green  Erin's 

bayonet ! 


"  Explore   those   regions,    where    the 
flinty  crest 
Of   wild  Nevada  ever  gleams  with 
snows. 
Where  in  the  proud  Alhambra's  ruin'd 
breast 
Barbaric  monuments  of  pomp  repose ; 
Or  where  the  banners  of  more  ruthless 
foes 
Than  the  fierce  Moor,  float  o'er  To- 
ledo's fane. 
From  whose  tall  towers  even  now  the 
patriot  throws 


THE    VISION  OF  DON  RODERICK. 


183 


An  anxious  glance,  to  spy  upon  the 
plain 
The  blended  ranks  of  England,  Portugal, 
and  Spain. 


"  There,  of  Numantian  fire  a  swarthy 
spark 
Still  lightens  in  the  sun-burnt  native's 
eye; 
The  stately  port,  slow  step,  and  visage 
dark. 
Still  mark  enduring  pride  and  con- 
stancy. 
And,  if  the  glow  of  feudal  chivalry 
Beam  not,  as  once,  thy  nobles'  dear- 
est pride, 
Iberia !  oft  thy  crcstless  peasantry 
Have  seen  the  plumed  Hidalgo  quit 
their  side. 
Have  seen,  yet  dauntless  stood  —  'gainst 
fortune  fought  and  died. 


"  And  cherish'd  still  by  that  unchan- 
ging race, 
Are  themes  for  minstrelsy  more  high 
than  thine; 
Of   strange   tradition   many  a  mystic 
trace, 
Legend   and  vision,  prophecy  and 
sign : 
Where  wonders  wild  of  Arabesque  com- 
bine 
With  Gothic  imagery  of  darker  shade. 
Forming  a   model   meet   for  minstrel 
line. 
Go,    seek    such    theme!  "  —  The 
Mountain  Spirit  said: 
With  filial  awe  I  heard  —  I  heard,  and  I 
obey'd. 


Rearing  their  crests  amid  the  cloudless 
skies. 
And  darkly  clustering  in  the  pale 
moonlight, 
Toledo's  holy  towers  and  spires  arise. 
As  from  a  trembling  lake  of  silver 
white. 


Their  mingled   shadows  intercept  the 
sight 
Of    the    broad    burial-ground   out- 
stretch'd  below. 
And  naught  disturbs  the  silence  of  the 
night; 
All  sleeps  in  sullen  shade,  or  silver 
glow. 
All  save  the  heavy  swell  of  Teio's  cease- 
less flow. 


All  save  the  rushing  swell  of  Teio's  tide, 
Or,  distant  heard,  a  courser's  neigh 
or  tramp; 
Their   changing    rounds    as   watchful 
horsemen  ride, 
To  guard  the  limits  of  King  Rod- 
erick's camp. 
For,  through  the  river's  night-fog  roll- 
ing damp, 
Was  many  a  proud  pavilion  dimly 
seen. 
Which    glimmer'd    back    against    the 
moon's  fair  lamp. 
Tissues  of   silk   and   silver  twisted 
sheen. 
And  standards  proudly  pitch'd,  and  war- 
ders arm'd  between. 

in. 
But  of  their  Monarch's  person  keeping 
ward, 
Since  last  the  deep-mouth'd  bell  of 
vespers  toll'd. 
The  chosen  soldiers  of  the  royal  guard 
The  post  beneath  the  proud  Cathe- 
dral hold; 
A  band  unlike  their  Gothic  sires  of  old. 
Who,  for  the  cap  of  steel  and  iron 
mace. 
Bear  slender  darts,   and   casques  be- 
deck'd  with  gold. 
While    silver-studded     belts     their 
shoulders   grace. 
Where   ivory  quivers  ring  in  the  bread 
falchion's  place. 


In  the  light  language  of  an  idle  court. 
They   murmur'd    at   their  master's 
long  delay. 


1 84 


THE    VISION  OF  DON  RODERICK. 


And  held    his    lengthen'd   orisons  in 

sport:  — 
"What!  will  Don  Roderick  here  till 

morning  stay, 
To  wear  in  shrift  and  prayer  the  night 
away? 
And  are  his  hours  in  such  dull  pen- 
ance past, 
For  fair  Florinda's  plunder'd  charms 
to  pay  ?  "  *"  — 
Then  to  the  east  their  weary  eyes 
they  cast, 
And  wish'd  the  lingering  dawn  would 
glimmer  forth  at  last. 


But,     far     within,    Toledo's     Prelate 
lent 
An  ear  of  fearful  wonder  to  the  King; 
The  silver  lamp  a  fitful  lustre  sent, 
So  long  that  sad  confession  witness- 
ing: 
For  Roderick  told  of  many  a  hidden 
thing, 
Such   as   are    lothly  utter'd  to   the 
air, 
When  Fear,  Remorse,  and  Shame  the 
bosom  wring. 
And  Guilt  his  secret  burden  cannot 
bear, 
\nd  Conscience  seeks  in  speech  a  respite 
from  Despair. 


Full  on  the  Prelate's  face,  and  silver 
hair. 
The  stream  of  failing  light  was  feebly 
roU'd: 
But  Roderick's  visage,  though  his  head 
was  bare, 
Was  shadow 'd  by  his  hand  and  man- 
tle's fold. 
While  of  his  hidden  soul  the  sins  he 
told, 
Proud  Alaric's  descendant  could  not 
brook. 
That  mortal    man  his  bearing  should 
behold. 
Or  boast  that  he    had  seen,  when 
Conscience  shook. 
Fear  tame  a  monarch's  brow.  Remorse 
a  warrior's  look. 


The  old  man's  faded  check  wax'd  yet 
more  pale. 
As  many  a  secret  sad  the  King  be- 
wray'd; 
As  sign  and  glance  eked  out  the  unfin- 
ish'd  tale. 
When  in    the    midst    his    faltering 
whisper  staid.  — 
"Thus  royal  Witiza  *   was  slain,"  — 
he  said; 
"  Yet,  holy  Father,  deem  not  it  was 
I." 
Thus  still  Ambition  strives  her  crimes 
to  shade.  — 
"  Oh  !  rather  deem  'twas  stern  ne- 
cessity ! 
Self-preservation  bade,  and  I  must  kill  or 
die. 

vni. 

"  And  if  Florinda's  shrieks  alarm'd  the 
air, 
If  she  invoked  her  absent  sire  in  vain, 
And  on  her  knees  implored  that  I  would 
spare. 
Yet,  reverend  priest,  thy  sentence 
rash  refrain  \  — 
All  is  not  as  it  seems  —  the  female  train 
Know  by  their  bearing  to  disguise 
their  mood:  "  — 
But   Conscience  here,   as  if   in    high 
disdain, 
Sent   to  the   Monarch's  cheek   the 
burning  blood  — 
He  stay'd  his  speech  abrupt — and  up 
the  Prelate  stood. 


"  O  harden'd  offspring  of  an  iron  race  ! 
What  of  thy  crimes,  Don  Roderick, 
shall  I  say? 
What  alms,  or  prayers,  or  penance  can 
efface 
Murder's  dark  spot,  wash  treason's 
stain  away ! 
For  the  foul  ravisher  how  shall  I  pray. 
Who,  scarce  repentant,  makes  his 
crime  his  boast  ? 

•  Witiza  was  Roderick's  predecessor  on  the 
Spanish  throae.  He  was  slain  by  Roderick's 
connivance. 


THE    VISION  OF  DON  RODERICK. 


185 


How  hope  Almighty  vengeance  shall 
delay, 
Unless  in  mercy  to   yon   Christian 
host, 
He  spare  the  shepherd,  lest  the  guiltless 
sheep  be  lost." 


Then  kindled  the  dark  Tyrant  in  his 
mood. 
And  to  his  brow  returned  its  dauntless 
gloom; 
"  And  welcome  then,"  he  cried,  "  be 
blood  for  blood. 
For  treason  treachery,  for  dishonor 
doom  ! 
Yet  will  I  know  whence  come  they,  or 
by  whom. 
Show,   for  thou  canst — give  forth 
the  fated  key. 
And  guide  me.  Priest,  to  that  mysteri- 
ous room. 
Where,  if  aught  true  in  old  tradition 
be, 
His  nation's  future  fates  a  Spanish  King 
shall  see."  — 


"  Ill-fated  Prince  !  recall  the  desperate 
word. 
Or  pause  ere  yet  the  omen  thou  obey  ! 
Bethink,  yon  spell-bound  portal  would 
afford 
Never  to  former  Monarch  entrance- 
way; 
Nor  shall  it  ever  ope,  old  records  say. 
Save  to  a  King,  the  last  of  all  his  line, 
What  time  his  empire  totters  to  decay. 
And  treason  digs,  beneath,  her  fatal 
mine. 
And,  high  above,  impends  avenging  wrath 
divine."  — 


"  Prelate  !  a  Monarch's  fate  brooks  no 
delay; 
Lead  on  !  "  —  The  ponderous   key 
the  old  man  took, 
And  held  the  winking  lamp,  and  led 
the  way, 
By   winding    stair,    dark   aisle,   and 
secret  nook, 


Then  on  an  ancient  gateway  bent  his 
look; 
And,  as  the  key  the  desperate  King 
essay'd, 
Low  mutter'd  thunders  the  Cathedral 
shook, 
And  twice  he  stopp'd,  and  twice  new 
effort  made. 
Till  the  huge  bolts  roll'd  back,  and  the 
loud  hinges  bray'd. 


Long,  large,  and  lofty  was  that  vaulted 
hall; 
Roof,  walls,  and  floor  were  all  of 
marble  stone. 
Of  polished  marble ,  black  as  funeral  pall. 
Carved  o'er  with  signs  and  charac- 
ters unknown. 
A  paly  light,  as  of  the  dawning,  shone 
Through  the  sad  bounds,  but  whence 
they  could  not  spy; 
For  window  to  the  upper  air  was  none; 
Yet,   by  that  light,  Don  Roderick 
could  descry 
Wonders  that  ne'er  till  then  were  seen  by 
mortal  eye. 


Grim  sentinels,  against  the  upper  wall. 
Of  molten  bronze,  two  Statues  held 
their  place; 
Massive  their  naked  limbs,  their  stature 
tall. 
Their  frowning  foreheads  golden  cir- 
cles grace. 
Moulded  they  seem'd  for  kings  of  giant 
race, 
That    liv'd   and   sinn'd   before   the 
avenging  flood; 
This  grasp'd  a  scythe,  that  rested  on  a 
mace; 
This  spread  his  wings  for  flight,  that 
pondering  stood. 
Each  stubborn  seem'd  and  stern,  immu- 
table of  mood. 


Fix'd  was  the  right-hand  Giant's  brazen 
look 
Upon  his  brother's  glass  of  shifting 
sand. 


1 86 


THE    VISION  OF  DON  RODERICK. 


As  if  its  ebb  he  measured  by  a  book, 
Whose  iron  volume  loaded  his  huge 
hand ; 
In  which  was  wrote  of  many  a  fallen 
land, 
Of  empires  lost,  and  kings  to  exile 
driven : 
And  o'er  that  pair  their  names  in  scroll 
expand : — 
"  Lo,  Destiny  and  Time  !  to  whom 
by  Heaven 
The  guidance  of  the  earth  is  for  a  season 
given."  — 


Even  while  they  read,  the  sand-glass 
wastes  away;  ,■ 

And,  as  the  last  and  lagging  grains 
did  creep. 
That  right-hand  Giant  'gan  his  club  up- 
sway, 
As  one   that   startles   from  a  heavy 
sleep. 
Full  on  the  upper  wall  the  mace's  sweep 
At  once  descended  with  the  force  of 
thunder, 
And  hurtling  down  at  once,  in  crumbled 
heap, 
The  marble  boundary  was  rent  asun- 
der, 
And  gave  to  Roderick's  view  new  sights 
of  fear  and  wonder. 


For  they  might  spy,  beyond  that  mighty 
breach. 
Realms  as  of  Spain  in  vision'd  pros- 
pect laid, 
Castles  and  towers,  in  due  proportion 
each, 
As  by  some  skilful  artist's  hand  por- 
tray'd; 
Here,  crossed  by  many  a  wild  Sierra's 
shade. 
And  boundless  plains  that  tire  the 
traveller's  eye; 
There,    rich    with    vineyard   and  with 
olive  glade. 
Or  deep-embrown'd  by  forests  huge 
and  high, 
Or  wash'd  by  mighty  streams,  that  slowly 
murmur'd  by. 


And  here,   as   erst   upon  the   antique 
stage, 
Pass'd  forth  the  band  of  masquers 
trimly  led, 
In  various  forms  and  various  equipage. 
While    fitting    strains    the    hearer's 
fancy  fed; 
So,   to    sad    Roderick's   eye  in  order 
spread, 
Successive  pageants  fiU'd  that  mystic 
scene. 
Showing  the  fate  of  battles  ere  they 
bled, 
And  issue  of    events  that  had  not 
been; 
And,  ever  and  anon,  strange  sounds  were 
heard  between. 


First    shrill 'd    an    unrepcated    female 
shriek !  — 
It  seem'd  as  if  Don  Roderick  knew 
the  call. 
For  the  bold  blood  was  blanching  in 
.  his  check.  — 
Then  answer'd  kettle-drum  and  ata- 
bal. 
Gong-peal  and  cymbal-clank  the  ear 
appal. 
The  Tecbir  war-cry,  and  the  Lelie's 
yell,6 
Ring  wildly  dissonant  along  the  hall. 
Needs  not  to  Roderick  their  dread 
import  tell  — 
"  The  Moor  !  "  he  cried,   "  the  Moor  ! 
—  ring  out  the  Tocsin  bell ! 


"  They  come  !  they  come  !     I  see  the 
groaning  lands 
White  with  the  turbans  of  each  Arab 
horde ; 
Swart  Zaarah    joins  her  misbelieving 
bands. 
Alia  and  Mahomet  their  battle-word, 
The  choice  they  yield,  the  Koran  or 
the  Sword  — 
See  how  the  Christians  rush  to  arms 
amain !  — 
In  yonder  shout  the  voice  of  conflict 
roar'd. 


THE    VISION  OF  DON  RODERICK. 


187 


The  shadowy  hosts  are  closing  on  the 
plain  — 
Now,  God  and  Saint  lago  strike,  for  the 
good  cause  of  Spain  ! 


"  By  Heaven,  the  Moors  prevail!  the 
Christians  yield ! 
Their  coward  leader  gives  for  flight 
the  sign ! 
The  sceptred  craven  mounts  to  quit  the 
field  — 
Is  not  yon  steed  Orelia?  —  Yes  'tis 
mine !  "^ 
But  never  was  she  turn'd  from  battle- 
line  : 
Lo !   where  the  recreant  spurs  o'er 
stock  and  stone ! 
Curses    pursue    the    slave,   and  wrath 
divine  ! 
Rivers    ingulf    him!"  —  "Hush," 
in  shuddering  tone, 
The  Prelate  said;  — "rash  Prince,  yon 
vision'd  form's  thine  own." 


Just  then,  a  torrent  cross'd  the  flier's 
course; 
The  dangerous  ford  the  Kingly  Like- 
ness tried; 
But  the  deep  eddies  whelm'd  both  man 
and  horse, 
Swept  like  benighted  peasant  down 
the  tide; 
And  the  proud  Moslemah  spread  far 
and  wide. 
As  numerous  as  their  native  locust 
band; 
Berber  and    Ismael's  sons  the  spoils 
divide, 
With  naked  cimeters  mete  out  the 
land, 
And  for  the  bondsmen  base  the  freeborn 
natives  brand. 


Then  rose  the  grated  Harem,  to  enclose 
The  loveliest  maidens  of  the  Chris- 
tian line; 
Then,  menials,  totheirmisbelievingfoes, 
Castile's  young  nobles  held  forbid- 
den wine; 


Then,  too,  the  holy  Cross,  salvation's 
sign. 
By  impious  hands  was  from  the  altar 
thrown, 
And  the   deep   aisles  of  tbe  polluted 
shrine 
Echo'd,  for  holy  hymn  and  organ- 
tone, 
The  Santon's  frantic  dance,  the  Fakir's 
gibbering  moan. 


How  fares  Don   Roderick?  —  E'en  as 
one  who  spies 
Flames  dart   their  glare  o'er   mid- 
night's sable  woof. 
And  hears  around  his  children's  pier- 
cing cries, 
And  sees  the  pale  assistants  stand 
aloof; 
While  cruel  Conscience  brings  him  bit- 
ter proof, 
His  folly  or  his  crime  have  caused 
his  grief; 
And  while  above  him  nods  the  crum- 
bling roof. 
He  curses  earth  and  Heaven  — him- 
self in  chief  — 
Desperate   of    earthly   aid,    despairing 
Heaven's  relief ! 


That  scythe-arm'd  Giant  turn'd  his  fatal 
glass. 
And  twilight  on  the  landscape  closed 
her  wings; 
Far  to  Asturian  hills  the  war-sounds 
pass, 
And  in  their  stead  rebeck  or  timbrel 
rings; 
And  to  the  sound  the  bell-deck'd  dan- 
cer springs. 
Bazaars  resound  as  when  their  marts 
are  met. 
In  tourney  light  the  Moor  his  jerrid* 
flings. 
And  on  the  land  as  evening  seem'd 
to  set, 
The    Imaum's   chant   was   heard   from 
mosque  or  minaret. 

*  Jerrid,  javelin. 


THE    VISION  OF  DON  RODERICK. 


So  pass'd  that  pageant.     Ere  another 
came, 
The  visionary  scene  was  wrapp'd  in 
smoke, 
Whose  sulph'rous  wreaths  were  cross'd 
by  sheets  of  flame; 
With   every  flash  a  bolt   explosive 
broke, 
Till  Roderick  deem'd  the  fiends  had 
-   burst  their  yoke, 
And  waved  'gainst  heaven  the  infer- 
nal gonf  alone  ?  * 
For  War  a  new  and  dreadful  language 
spoke, 
Never  by  ancient  warrior  heard  or 
known; 
Lightning  and  smoke  her  breath,  and 
thunder  was  her  tone. 

XXVII. 

From-the  dim  landscape  roll  the  clouds 
away  — 
The  Christians  have  regain 'd  their 
heritage; 
Before  the  Cross  has  waned  the  Cres- 
cent's ray 
And  many  a  monastery  decks   the 
stage. 
And  lofty  church,  and  low-brow'd  her- 
mitage. 
The   land   obeys   a   Hermit   and    a 
Knight,  — 
The  Genii  those  of  Spain  for  many  an 
age; 
This  clad  in  sackcloth,  that  in  armor 
bright. 
And  that  was  Valor  named,  this  Big- 
otry was  hight. 

XXVIII. 

Valor washarness'dlike  aChief  of  old, 
Arm'd  at  all  points,  and  prompt  for 
knightly  gest; 
His  sword  was   temper'd  in  the  Ebro 
cold, 
Morena's  eagle  plume  adorn'd  his 
crest. 
The  spoils  of   Afric's  lion  bound  his 
breast. 

*  Gonfalone,  banner. 


Fierce  he  stepp'd  forward  and  flung 
down  his  gage; 
As   if   of   mortal    kind   to    brave   the 
best. 
Him  follow'd  his  Companion,  dark 
and  sage. 
As  he,  my  Master,  sung  the  dangerous 
Archimage. 

XXIX. 

Haughty  of  heart  and  brow  the  War- 
rior came. 
In  look  and  language  proud  as  proud 
might  be. 
Vaunting  his  lordship,  lineage,  fights, 
and  fame: 
Yet  was  that  barefoot  monk  more 
proud  than  he: 
And  as  the  ivy  climbs  the  tallest  tree. 
So  round  the  loftiest  soul  his  toils 
he  wound. 
And  with  his  spells  subdued  the  fierce 
and  free, 
Till  ermined  Age  and  Youth  in  arms 
renown'd. 
Honoring  his  scourge    and   hair-cloth, 
meekly  kiss'd  the  ground. 


And  thus  it  chanced  that  Valor,  peer- 
less knight. 
Who  ne'er  to  King  or  Kaiser  vail'd 
his  crest, 
Victorious  still  in  bull-feast  or  in  fight. 
Since  first  his  limbs  with  mail  he  did 
invest, 
Stoop'd  ever  to  that  Anchoret's  be- 
hest: 
Nor  reason'd  of  the  right,  nor  of  the 
wrong, 
But  at  his  bidding   laid  the  lance  in 
rest. 
And  wrought  fell  deeds  the  troubled 
world  along, 
For  he  was  fierce  as  brave,  and  pitiless 
as  strong. 


Oft  his  proud  galleys  sought  some  new- 
found world. 
That  latest  sees  the  sun,  or  first  the 
morn; 


THE    VISION  OF  DON  RODERICK. 


189 


Still  at  that  Wizard's  feet  their  spoils 
he  hurl'd,  — 
Ingots    of    ore    from    rich    Potosi 
borne, 
Crowns    by   Caciques,*    aigrettes    by 
Omrahs  worn, 
Wrought  of  rare  gems,  but  broken, 
rent,  and  foul; 
Idols  of   gold  from  heathen  temples 
torn, 
Bedabbled  all  with   blood.  — With 
grisly  scowl 
The  Hermit  mark'd  the  stains,  and  smiled 
beneath  his  cowl. 

XXXII. 

Then  did  he  bless  the  offering,  and 
bade  make 
Tribute  to  Heaven  of  gratitude  and 
praise : 
And   at   his  word  the   choral  hymns 
awake. 
And  many  a  hand  the  silver  censer 
sways. 
But  with  the  incense-breath  these  cen- 
sers raise. 
Mix  steams  from  corpses  smoulder- 
ing in  the  fire; 
The  groans  of    prison'd  victims  mar 
the  lays. 
And  shrieks  of  agony  confound  the 
quire; 
While  mid  the  mingled  sounds,  the  dark- 
en'd  scenes  expire. 


Preluding  light,  were  strains  of  music 
heard, 
As  once  again  revolved  that  meas- 
ured sand; 
Such  sounds  as  when,  for  sylvan  dance 
prepared. 
Gay  Xeres  summons  forth  her  vin- 
tage band; 
When    for     the    light    bolero    ready 
stand 
The  mozo  blithe,  with  gay  muchacha 
met,* 
He  conscious  of  his  broider'd  cap  and 
band. 


*  Caciques  and  Omrahs,  Peruvian  and  Mexi- 
can chiefs  or  nobles. 


She  of  her  netted  locks  and  light 
corsette, 
Each  tiptoe  perch'd  to  spring,  and  shake 
the  Castanet. 


And  well  such  strains  the  opening  scene 
became; 
For  Valor  had  relax'd  his  ardent 
look, 
And  at  a  lady's  feet  like  lion  tame, 
Lay  stretch'd,  full  loth  the  weight 
of  arms  to  brook; 
And  soften'd  Bigotry,  upon  his  book, 
Patter'd  a  task  of  little  good  or  ill: 
But  the  blithe  peasant  plied  his  prun- 
ing hook, 
Whistled  the  muleteer  o'er  vale  and 
hill, 
And  rung  from  village-green  the  merry 
seguidille. 


Gray  Royalty,  grown  impotent  of  toil, 
Let  the  grave  sceptre  slip  his  lazy 
hold; 
And,  careless,  saw  his  rule  become  the 
spoil 
Of  a  loose  Female  and  her  minion 
bold. 
But  peace  was  on  the  cottage  and  the 
fold, 
From  court  intrigue,  from  bickering 
faction  far; 
Beneath  the  chestnut-tree  Love's  tale 
was  told, 
Andto  the  tinkling  of  the  light  guitar. 
Sweet   stoop'd   the  western  sun,  sweet 
rose  the  evening  star. 


As  that  sea-cloud,  in  size  like  human 
hand, 
When  first  from  Carmel  by  the  Tish- 
bite  t  seen, 
Came   slowly  overshadowing   Israel's 
land, 
A  while,  perchance,  bedeck'd  with 
colors  sheen, 

t  Elijah  the   Prophet.     See   i    Kings,  chap, 
xviii.,  vs.  41-45. 


I90 


THE    VISION  OF  DON  RODERICK. 


While  yet  the  sunbeams  on  its  skirts 
had  been, 
Limning  with  purple  and  with  gold 
its  shroud, 
Till  darker  folds  obscured  the  blue  serene , 
And  blotted  heaven  with  one  broad 
sable  cloud. 
Then  sheeted  rain  burst  down,  and  whirl- 
winds howl'd  aloud:  — 


Even  so,  upon  that  peaceful  scene  was 
pour'd. 
Like  gathering  clouds,  full  many  a 
foreign  band, 
And  Hk,  their  Leader,  wore  in  sheath 
his  sword, 
And  offer'd  peaceful  front  and  open 
hand, 
Veiling    the    perjured    treachery    he 
plann'd, 
By   friendship's    zeal    and    honor's 
specious  guise, 
Until  he  won  the  passes  of  the  land; 
Then  burst  were  honor's  oath  and 
friendship's  ties ! 
He  clutch'd  his  vulture-grasp,  and  call'd 
fair  Spain  his  prize. 

XXXVIII. 

AnIronCrownhisanxiousforeheadbore; 
And  well  such  diadem  his  heart  be- 
came, 
Who  ne'er  his    purpose    for   remorse 
gave  o'er. 
Or  check'd  his  course   for  piety  or 
shame; 
Who,  train'd  a  soldier,  deem'd  a  sol- 
dier's fame 
Might  flourish  in  the  wreath  of  bat- 
tles won, 
Though  neither  truth  nor  honor  deck'd 
his  name; 
Who,  placed  by  fortune  on  a  Mon- 
arch's throne, 
Reck'd  not  of  Monarch's  faith,  or  Mercy's 
kingly  tone. 


From  a  rude  isle  his  ruder  lineage  came, 
The   spark,    that,    from  a    suburb- 
hovel's  hearth 


Ascending,    wraps    some    capital    in 
flame. 
Hath  not  a  meaner  or  more  sordid 
birth. 
And  for  the  soul  that  bade  him  waste 
the  earth  — 
The    sable    land-flood    from    some 
swamp  obscure. 
That    poisons   the   glad  husband-field 
with  dearth. 
And  by  destruction  bids  its  fame  en- 
dure, 
Hath  not  a  source  more  sullen,  stagnant, 
and  impure.* 


Before  that  Leader  strode  a  shadowy 
Form; 
Her  limbs  like  mist,  her  torch  like 
meteor  show'd. 
With  which  she  beckon 'd  him  through 
fight  and  storm, 
And  all  he  crush 'd  that  cross'd  his 
desperate  road. 
Nor  thought,  nor  fear'd,  nor  look'd  on 
what  he  trode. 
Realms   could    not   glut   his  pride, 
blood  could  not  slake. 
So   oft   as   e'er  she  shook   her  torch 
abroad  — 
It  was  Ambition  bade  her   terrors 
wake. 
Nor  deign'd  she,  as  of  yore,  a    milder 
form  to  take. 


No  longer  now  she  spurn 'd  at  mean 
revenge. 
Or  staid  her  hand  for  conquer 'd  foe- 
man's  moan; 
As  when,  the  fates  of  aged  Rome  to 
change. 
By  Caesar's  side  she  cross'd  the  Ru- 
bicon. 
Nor  joy'd  she  to  bestow  the  spoils  she 
won. 
As   when   the    banded    powers    of 
Greece  were  task'd 
To  war  beneath  the  Youth  of  Mace- 
don: 

*  In  historical  truth,  Napoleon  I. 's  family  was 
not  plebeian. 


THE    VISION  OF  DON  RODERICK. 


191 


No  seemly  veil  her  modern  minion 
ask'd, 
He  saw  her  hideous  face,  and  loved  the 
fiend  unmask'd. 


That  Prelate  mark'd  his  march — On 
banners  blazed 
With  battles  won  in  many  a  distant 
land, 
On   eagle-standards   and  on  arms  he 
gazed; 
"And  hopest  thou  then,"  he  said, 
"thy  power  shall  stand? 
O,  thou  hast  builded  on  the  shifting 
sand. 
And    thou   hast    temper'd    it   with 
slaughter's  flood; 
And   know,   fell    scourge    in    the    Al- 
mighty's hand, 
Gore-moisten'd  trees  shall  perish  in 
the  bud. 
And  by  a  bloody  death  shall  die  the  Man 
of  Blood!" 

XLIII. 
The    ruthless    Leader  beckon 'd    from 
his  train 
A  wan  fraternal   Shade,  and  bade 
him  kneel. 
And  paled  his  temples  with  the  crown 
of  Spain, 
While  trumpets  rang,  and    heralds 
cried,  "  Castile!  "  ^ 
Not  that  he  loved  him  —  No  !  —  In  no 
man's  weal. 
Scarce  in  his  own,   e'er  joy'd  that 
sullen  heart; 
Yet  round  that  throne  he  bade  his  war- 
riors wheel. 
That  the  poor  puppet  might  perform 
his  part. 
And  be  a  sceptred  slave,  at  his  stern  beck 
to  start. 


But  on  the  Natives  of  that  Land,misused, 
Not  long  the  silence  of  amazement 
hung. 
Nor  brook 'd  they  long  their  friendly 
faith  abused; 
For,  with  a  common  shriek,  the  gen- 
eral tongue 


Exclaim'd,  "To  arms!"  and  fast  to 
arms  they  sprung. 
And  Valor  woke,  that   Genius  of 
the  Land! 
Pleasure,  and  ease,  and  sloth,  aside  he 
flung. 
As  burst  th'  awakening  Nazarite  his 
band. 
When    'gainst   his   treacherous   foes   he 
clench'd  his  dreadful  hand.* 

XLV. 
That  Mimic  Monarch  now  cast  anxious 
eye 
Upon   the   Satraps  that  begirt  hira 
round. 
Now  doff'd  his  royal  robe  in  act  to  fly. 
And  from  his  brow  the  diadem  un- 
bound. 
So    oft,    so   near,    the    Patriot    bugle 
wound. 
From  Tarik's  walls  to  Bilboa's  moun- 
tains blown. 
These  martial  satelliteshard  labor  found 
To   guard   a  while    his  substituted 
throne  — 
Light  recking  of  his  cause,  but  battling 
for  their  own. 


From  Alpuhara's  peak  that  bugle  rung. 
And  it  was  echo'd  from  Corunna's 
wall; 
Stately    Seville     responsive    war-shot 
flung, 
Grenada  caught  it  in   her  Moorish 
hall; 
Galicia  bade  her  children  fight  or  fall. 
Wild    Biscay   shook   his    mountain 
coronet, 
Valencia  roused  her  at  the  battle-call. 
And,  foremost    still    where   Valor's 
sons  are  met, 
First    started    to    his    gun    each    fiery 
Miquelet. 

xLvn. 
But  unappall'd   and   burning  for  the 
fight, 
The  Invaders  march,   of  victory  se- 
cure; 

*  Samson.     See  Judges,  chap.  xv.  9-16. 


192 


THE    VISION  OF  DON  RODERICK. 


Skilful  their  force  to  sever  or  unite, 
And  train 'd  alike  to  vanquish  or  en- 
dure. 
Nor    skilful    less,    cheap    conquest  to 
ensure, 
Discord  to  breathe,  and  jealousy  to 
sow, 
To  quell  by  boasting,  and  by  bribes  to 
lure; 
While    naught    against    them    bring 
the  unpractised  foe, 
Save    hearts    for    Freedom's    cause,   and 
hands  for  Freedom's  blow. 

XLVIII. 
Proudly   they    march  —  but,  O !    they 
march  not  forth 
By  one   hot  field  to  crown    a  brief 
campaign, 
As     when     their     Eagles,     sweeping 
through  the  North, 
Destroy 'd  at  every  stoop  an  ancient 
reign  ! 
Far  other  fate  had  Heaven  decreed  for 
Spain; 
In  vain  the  steel,  in  vain  the  torch 
was  plied, 
New  Patriot  armies  started  from  the 
slain, 
High  blazed  the  war,  and  long,  and 
far,  and  wide,^'* 
And   oft   the   God  of    Battles  blest  the 
righteous  side. 

XLIX. 

Nor  unatoned,  where  Freedom's  foes 
prevail, 
Remain'd  their  savage  waste.     With 
lilade  and  brand, 
By  day  the  Invaders  ravaged  hill  and 
dale. 
But,  with  the  darkness,  the  Guerilla 
band 
Came  like  night's  tempest,  and  avenged 
the  land, 
And  claim'd  for  blood  the  retril>ution 
due. 
Probed  the  hard  heart,  and  lopped  the 
mur'drous  hand; 
And  Dawn,  when  o'er  the  scene  her 
beams  she  threw, 
Midst  ruins  they  had  made,  the  spoilers' 
corpses  knew. 


What    minstrel    verse    may   sing,    or 

tongue  may  tell, 
—  Amid  the  vision'd  strife  from  sea  to 

sea. 
How  oft  the  Patriot  banners  rose  or 
fell, 
Still  honor'd  in  defeat  as  victory ! 
For  that  sad  pageant  of  events  to  be, 
Show'd  every  form  of  fight  by  field 
and  flood; 
Slaughter    and    Ruin,    shouting    forth 
their  glee, 
Beheld,  while  riding  on  the  tempest 
scud. 
The  waters  choked  with  slain,  the  earth 
bedrench'd  with  blood ! 


Then     Zaragoza  —  blighted     be     the 
tongue 
That  names  thy  name  without   the 
honor  due ! 
For  never  hath  the  harp  of    Minstrel 
rung 
Of   faith  so  felly  proved,  so  firmly 
true ! 
Mine,  sap,   and    bomb,   thy  shatter'd 
ruins  knew. 
Each    art    of   war's    extremity   had 
room, 
Twice  from  thy  half-sack'd  streets  the 
foe  withdrew. 
And  when  at  length  stern  fate  de- 
creed thy  doom, 
They  won    not  Zaragoza,  but   her  chil- 
dren's bloody  tomb.ii 


Yet  raise  thy  head,  sad  city !  Though 
in  chains, 
Enthrall'd  thou  canst  not  be  !    Arise, 
and  claim 
Reverence    from     every   heart    where 
Freedom  reigns, 
For  what  thou  worshippest !  —  thy 
sainted  dame. 
She  of   the  Column,   honor'd  be  her 
name. 
By    all,    whate'er  their  creed,   who 
honor  love ! 
And  like  the  sacred  relics  of  the  flame, 


THE    VISION  OF  DON  RODERICK. 


193 


That  gave  some  martyr  to  the  bless 'd 
above, 
To  every  loyal  heart  may  thy  sad  embers 
prove ! 


Nor  thine  alone  such  wreck.     Gerona 
fair! 
Faithful  to  death  thy  heroes  shall  be 
sung, 
Manning  the  towers  while  o'er  their 
heads  the  air 
Swart  as  the  smoke  from  raging  fur- 
nace hung; 
Now  thicker  dark'ning  where  the  mine 
was  sprung, 
Now  briefly  lighten'd  by  the    can- 
non's flare, 
Now   arch'd    with    fire-sparks    as    the 
bomb  was  flung, 
And  redd'ning  now  with  conflagra- 
tion's glare, 
While  by  the  fatal  light  the  foes  for  storm 
prepare. 


While  all  around  was  danger,  strife, 
and  fear. 
While  the  earth  shook,  and  darken'd 
was  the  sky, 
And  wide  Destruction  stunn'd  the  lis- 
tening ear, 
Appall'd  the  heart,  and  stupefied  the 
eye,— 
Afar  was  heard  that  thrice-repeated  cry, 
In    which    old    Albion's    heart  and 
tongue  unite. 
Whene'er  her  soul   is   up,    and  pulse 
beats  high. 
Whether  it  hail  the  wine  cup  or  the 
feht. 
And  bid  each  arm  be  strong,  or  bid  each 
heart  be  light. 


Don  Roderick  turn'd  him  as  the  shout 
grew  loud  — 
A  varied  scene  the  changeful  vision 
show'd. 
For,  where  the  ocean  mingled  with  the 
cloud, 
A  gallant  navy  stctnm'd  the  billows 
I        broad. 


From  mast  and  stern  St.  George's  sym- 
bol flow'd. 
Blent  with  the  silver  cross  to  Scot- 
land dear; 
Mottling  the  sea  their  landward  barges 
row'd. 
And   flash'd   the   sun   on   bayonet, 
brand,  and  spear. 
And  the  wild  beach  return'd  the  seaman's 
jovial  cheer. 


It  was  a  dread,  yet  spirit-stirring  sight ! 
The  billows  foam'd  beneath  a  thou- 
sand oars. 
Fast  as  they  land  the  red-cross  ranks 
unite. 
Legions  on  legions   bright'ning  all 
the  shores. 
Then  banners  rise,  and  cannon-signal 
roars. 
Then  peals  the  warlike  thunder  of 
the  drum, 
Thrills    the    loud    fife,    the    trumpet- 
flourish  pours. 
And  patriot  hopes  awake,  and  doubts 
are  dumb, 
For,  bold  in  Freedom's  cause,  the  bands 
of  Ocean  come ! 


A   various   host    they   come  —  whose 
ranks  display 
Each   mode   in  which   the    warrior 
meets  the  fight. 
The  deep  battalion  locks  its  firm  array, 
And  meditates  his  aim  the   marks- 
man light; 
Far  glance  the  light  of  sabres  flashing 
bright. 
Where  mounted  squadrons  shake  the 
echoing  mead, 
Lacks  not  artillery  breathing  flame  and 
night, 
Nor  the  fleet   ordnance  whirl'd  by 
rapid  steed, 
That  rivals  lightning's  flash  in  ruin  and 
in  speed. 

LVIII. 

A  various  host  —  from  kindred  realms 
they  came. 


194 


THE    VISION  OF  DON  RODERICK. 


Brethren  in  arms,  but  rivals  in  re- 
nown— 
For  yon  fair  bands  shall  merry  England 
claim, 
And  with  their  deeds  of  valor  deck 
her  crown. 
Hers  their  bold  port,  and  hers  their 
martial  frown, 
And  hers  their    scorn  of  death  in 
freedom's  cause. 
Their  eyes  of  azure,  and  their  locks  of 
brown, 
And    the    blunt  speech  that  bursts 
without  a  pause, 
And  freeborn  thoughts,  which  league  the 
Soldier  with  the  Laws. 


And,  O !  loved  warriors  of  the  Min- 
strel's land! 
Yonder    your    bonnets    nod,    your 
tartans  wave ! 
The  rugged  form  may  mark  the  moun- 
tain band. 
And  harsher   features,  and  a  mien 
more  grave; 
But  ne'er  in  battle-field  throbb'd  heart 
so  brave, 
As   that  which   beats   beneath    the 
Scottish  plaid; 
And  when  the  pibroch  bids  the  battle 
rave. 
And  level  for  the  charge  your  arms 
are  laid, 
Where  lives  the  despejate  foe  that  for 
such  onset  staid ! 


Hark !    from   yon   stately  ranks  what 
laughter  rings. 
Mingling  wild  mirth  with  war's  stern 
minstrelsy. 
His   jest   while  each    blithe   comrade 
round  him  flings. 
And  moves  to  death  with   military 
glee: 
Boast,    Erin,    boast   them !    tameless, 
frank,  and  free. 
In   kindness   warm,    and    fierce   in 
danger  known. 
Rough  Nature's  children,  humorous  as 
she: 


And  He,  yon  Chieftain  —strike  the 
proudest  tone 
Of    thy    bold    harp,    green    Isle ! 
Hero  is  thine  own. 


Now  on  the  scene  Vimeira  *  should  be 

shown. 
On  Talavera's   fight  should  Roderick 

gaze, 
And    hear    Corunna    wail    her   battle 
won, 
And  see  Busaco's  crest  with  light- 
ning blaze :  — 
But  shall  fond  fable  mix  with  heroes' 
praise  ? 
Hath  Fiction's  stage  for  Truth's  long 

triumphs  room? 
And    dare   her  wild-flowers  mingle 

with  the  bays. 
That  claim  a  long  eternity  to  bloom 
Around  the  warrior's  crest,  and  o'er  the 
warrior's  tomb! 

LXII. 

Or   may    I    give    adventurous    Fancy 
scope, 
And  stretch  a  bold  hand  to  the  awful 
veil 
That  hides  futurity  from  anxious  hope. 
Bidding  beyond  it  scenes  of  glory 
hail, 
And   panting  Europe    rousing  at   the 
tale 
Of  Spain's  invaders  from  her  con- 
fines hurl'd, 
While  kindling  nations  buckle  on  their 
mail. 
And  Fame,  with   clarion-blast  and 
wings  unfurl'd. 
To  Freedom  and  Revenge  awakes  an  in- 
jured World? 

LXIII. 

O  vain,  though  anxious,  is  the  glance 
I  cast. 
Since  Fate  has  mark'd  futurity  her 
own: 

*  The  battle  of  Vimeira  was  fought  Auj^st  21, 
iSoS ;  Corunna,  January  16,  iSoy  :  Talavera, 
July  28,  1809;  Busaco,  September  27,  1810. 


THE    VISION  OF  DON  RODERICK. 


195 


Yet  fate  resigns  to  worth  the  glorious 
past, 
The  deeds  recorded,  and  the  laurels 
won. 
Then,  though  the  Vault  of  Destiny  ^- 
be  gone, 
King,  Prelate,  all  the  phantasms  of 
my  brain. 
Melted  away  like  mist-wreaths  in  the 
sun. 
Yet  grant  for  faith,  for  valor,  and 
for  Spain, 
One  note  of  pride  and  fire,  a  patriot's 
parting  strain ! 


CONCLUSION. 

I. 

"  Who  shall  command  Estrella's  moun- 
tain-tide 
Back  to  the  source,  when  tempest- 
chafed,  to  hie? 
Who,  when  Gascogne's  vex'd  gulf  is 
raging  wide, 
Shall  hush  it  as  a  nurse  her  infant's 
cry? 
His  magic  power  let  such  vain  boaster 
try. 
And  when  the  torrent  shall  his  voice 
obey. 
And  Biscay's  whirlwinds  list  his  lullaby, 
I^t  him  stand  forth  and  bar  mine 
eagles'  way. 
And  they  shall  heed  his  voice,  and  at  his 
bidding  stay. 


"  Else  ne'er  to  stoop,  till  high  on  Lis- 
bon's towers. 
They  close  their  wings,  the  symbol 
of  our  yoke. 
And  their  own  sea  hath  whelm'd  yon 
red-cross  Powers!  " 
Thus,  on  the  summit  of  Alverca's 
rock, 
To  Marshal,  Duke,  and  Peer,  Gaul's 
Leader  spoke. 
While    downward  on  the   land   his 
legions  press. 
Before  them  it  was  rich  with  vine  and 
flock, 


And  smiled  like  Eden  in  her  summer 
dress; 
Behind  their  wasteful  march,  a  reeking 
wilderness.^^ 


And  shall  the  boastful  Chief  maintain 
his  word. 
Though    Heaven    hath    heard   the 
wailings  of  the  land,     . 
Though    Lusitania  whet  her  vengeful 
sword. 
Though  Britons  arm,  and  Welling- 
ton command ! 
No !    grim   Busaco's   iron  ridge  shall 
stand 
An  adamantine  barrier  to  his  force; 
And    from   its   base    shall   wheel   his 
shatter'd  band. 
As  from  the  unshaken  rock  the  tor- 
rent hoarse 
Bears  off  its  broken  waves,  and  seeks  a 
devious  course. 


Yet  not  because   Alcoba's  mountain- 
hawk 
Hath  on  his  best  and  bravest  made 
her  food. 
In  numl^rs  confident,  yon  Chief  shall 
balk 
His  Lord's  imperial  thirst  for  spoil 
and  blood: 
For  full  in  view  the  promised  conquest 
stood, 
And  Lisbon's   matrons    from   their 
walls  might  sum 
The  myriads  that  had  half  the  world 
subdued. 
And  hear  the  distant  thunders  of  the 
drum. 
That  bids  the  bands  of  France  to  storm 
and  havoc  come. 

V. 

Four  moons  have  heard  these  thunders 
idly  roll'd. 
Have  seen  these  wistful  myriads  eye 
their  prey. 
As  famish'd  wolves  survey  a  guarded 
fold  — 
But  in  the  middle  path  a  Lion  lay ! 


196 


THE    VISION  OF  DON  RODERICK. 


At    length    they   move  —  but    not   to 
battle-fray, 
Nor  blaze  yon  fires  where  meets  the 
manly  fight; 
Beacons  of  infamy,  they  light  the  way 
Where  cowardice  and  cruelty  unite 
To  damn  with  double  shame  their  igno- 
minious flight ! 


O  triumph  for  the  Fiends  of  Lust  and 
Wrath ! 
Ne'ertobetold,yet  ne'erto  beforgot, 
What   wanton    horrors    mark'd    their 
wreckful  path ! 
The  peasant  butcher'd  in  his  ruin'd 
cot, 
The  hoary  priest  even  at  the  altar  shot. 
Childhood   and   age    given    o'er  to 
sword  and  flame, 
Woman  to  infamy;  — no  crime  forgot. 
By  which  inventive  demons  might 
proclaim 
Immortal   hate    to   man,    and   scorn   of 
God's  great  name ! 


The  rudest  sentinel,  in  Britain  born. 
With    horror    paused    to    view    the 
havoc  done, 
Gave  his  poor  crust  to  feed  some  wretch 
forlorn, 1* 
Wiped   his   stern   eye,  then  fiercer 
grasp'd  his  gun. 
Nor  with  less  zeal  shall  Britain's  peace- 
ful son 
Exult  the  debt  of  sympathy  to  pay; 
Riches  nor  poverty  the  tax  shall  shun. 
Nor  prince    nor  peer,  the   wealthy 
nor  the  gay. 
Nor  the  poor  peasant's  mite,  nor  bard's 
more  worthless  lay. 


But  thou  —  unfoughten  wilt  thou  yield 
to  Fate, 
Minion   of   Fortune,  now  miscall'd 
in  vain ! 
Can    vantage-ground    no     confidence 
create, 
Marcella's  pass,  nor  Guarda's  moun- 
tain-chain? 


Vainglorious     fugitive !  ^^     yet     turn 
again ! 
Behold,  where,  named  by  some  pro- 
phetic Seer, 

Flows  Honor's  Fountain,*  and    fore- 
doom'd  the  stain 

From  thy  dishonor'd  name  and  arms 
to  clear  — 
Fallen  Child  of  Fortune,  turn,  redeem 
her  favor  here ! 


Yet,  ere  thou  turn'st,  collect  each  dis- 
tant aid; 
Those  chief    that    never  heard  the 
lion  roar ! 
Within  whose  souls  lives  not  a  trace 
portray 'd 
Of  Talavera,  or  Mondego's  shore  ! 
Marshal    each    band   thou   hast,    and 
summon  more; 
Of  war's  fell  stratagems  exhaust  the 
whole; 
Rank  upon  rank,  squadron  on  squadron 
pour, 
Legion  on  Legion  on   thy   foemen 
roll. 
And  weary  out  his  arm  —  thou  canst  not 
quell  his  soul. 


O  vainly  gleams  with  steel  Agueda's 
shore. 
Vainly  thy  squadrons  hide  Assuava's 
plain. 
And  front  the  flying  thunders  as  they 
roar. 
With  frantic  charge  and  tenfold  odds, 
in  vain  !  *^ 
And  what  avails  thee  that,  for  Cameron 
slain, *^ 
Wild   from   his   plaided   ranks   the 
yell  was  given  — 
Vengeance  and  grief  gave  mountain- 
rage  the  reign. 
And,  at  the  bloody  spear-point  head- 
long driven. 
Thy  Despot's  giant  guards  fled  like  the 
rack  of  heaven. 

*  The  literal  translation   of  Fuenies  de  Ho- 
noro. 


THE    VISION  OF  DON  RODERICK. 


197 


Go,  baffled  boaster  !  teach  thy  haughty 
mood 
To  plead  at  thine  imperious  master's 
throne. 
Say,  thou  hast  left  his  legions  in  their 
blood, 
Deceived  his  hopes,  and  frustrated 
thine  own; 
Say,  that  thine  utmost  skill  and  valor 
shown,    . 
By  British  skill  and  valor  were  out- 
vied; 
Last  say,  thy  conqueror  was  Welling- 
ton ! 
And  if  he  chafe,  be  his  own  fortune 
tried  — 
God  and  our  cause  to  friend,  the  venture 
we'll  abide. 


But  you,  ye  heroes  of  that  well-fought 

day. 
How  shall  a  bard,  unknowing  and 

unknown, 
His   meed   to   each   victorious   leader 

pay, 

Or  bind  on  every  brow  the  laurels 
won? 
Yet    fain    my    harp   would    wake   its 
boldest  tone. 
O'er  the  wide  sea  to  hail  Cadogan 
brave ; 
And  he,  perchance,  the  minstrel-note 
might  own. 
Mindful  of  meeting  brief  that  For- 
tune gave 
Mid  yon  far  western  isles  that  hear  the 
Atlantic  rave. 


Yes !    hard    the    task,    when    Britons 
wield  the  sword, 
To  give  each  Chief  and  every  field 
its  fame : 
Hark  !  Albuera  thunders  Beresford, 
And  Red  Barosa  shouts  for  dauntless 
Gr.«me  ! 
O  for  a  verse  of  tumult  and  of  flame. 
Bold  as  the  bursting  of  their  cannon 
sound. 
To  bid  the  world  re-echo  to  their  fame  ! 


For  never,  upon  gory  battle-ground. 
With  conquest's  well-bought  wreath  were 
braver  victors  crown'd ! 


O   who   shall   grudge   him  Albuera's 
bays. 
Who  brought    a  race  regenerate  to 
the  field. 
Roused  them  to  emulate  their  father's 
praise. 
Temper' d  their  headlong  rage,  their 
courage  steel'd.^^ 
And    raised     fair     Lusitania's     fallen 
shield, 
And  gave  new  edge  to  Lusitania's 
sword, 
And  taught  her  sons  forgotten  arms  to 
wield  — 
Shiver 'd  my  harp,  and  burst  its  every 
chord. 
If  it  forget  thy  worth,  victorious  Beres- 
ford ! 


Not    on   that    bloody    field   of   battle 
won. 
Though  Gaul's  proud  legions  roll'd 
like  mist  away, 
Was     half      his     self-devoted     valor 
shown, — 
He  gaged  but  life  on  that  illustrious 
day; 
But  when  he  toil'd  those  squadrons  to 
array, 
Who   fought    like    Britons   in    the 
bloody  game. 
Sharper  than  Polish  pike  or  assagay. 
He  braved  the  shafts  of  censure  and 
of  shame. 
And,  dearer  far  than  life,  he  pledged  a 
soldier's  fame. 


Nor  be  his  praise  o'erpast  who  strove 
to  hide 
Beneath  the  warrior's  vest  affection's 
wound. 
Whose  wish  Heaven  for  his  country's 
weal  denied; 
Danger    and    fate    he    sought,    but 
glory  found. 


io8 


THE    VISION  OF  DON  RODERICK. 


From  clime  to  clime,  where'er  war's 
trumpets  ^ound, 
The  wanderer  went;  yet,  Caledonia ! 
still 
Thine  was  his  thought   in  march  and 
tented  ground; 
He    dream 'd   mid  Alpine    cliffs   of 
Athole's  hill, 
And  heard  in  Ebro's  roar  his  Lyndoch's 
lovely  rill. 


O  hero  of  a  race  renown'd  of  old. 
Whose  war-cry  oft  has  waked  the 
battle-swell, 
Sincefirstdistinguish'd  inthe  onset  bold. 
Wild    sounding    when    the    Roman 
rampart  fell ! 
By  Wallace' side  it  rung  the  Southron's 
knell, 
Alderne,  Kilsy  the,  and  Tibber  own'd 
its  fame, 
Tummell's  rude  pass  can  of  its  terrors 
tell. 


But  ne'er  from  prouder  field  arose  the 
name. 
Than  when  wild  Ronda  learn'd  the  con- 
quering shout  of  Gr^me  !  1^ 

XVIII. 

But  all  too  long,  through  seas  unknown 
and  dark, 
(With  Spenser's  parable  I  close  my 
tale,) 
By  shoal  and  rock  hath  steer'd  my  ven- 
turous bark, 
And  landward  now  I  drive  before  the 
gale. 
And  now  the  blue  and  distant  shore  I 
hail. 
And  nearer  now  I  see  the  port  ex- 
pand, 
And    now    I    gladly    furl    my    weary 
sail, 
And   as  the  prow  light  touches  on 
the  strand, 
I  strike  my  red-cross  flag  and  bind  m^ 
skiff  to  land. 


ROKEBY: 

A    POEM    IN    SIX    CANTOS. 


JOHN    B.    S.    MORRITT,    ESQ. 

THIS   POEM,   THE   SCENE    OF   WHICH    IS   LAID    IN    HIS   BEAUTIFUL   DEMESNE  OF 
ROKEBY,   IS   INSCRIBED,    IN    TOKEN    OF   SINCERE   FRIENDSHIP. 


WALTER  SCOTT. 
[dec.  13,  1812.] 


ADVERTISEMENT   TO   THE   FIRST   EDITION. 

The  Scene  of  this  Poem  is  laid  at  Rokeby,  near  Greta  Bridge,  in  Yorkshire,  and  shifts 
to  the  adjacent  Fortress  of  Barnard  Castle,  and  to  other  places  in  that  Vicinity. 

The  Time  occupied  by  the  Actiojt  is  a  space  of  Five  days.  Three  of  which  are  supposed 
to  elapse  between  the  end  of  the  Fifth  and  the  beginning  of  the  Sixth  Canto. 

The  date  of  the  supposed  events  ts  immediately  subsequent  to  the  great  Battle  of  Marston 
Moor,  T^d  July,  1644.  This  period  of  public  confusion  has  been  chosen,  without  any  purpose 
of  combining  the  Fable  with  the  Military  or  Political  Events  of  the  Civil  War,  but  only 
as  affording  a  degree  of  probability  to  the  Fictitious  narrative  now  presented  to  the  Public. 

199 


ROKEBY. 


INTRODUCTION    TO   EDITION    1830. 

Between  the  publication  of  "  The  Lady  of  the  Lake,"  which  was  so  eminently  success- 
ful, and  that  of  "  Rokeby,"  in  1813,  three  years  had  intervened.  I  shall  not.  I  believe,  be 
accused  of  ever  having  attempted  to  usurp  a  superiority  over  many  men  of  genius,  my  con- 
temporaries :  but,  in  point  of  popularity,  not  of  actual  talent,  the  caprice  of  the  public  had 
certainly  given  me  such  a  temporary  superiority  over  men,  of  whom,  in  regard  to  poetical 
fancy  and  feeling,  I  scarcely  thought  myself  worthy  to  loose  the  shoe-latch.  On  the  other 
hand,  it  would  be  absurd  affectation  in  me  to  deny,  that  I  conceived  myself  to  understand, 
more  perfectly  than  many  of  my  contemporaries,  the  manner  most  likely  to  interest  the 
great  mass  of  mankind.  Yet,  even  with  this  belief,  I  must  truly  and  fairly  say,  that  I 
always  considered  myself  rather  as  one  who  held  the  bets,  in  time  to  be  paid  over  to  the 
winner,  than  as  having  any  pretence  to  keep  them  in  my  own  right. 

In  the  mean  time  years  crept  on,  and  not  without  their  usual  depredations  on  the  passing 
generation.  My  sons  had  arrived  at  the  age  when  the  paternal  home  was  no  longer  their 
best  abode,  as  both  were  destined  to  active  life.  The  field-sports,  to  which  I  was  peculiarly 
attached,  had  now  less  interest,  and  were  replaced  by  other  amusements  of  a  more  quiet 
character  ;  and  the  means  and  opportunity  of  pursuing  these  were  to  be  sought  for.  I  had, 
indeed,  for  some  years  attended  to  farming,  a  knowledge  of  which  is,  or  at  least  was  then, 
indisf)ensable  to  the  comfort  of  a  family  residing  in  a  solitary  country-house  ;  but  although 
this  was  the  favorite  amusement  of  many  of  my  friends,  I  have  never  been  able  to  consider 
it  as  a  source  of  pleasure.  I  never  could  think  it  a  matter  of  passing  importance,  that  my 
cattle,  or  crops,  were  better  or  more  plentiful  than  those  of  my  neighbors  ;  and  nevertheless 
I  began  to  feel  the  necessity  of  some  more  quiet  out-door  occupation,  different  from  those  I 
had  hitherto  pursued.  I  purchased  a  small  farm  of  about  one  hundred  acres,  with  the 
purpose  of  planting  and  improving  it,  to  which  property  circumstances  afterwards  enabled 
me  to  make  considerable  additions  ;  and  thus  an  era  took  place  in  my  life,  almost  equal  to 
the  important  one  mentioned  by  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield,  when  he  removed  from  the  Blue 
room  to  the  Brown.  In  point  of  neighborhood,  at  least,  the  change  of  residence  made  little 
tnore  difference.  Abbotsford,  to  which  we  removed,  was  only  six  or  seven  miles  down  the 
Tweed,  and  lay  on  the  same  beautiful  stream.  It  did  not  possess  the  romantic  character 
of  Ashestiel,  my  former  residence  ;  but  it  had  a  stretch  of  meadow-land  along  the  river,  and 
possessed,  in  the  phrase  of  the  landscape-gardener,  considerable  capabilities.  Above  all,  the 
land  was  my  own,  like  Uncle  Toby's  Bowling-green,  to  do  what  I  would  with.  It  had  been, 
though  the  gratification  was  long  postponed,  an  early  wish  of  mine  to  connect  myself  with 
my  mother-earth,  and  prosecute  those  experiments  by  which  a  species  of  creative  power  is 
exercised  over  the  face  of  nature.  I  can  trace,  even  to  childhood,  a  pleasure  derived  from 
Dodsley's  account  of  Shenstone's  Leasowes,  and  I  envied  the  poet  much  more  for  the 
pleasure  of  accomplishing  the  objects  detailed  in  his  friend's  sketch  of  his  grounds,  than 
for  the  possession  of  pipe,  crook,  flock,  and  Phillis  to  boot.  My  memory,  also,  tenacious 
of  quaint  expressions,  still  retained  a  phrase  which  it  had  gathered  from  an  old  almanac  of 
Charles  the  Second's  time  (when  everything  down  to  almanacs  affected  to  be  smart),  in 
which  the  reader,  in  the  month  of  June,  is  advised,  for  health's  sake,  to  walk  a  mile  or  two 
every  day  before  breakfast,  and,  if  he  can  possibly  so  manage,  to  let  his  exercise  be  taken 
upon  his  own  land. 

With  the  satisfaction  of  having  attained  the  fulfilment  of  an  early  and  long-cherished 
hope,  I  commenced  my  improvements,  as  delightful  in  their  progress  as  those  of  the  child 
who  first  makes  a  dress  for  a  new  doll.  The  nakedness  of  the  land  was  in  time  hidden  by 
woodlands  of  considerable  extent  —  the  smallest  of  possible  cottages  was  progressively 
expanded  into  a  sort  of  dream  of  a  mansion-house,  whimsical  in  the  exterior,  but  conven- 
ient within.  Nor  did  I  forget  what  is  the  natural  pleasure  of  every  man  who  has  been  a 
reader,  I  mean  the  filling  the  shelves  of  a  tolerably  large  library.  All  these  objects  I  kept 
in  view,  to  be  executed  as  convenience  should  serve;  and  although  I  knew  many  years  must 
elapse  before  they  could  be  attained,  I  was  of  a  disposition  to  comfort  myselif  with  the 
Spanish  proverb,  "  Time  and  I  against  any  two." 

The  difficult  and  indisjjensable  point,  of  finding  a  permanent  subject  of  occupation,  was 
now  at  length  attained ;  but  there  was  annexed  to  it  the  necessity  of  becoming  again  a  can- 
didate for  public  favor  ;  for,  as  I  was  turned  improver  on  the  earth  of  the  every-day  world, 
it  was  under  condition  that  the  small  tenement  of  Parnassus,  which  might  be  accessible  to 
my  labors,  should  not  remain  uncultivated. 


INTRODUCTION.  ^i 

I  meditated,  at  first,  a  poem  on  the  subject  of  Bruce,  in  which  I  made  some  progress,  but 
afterwards  judged  it  advisable  to  lay  it  aside,  supposing  that  an  English  story  might  have 
more  novelty  ;  in  consequence,  the  precedence  was  given  to  '•  Rokeby." 

If  subject  and  scenery  could  have  influenced  the  fate  of  a  poem,  that  of  "  Rokeby  " 
should  have  been  eminently  distinguished  ;  for  the  grounds  belonged  to  a  dear  friend, 
with  whom  I  had  lived  in  habits  of  intimacy  for  many  years,  and  the  place  itself  united  the 
romantic  beauties  of  the  wilds  of  Scotland  with  the  rich  and  smiling  aspect  of  the  southern 
portion  of  the  island.  But  the  Cavaliers  and  Roundheads,  whom  I  attempted  to  summon 
up  to  tenant  this  beautiful  region,  had  for  the  public  neither  the  novelty  nor  the  peculiar 
interest  of  the  primitive  Highlanders.  This,  perhaps,  was  scarcely  to  be  expected,  consid- 
ering that  the  general  mind  sympathizes  readily  and  at  once  with  the  stamp  which  nature 
herself  has  affixed  upon  the  manners  of  a  people  hvingin  a  simple  and  patriarchal  state  ; 
whereas  it  has  more  difficulty  in  understanding  or  interesting  itself  in  manners  founded 
upon  those  peculiar  habits  of  thinking  or  acting,  which  are  produced  by  the  progress  of 
society.  We  could  read  with  pleasure  the  tale  of  the  adventures  of  a  Cossack  or  a  Mongol 
Tartar,  while  we  only  wonder  and  stare  over  those  of  the  lovers  in  the  "  Pleasing  Chinese 
History,"  where  the  embarrassments  turn  upon  difficulties  arising  out  of  unintelligible 
delicacies  peculiar  to  the  customs  and  manners  of  that  affected  people. 

The  cause  of  my  failure  had.  however,  a  far  deeper  root.  The  manner,  or  style,  which, 
by  its  novelty,  attracted  the  public  in  an  unusual  degree,  had  now,  after  having  been  three 
times  before  them,  exhausted  the  patience  of  the  reader,  and  began  in  the  fourth  to  lose  its 
charms.  The  reviewers  may  be  said  to  have  apostrophized  the  author  in  the  language  of 
Parnell's  Edwin :  — 

"  And  here  reverse  the  charm,  he  cries. 
And  let  it  fairly  now  suflSce, 
The  gambol  has  been  shown." 

The  licentious  combination  of  rhymes,  in  a  manner  not  perhaps  very  congenial  to  our 
language,  had  not  been  confined  to  the  author.  Indeed,  in  most  similar  cases,  the  inventors 
of  such  novelties  have  their  reputation  destroyed  by  their  own  imitators,  as  Actaeon  fell 
under  the  fury  of  his  own  dogs.  The  present  author,  like  Bobadil,  had  taught  his  trick  of 
lence  to  a  hundred  gentlemen  (and  ladies), i  who  could  fence  very  nearly,  or  quite,  as  well  as 
himself.  For  this  there  was  no  remedy  ;  the  harmony  became  tiresome  and  ordinary,  and 
both  the  original  inventor  and  his  invention  must  have  fallen  into  contempt,  if  he  had  not 
found  out  another  road  to  public  favor.  What  has  been  said  of  the  metre  only,  must  be 
considered  to  apply  equally  to  the  structure  of  the  Poem  and  of  the  style.  The  very  best 
passages  of  any  popular  style  are  not,  perhaps,  susceptible  of  imitation,  but  they  may  be 
approached  by  men  of  talent ;  and  those  who  are  less  able  to  copy  them,  at  least  lay  hold 
of  their  peculiar  features,  so  as  to  produce  a  strong  burlesque.  In  either  way,  the  effect 
of  the  manner  is  rendered  cheap  and  common  ;  and,  in  the  latter  case,  ridiculous  to  boot. 
The  evil  consequences  to  an  author's  reputation  are  at  least  as  fatal  as  those  which  come 
upon  the  musical  composer,  when  his  melody  falls  into  the  hands  of  the  street  ballad- 
singer. 

Of  the  unfavorable  species  of  imitation,  the  author's  style  gave  room  to  a  very  large 
number,  owing  to  an  appearance  of  facility  to  which  some  of  those  who  used  the  measure 
unquestionably  leaned  too  far.  The,  effect  of  the  more  favorable  imitations,  composed  by 
persons  of  talent,  was  almost  equally  unfortunate  to  the  original  minstrel,  by  showing  that 
they  could  overshoot  him  with  his  own  bow.  In  short,  the  popularity  which  once  attended 
the  School,  as  it  was  called,  was  now  fast  decaying. 

Besides  all  this,  to  have  kept  his  ground  at  the  crisis  when  "  Rokeby  "  appeared,  its 
author  ought  to  have  put  forth  his  utmost  strength,  and  to  have  possessed  at  least  all  his 
original  advantages,  for  a  mighty  and  unexpected  rival  was  advancing  on  the  stage  —  a 
rival  not  in  poetical  powers  only,  but  in  that  art  of  attracting  popularity,  in  which  the 
present  writer  had  hitherto  preceded  tetter  men  than  himself.  The  reader  will  easily  see 
that  Byron  is  here  meant,  who,  after  a  little  velitation  of  no  great  promise,  now  appeared 

'  "  Scott  found  peculiar  favor  and  imitation  among  the  fair  sex.  There  was  Miss  Halford  and 
Miss  Mitford  and  Miss  Francis;  but,  with  the  greatest  resiiect  be  it  six>ken,  none  of  his  imitators 
did  much  honor  to  the  original,  except  Hogg,  the  Ettrick  Shepherd,  until  the  .ippearance  of  "  The 
Dridal  nf  Triermain  "  and  '•  Harold  the  Daimtless,"  which,  in  the  opinion  of  some,  equalled  if  not 
surpassed  him  ;  and  lo !  after  three  or  four  years,  they  turn  out  to  be  the  Master's  own  composi- 
tion . "  —  Byron. 


202  ROKEBY. 

35  a  serious  candidate,  in  the  "  First  two  Cantos  of  Childe  Harold."  i  I  was  astonished  at 
the  power  evinced  by  that  work,  which  neither  the  •'  Hours  of  Idleness,"  nor  the  "  Eng- 
lish Bards  and  Scotch  Reviewers,"  had  prepared  nie  to  expect  from  its  author.  There  was 
a  depth  in  his  thought,  an  eager  abundance  in  his  diction,  which  argued  full  confidence  in 
the  inexhaustible  resources  of  which  he  felt  himself  possessed ;  and  there  was  some  appear- 
ance of  that  labor  of  the  file,  which  indicates  that  tlie  author  is  conscious  of  the  necessity 
of  doing  every  justice  to  his  work,  that  it  may  pass  warrant.  Lord  Byron  was  also  a 
traveller,  a  man  whose  ideas  were  fired  by  having  seen,  in  distant  scenes  of  difficulty  and 
danger,  tiie  places  whose  very  names  are  recorded  in  our  bosoms  as  the  shrines  of  ancient 
poetry.  For  his  own  misfortune,  jierhaps,  but  certainly  to  the  high  increase  on  his  poetical 
character,  nature  had  mixed  in  Lord  Byron's  system  those  passions  which  agitate  the 
human  heart  with  most  violence,  and  which  may  be  said  to  have  hurried  his  l^right  career 
to  an  early  close.  There  would  have  been  little  wisdom  in  measuring  my  force  with  so 
formidable  an  antagonist ;  and  I  was  as  likely  to  tire  of  playing  the  second  fiddle  in  the 
concert,  as  my  audience  of  hearing  me.  Age  also  was  advancing.  1  was  growing  insensible 
to  those  subjects  of  excitation  by  which  youth  is  agitated.  I  had  around  me  the  most  pleas- 
ant but  least  exciting  of  all  society,  that  of  kind  friends  and  an  affectionate  family.  My 
circle  of  employments  was  a  narrow  one  ;  it  occupied  me  constantly,  and  it  became  daily 
more  difficult  for  me  to  interest  myself  in  poetical  composition :  — 

"  How  happily  the  days  of  Thalaba  went  by !  " 

Yet,  though  conscious  that  I  must  be,  in  the  opinion  of  good  judges,  inferior  to  the 
place  I  had  for  four  or  five  years  held  in  letters,  and  feeling  alike  that  the  latter  was  one 
to  which  1  had  only  a  temporary  right,  I  could  not  brook  the  idea  of  relinquishing  literary 
occupation,  which  had  been  so  long  my  chief  diversion.  Neither  was  I  disposed  to  choose 
the  alternative  of  sinking  into  a  mere  editor  and  commentator,  though  that  was  a  sjaecics 
of  labor  which  I  had  practised,  and  to  which  J  was  attached.  But  I  could  not  endure  to 
think  that  I  might  not,  whether  known  or  concealed,  do  something  of  more  importance. 
My  inmost  thoughts  were  those  of  the  Trojan  Captain  in  the  galley  race, — 

Non  jtm,  prima  peto  Mnestheus,  neque  vincere  certo ; 
Quanquam  O!  —  sed  superent,  quibus  hoc,  Neptune,  dedisti; 
Extremes  pudeat  rediisse  :  hoc  vincite,  cives, 
Et  prohibete  nefas."*  —  vEn.  lib.  v.  194. 

I  had,  indeed,  some  private  reasons  for  my  "  Quanquam  O ! "  which  were  not  worse 
than  those  of  Mnestheus.  I  have  already  hinted  that  the  materials  were  collected  for  a 
poem  on  the  subject  of  Bruce,  and  fragments  of  it  had  been  shown  to  some  of  my  friends, 
and  received  with  applause.  Notwithstanding,  therefore,  the  eminent  success  of  Byron, 
and  the  great  chance  of  his  taking  the  wind  out  of  my  sails,  there  was,  I  judged,  a  species 
of  cowardice  in  desisting  from  the  task  which  I  had  undertaken,  and  it  was  time  enough 
to  retreat  when  the  battle  should  be  more  decidedly  lost.  The  sale  of  "  Rokeby,"  except- 
ing as  compared  with  that  of  "  The  Lady  of  the  Lake,"  was  in  the  highest  degree  respect- 
able; and  as  it  included  fifteen  hundred  quartos'  in  those  quarto-reading  days,  the  trade 
had  no  reason  to  be  dissatisfied. 

Abbotsford,  April,  1830. 

^  Published  in  London,  March,  1812. 

'  "  I  seek  not  now  the  foremost  palm  to  gain  : 

Though  yet  —  but  ah  !  that  haughty  wish  is  vain  ! 

Let  those  enjoy  it  whom  the  gods  ordain. 

liut  to  be  last,  the  lags  of  all  the  race !  — 

Redeem  yourselves  and  me  from  that  disgrace."  —  Dryden. 
»  The  quarto  edition  was  published  in  January,  1813. 


ROKEBY. 


CANTO   FIRST. 


The  Moon  is  in  her  summer  glow, 
But  hoarse  and  high  the  breezes  blow, 
And,  racking  o'er  her  face,  the  cloud 
Varies  the  tincture  of  her  shroud; 
On  Barnard's  towers,  and  Tees's  stream, * 
She  changes  as  a  guilty  dream. 
When  Conscience,  with  remorse  and  fear. 
Goads  sleeping  Fancy's  wild  career. 
Her  light  seems  now  the  blush  of  shame, 
Seems  now  fierce  anger's  darker  flame. 
Shifting  that  shade,  to  come  and  go. 
Like  apprehension's  hurried  glow; 
Then  Sorrow's  livery  dims  the  air, 
And  dies  in  darkness,  like  despair. 
Such  varied  hues  the  warder  sees 
Reflected  from  the  woodland  Tees, 
Then  from  old  Baliol's  tower  looks  forth. 
Sees  the  clouds  mustering  in  the  north, 
Hears,  upon  turret-roof  and  wall. 
By  fits  the  plashing  rain-drop  fall. 
Lists  to  the  breeze's  boding  sound. 
And  wraps  his  shaggy  mantle  round. 


Those  towers,   which  in    the  changeful 

gleam 
Throw  murky  shadows  on  the  stream. 
Those  towers  of  Barnard  hold  a  guest. 
The  emotions  of  whose  troubled  breast. 
In  wild  and  strange  confusion  driven. 
Rival  the  flitting  rack  of  heaven. 
Ere  sleep  stern  Oswald's  senses  tied, 
Oft  had  he  changed  his  weary  side, 
Composed  his  limbs,  and  vainly  sought 
By  effort  strong  to  banish  thought. 
Sleep  came  at  length,  but  with  a  train 
Of  feelings  true  and  fancies  vain, 


Mingling,  in  wild  disorder  cast. 
The  expected  future  with  the  past. 
Conscience,  anticipating  time. 
Already  rues  the  enacted  crime. 
And  calls  her  furies  forth,  to  shake 
The  sounding  scourge  and  hissing  snake ; 
While  her  poor  victim's  outward  throes 
Bear  witness  to  his  mental  woes. 
And  show  what  lesson  may  be  read 
Beside  a  sinner's  restless  bed. 


Thus  Oswald's  laboring  feelings  trace 
Strange  changes  in  his  sleeping  face. 
Rapid  and  ominous  as  these 
With  which   the  moonbeams   tinge   the 

Tees. 
There  might  be  seen  of  shame  the  blush, 
There  anger's  dark  and  fiercer  flush. 
While  the  perturbed  sleeper's  hand 
Seem'd  grasping  dagger-knife,  or  brand. 
Relax'd  that  grasp,  the  heavy  sigh. 
The  tear  in  the  half-opening  eye, 
The  pallid  cheek  and  brow,  confess'd 
That  grief  was  busy  in  his  breast; 
Nor  paused  that  mood  —  a  sudden  start 
Impell'd  the  life-blood  from  the  heart: 
Features  convulsed  and  mutterings  dread 
Show  terror  reigns  in  sorrow's  stead. 
That  pang  the  painful  slumber  broke. 
And  Oswald  with  a  start  awoke. 


He  woke,  and  fear'd  again  to  close 

His  eyelids  in  such  dire  repose; 

He   woke,  —  to   watch   the    lamp,    and 

tell 
From  hour  to  hour  the  castle-bell. 


203 


204 


ROKEBY. 


Canto  I. 


Or  listen  to  the  owlet's  cry, 
Or  the  sad  breeze  that  whistles  by, 
Or  catch,  by  fits,  the  tuneless  rhyme 
With  which  the  warder  cheats  the  time, 
And  envying  think,  how,  when  the  sun 
Bids  the  poor  soldier's  watch  be  done, 
Couch'd  on  his  straw,  and  fancy-free, 
He  sleeps  like  careless  infancy. 


Far  townward  sounds  a  distant  tread, 
And  Oswald,  starting  from  his  bed. 
Hath  caught  it,  though  no  human  ear,^ 
Unsharpen'd  by  revenge  and  fear. 
Could  e'er  distinguish  horse's  clank, 
Until  it  reach'd  the  castle  bank. 
Now  nigh  and  plain  the  sound  appears, 
The  warder's  challenge  now  he  hears, 
Then  clanking  chains  and  levers  tell. 
That  o'er  the  moat  the  drawbridge  fell, 
And,  in  the  castle  court  below. 
Voices  are  heard,  and  torches  glow. 
As  marshalling  the  stranger's  way, 
Straight  for  the  room  where  Oswald  lay; 
The  cry  was:  —  "  Tidings  from  the  host. 
Of  weight  —  a  messenger  comes  post." 
Stifling  the  tumult  of  his  breast, 
His  answer  Oswald  thus  express'd:  — 
"  Bring  food  and  wine,  and  trim  the  fire. 
Admit  the  stranger,  and  retire." 


The  stranger  came  with  heavy  stride, 
The  morion's  plumes  his  visage  hide, 
And  the  buff-coat,  an  ample  fold. 
Mantles  his  form's  gigantic  mould. ^ 
Full  slender  answer  deigned  he 
To  Oswald's  anxious  courtesy, 
But  mark'd,  by  a  disdainful  smile, 
He  saw  and  scorn 'd  the  petty  wile, 
When  Oswald  changed  the  torch's  place, 
Anxious  that  on  the  soldier's  face 
Its  partial  lustre  might  be  thrown, 
To  show  his  looks,  yet  hide  his  own. 
His  guest,  the  while,  laid  low  aside 
The  ponderous  cloak  of  tough  bull's  hide. 
And  to  the  torch  glanced  broad  and  clear 
The  corslet  of  a  cuirassier; 
Then  from  his  brows  the  casque  he  drewi 
And  from  the  dank  plume  dash'd  the  dew, 
From  gloves  of  mail  relieved  his  hands, 
And  spread  them  to  the  kindling  brands; 


And,  turning  to  the  genial  board. 
Without  a  health,  or  pledge,  or  word 
Of  meet  and  social  reverence  said. 
Deeply  he  drank,  and  fiercely  fed; 
As  free  from  ceremony's  sway. 
As  famish'd  wolf  that  tears  his  prey. 


With  deep  impatience,  tinged  with  fear, 
His  host  beheld  him  gorge  his  cheer, 
And  quaff  the  full  carouse,  that  lent 
His  brow  a  fiercer  hardiment. 
Now  Oswald  stood  a  space  aside, 
Now  paced  the  room  with  hasty  stride, 
In  feverish  agony  to  learn 
Tidings  of  deep  and  dread  concern. 
Cursing  each  moment  that  his  guest 
Protracted  o'er  his  ruffian  feast. 
Yet,  viewing  with  alarm,  at  last. 
The  end  of  that  uncouth  repast. 
Almost  he  seem'd  their  haste  to  rue. 
As,  at  his  sign,  his  train  withdrew. 
And  left  him  with  the  stranger,  free 
To  question  of  his  mystery. 
Then  did  his  silence  long  proclaim 
A  struggle  between  fear  and  shame. 


Much  in  the  stranger's  mien  appears, 
To  justify  suspicious  fears. 
On  his  dark  face  a  scorching  clime,* 
And  toil,  had  done  the  work  of  time, 
Roughen'd  the  brow,  the  temples  bared, 
And  sable  hairs  with  silver  shared. 
Yet  left  —  what  age  alone  could  tame  — 
The  lip  of  pride,  the  eye  of  flame; 
The  full-drawn  lip  that  upward  curl'd, 
The  eye  that  seem'd  to  scorn  the  world. 
That  lip  had  terror  never  blench'd; 
Ne'er  in  that  eye  had  tear-drop  quench'd 
The  flash  severe  of  swarthy  glow, 
That  mock'd  at  pain,  and  knew  not  woe. 
Inured  to  danger's  direst  form, 
Tornade  and  earthquake,  flood  and  storm. 
Death  had  he  seen  by  sudden  blow. 
By  wasting  plague,  by  tortures  slow, 
By  mine  or  breach,  by  steel  or  ball. 
Knew  all  her  shapes,  and  scorn'd  them  all. 


But  yet,  though  Bertram's  harden'd  look 
Unmoved,  could  blood  and  danger  brook, 


Canto  I. 


ROKEBY. 


205 


Still  worse  than  apathy  had  place 
On  his  swart  brow  and  callous  face; 
For  evil  passions,  cherish'd  long, 
Had    plough'd   them    with   impressions 

strong. 
All  that  gives  gloss  to  sin,  all  gay 
Light  folly,  past  with  youth  away, 
Hut  rooted  stood  in  manhood's  hour, 
The  weeds  of  vice  without  their  flower. 
And  yet  the  soil  in  which  they  grew, 
Had  it  been  tamed  when  life  was  new, 
Had  depth  and  vigor  to  bring  forth 
The  hardier  fruits  of  virtuous  worth. 
Not  that,  e'en  then,  his  heart  had  known 
The  gentler  feelings'  kindly  tone; 
But  lavish  waste  had  been  refined 
To  bounty  in  his  chasten'd  mind. 
And  lust  of  gold,  that  waste  to  feed, 
Heen  lost  in  love  of  glory's  meed. 
And,  frantic  then  no  more,  his  pride 
Had  ta'en  fair  virtue  for  its  guide. 


Even  now,  by  conscience  unrestrain'd, 
t^'ogg'f^    ^'y   gross    vice,    by    slaughter 

stain'd. 
Still  knew  his  daring  soul  to  soar, 
And  mastery  o'er  the  mind  he  bore; 
For  meaner  guilt,  or  heart  less  hard, 
Quaird  Ijeneath  Bertram's  Ixild  regard. 
And  this  felt  Oswald,  while  in  vain 
He  strove,  by  many  a  winding  train. 
To  lure  his  sullen  guest  to  show, 
Unask'd,  the  news  he  long'd  to  know. 
While  on  far  other  subject  hung 
His  heart,  than  falter'd  from  his  tongue. 
Yet  naught  for  that  his  guest  did  deign 
To  note  or  spare  his  secret  pain, 
But  still,  in  stern  and  stubborn  sort, 
Return'd  him  answer  dark  and  short. 
Or  startetl  from  the  theme,  to  range 
In  loose  digression  wild  and  strange. 
And  forced  the  embarrass  "d  host  to  buy. 
By  query  close,  direct  reply. 


A  while  he  glozed  upon  the  cause 
Of  Commons.  Covenant,  and  Laws, 
And  Church  Reform'd  —  but  felt  rebuke 
Beneath  grim  Bertram's  sneering  look, 
Then    stammer'd  —  "Has  a   field  been 

fought  ? 
Has  Bertram  news  of  battle  brought? 


For  sure  a  soldier,  famed  so  far 
In  foreign  fields  for  feats  of  war, 
On  eve  of  fight  ne'er  left  the  host, 
Until  the  field  were  won  and  lost." 
"  Here,  in  your  towers  by  circling  Tees, 
You,  Oswald  Wycliffe,  rest  at  ease; 
Why  deem  it  strange  that  others  come 
To  share  such  safe  and  easy  home. 
From   fields  where  danger,    death,   and 

toil, 
Are  the  reward  of  civil  broil?  "  — 
' '  Nay,  mock  not,  friend !  since  well  we 

know 
The  near  advances  of  the  foe. 
To  mar  our  northern  army's  work, 
Encamp'd  before  beleaguer'd  York; 
Thy  horse  with  valiant  Fairfax  lay. 
And  must  have  fought  —  how  went  the 

day?  " 


"  Wouldst  hear  the  tale?  —  On  Marston 

heath  ^ 
Met,  front  to  front,  the  ranks  of  death; 
Flourish'd  the  trumpets  fierce,  and  now 
Fired  was  each    eye,   and  flush'd  each 

brow; 
On  either  side  loud  clamors  ring, 
'  God  and  the  Cause !  '  —  '  God  and  the 

King!' 
Right  English  all,  they  rush'd  to  blows, 
With  naught  to  win,  and  all  to  lose. 
I  could  have  laugh'd — but   lack'd  the 

time  — 
To  see,  in  phrenesy  sublime, 
How  the  fierce  zealots  fought  and  bled, 
For  king  or  state,  as  humor  led; 
Some  for  a  dream  of  public  good. 
Some  for  church-tippet,  gown,  and  hood, 
Draining  their  veins,  in  death  to  claim 
A  patriot's  or  a  martyr's  name.  — 
Led  Bertram  Risingham  the  hearts. 
That  counter'd  there  on  adverse  parts, 
No  superstitious  fool  had  I 
Sought  El  Dorados  in  the  sky ! 
Chili  had  heard  me  through  her  states, 
And  Lima  oped  her  silver  gates, 
Rich  Mexico  I  had  march'd  through. 
And  sack'd  the  splendors  of  Peru, 
Till  sunk  Pizarro's  daring  name. 
And,  Cortez,  thine,  in  Bertram's  fame."  — 
"  Still  from  the  purpose  wilt  thou  stray! 
Good  gentle  friend,  how  went  the  day? 


2o6 


ROKEBY. 


Canto  I. 


"Good  am  I  deem'd  at  trumpet-sound, 

And  good  where  goblets  dance  the  round, 

Though  gentle  ne'er  was  join'd,  till  now. 

With  rugged  Bertram's  breast  and  brow. 

But  I  resume.     The  battle's  rage 

Was  like  the  strife  which  currents  wage 

Where  Orinoco,  in  his  pride, 

Rolls  to  the  main  no  tribute  tide. 

But  'gainst  broad  ocean  urges  far 

A  rival  sea  of  roaring  war; 

While,  in  ten  thousand  eddies  driven. 

The  billows  fling  their  foam  to  heaven. 

And  the  pale  pilot  seeks  in  vain, 

Where  rolls  the  river,  where  the  main. 

Even  thus  upon  the  bloody  field. 

The  eddying  tides  of  conflict  wheel'd 

Ambiguous,  till  that  heart  of  flame. 

Hot  Rupert,  on  our  squadrons  came. 

Hurling  against  our  spears  a  line 

Of  gallants,  fiery  as  their  wine; 

Then  ours,  though  stublxjrn  in  their  zeal, 

In  zeal's  despite  began  to  reel. 

What  would'st  thou  more  ? — in  tumult  tost, 

Our  leaders  fell,  our  ranks  were  lost. 

A  thousand  men,  who  drew  the  sword 

For  both  the  Houses  and  the  Word, 

Preach'd  forth  from  hamlet,  grange,  and 

down. 
To  curb  the  crosier  and  the  crown. 
Now,  stark  and  stiff,  lie  stretch'd  in  gore. 
And  ne'er  shall  rail  at  mitre  more.  — 
Thus  fared  it,  when  I  left  the  fight. 
With  the  good  Cause  and  Commons' right." 


"  Disastrous  news  !  "  dark  Wycliffe  said; 
Assumed  despondence  bent  his  head. 
While  troubled  joy  was  in  his  eye, 
The  well-feign'd  sorrow  to  belie.  — 
■'  Disastrous  news — when  needed  most. 
Told  ye  not  that  your  chiefs  were  lost  ? 
Complete  the  woeful  tale  and  say. 
Who  fell  upon  that  fatal  day; 
What  leaders  of  repute  and  name 
Bought  by  their  death  a  deathless  fame. 
If  such  my  direst  foeman's  doom, 
My  tears  shall  dew  his  honor'd  tomb.  — 
No  answer?  —  Friend,  of  all  our  host. 
Thou  know'st  whom  I  should  hate  the 

most, 
Whom  thou,  too,  once  wert  wont  to  hate, 
Yet  leavest  me  doubtful  of  his  fate." 


With  look  unmoved,  —  "  Of  friend  or  foe, 
Aught,"    answer'd   Bertram,    "would'st 

thou  know, 
Demand  in  simple  terms  and  plain, 
A  soldier's  answer  shall  thou  gain;  — 
For  question  dark,  or  riddle  high, 
I  have  nor  judgment  nor  reply.'' 


The  wrath  his  art  and  fear  suppress'd 
Now  blazed  at  once  in  Wycliffe's  breast; 
And  brave,  from  man  so  meanly  born, 
Roused  his  hereditary  scorn. 
"Wretch  !  hast  thou  paidthy  bloody  debt? 
Philip  of  Mortham,  lives  he  yet? 
False  to  thy  patron  or  thine  oath, 
Trait'rous  or  perjured,  one  or  both. 
Slave  !   hast  thou  kept  thy  promise  plight. 
To  slay  thy  leader  in  the  fight?" 
Then  from  his  seat  the  soldier  sprung. 
And  Wycliffe's  hand  he  strongly  wrung; 
His  grasp,  as  hard  as  glove  of  mail, 
Forced  the  red  blood-drop  from  the  nail  — 
"A  health  !"  he  cried;  and,  ere  he  quaff 'd. 
Flung    from    him   Wycliffe's   hand,    and 

laugh'd: 
—  "Now,  Oswald  Wycliffe,  speaks  thy 

heart ! 
Now  play'st  thou  well  thy  genuine  part ! 
Worthy,  but  for  thy  craven  fear. 
Like  me  to  roam  a  buccaneer. 
What  reck'st  thou  of  the  Cause  divine, 
If  Mortham's  wealth  and  lands  be  thine? 
What  carest  thou  for  beleaguer'd  York, 
If  this  good  hand  have  done  its  work? 
Or  what,  though  Fairfax  and  his  best 
Are  reddening  Marston's  swarthy  breast, 
If  Philip  Mortham  with  them  lie. 
Lending  his  life-blood  to  the  dye?  — 
Sit,  then !  and  as  mid  comrades  free 
Carousing  after  victory. 
When  tales  are  told  of  blood  and  fear. 
That  boys  and  women  shrink  to  hear. 
From  point  to  point  I  frankly  tell 
The  deed  of  death  as  it  befell. 


"When  purposed  vengeance  I  forego, 
Term  me  a  wretch,  nor  deem  me  foe; 
And  when  an  insult  I  forgive. 
Then  brand  me  as  a  slave,  and  live  !  — 
Philip  of  Mortham  is  with  those 
Whom  Bertram  Risingham  calls  foes; 


Canto  I. 


ROKEBY. 


207 


Or  whom  more  sure  revenge  attends. 
If  number'd  with  ungrateful  friends. 
As  was  his  wont,  ere  battle  glow'd, 
Along  the  marshall'd  ranks  he  rode, 
And  wore  his  visor  up  the  while. 
I  saw  his  melancholy  smile. 
When,  full  opposed  in  front,  he  knew 
Where  Rokeby's  kindred  banner  flew. 
'  And  thus,'  he  said,  '  will  friends  divide  !' 
I  heard,  and  thought  how,  side  by  side, 
We  two  had  turn'd  the  battle's  tide. 
In  many  a  well-debated  field. 
Where    Bertram's    breast    was    Philip's 

shield. 
I  thought  on  Darien's  deserts  pale, 
Where  death  liestrides  the  evening  gale. 
How  o'er  my  friend  my  cloak  I  threw. 
And  fenceless  faced  the  deadly  dew; 
I  thought  on  Quariana's  cliff. 
Where,  rescued  from  our  foundering  skiff. 
Through  the  white  breaker's  .wrath  I  bore 
Exhausted  Mortham  to  the  shore; 
And  when  his  side  an  arrow  found, 
I  suck'd  the  Indian's  venom'd  wound. 
These  thoughts  like  torrents  rush'd  along, 
To  sweep  away  my  purpose  strong. 


"  Hearts  are  not  flint,  and  flints  are  rent; 
Hearts  are  not  steel,  and  steel  is  bent. 
When  Mortham  bade  me,  as  of  yore. 
Be  near  him  in  the  battle's  roar, 
I  scarcely  saw  the  spears  laid  low, 
I  scarcely  heard  the  trumpets  blow; 
Lost  was  the  war  in  inward  strife. 
Debating  Mortham's  death  or  life. 
'Twas  then  I  thought,  how,  lured  to  come, 
As  partner  of  his  wealth  and  home. 
Years  of  piratic  wandering  o'er, 
With  him  I  sought  our  native  shore. 
Rut  Mortham's  lord  grew  far  estranged 
From  the  bold  heart  withwhom  he  ranged ; 
Doubts,  horrors,  superstitious  fears, 
Sadden'd  and  dimm'd  descending  years; 
The  wily  priests  their  victim  sought. 
And    damn'd    each    free-born   deed    and 

thought. 
Then  must  I  seek  another  home. 
My  license  shook  his  sober  dome; 
If  gold  he  gave,  in  one  wild  day 
I  revell'd  thrice  the  sum  away. 
An  idle  outcast  then  I  stray'd, 
Unfit  for  tillage  or  for  trade, 


Deem'd,  like  the  steel  of  rusted  lance. 
Useless  and  dangerous  at  once. 
The  women  fear'd  my  hardy  look, 
At  my  approach  the  peaceful  shook; 
The  merchant  saw  my  glance  of  flame, 
And  lock'd  hishoardswhen  Bertram  came  ! 
Each  child  of  coward  peace  kept  far 
From  the  neglected  son  of  war. 


"  But  civil  discord  gave  the  call. 
And  made  my  trade  the  trade  of  all. 
By  Mortham  urged,  I  came  again 
His  vassals  to  the  fight  to  train. 
What  guerdon  waited  on  my  care? 
I  could  not  cant  of  creed  or  prayer; 
Sour  fanatics  each  trust  obtain'd. 
And  I,  dishonor'd  and  disdain 'd, 
Gain'd  but  the  high  and  happy  lot, 
In  these  poor  arms  to  front  the  shot !  — 
All  this  thou  know'st,  thy  gestures  tell; 
Yet  hear  it  o'er  and  mark  it  well. 
'Tis  honor  bids  me  now  relate 
Each  circumstance  of  Mortham's  fate. 


"Thoughts,  from  the  tongue  that  slowly 

part. 
Glance    quick    as  lightning  through  the 

heart. 
As  my  spur  press'd  my  courser's  side, 
Philip  of  Mortham's  cause  was  tried. 
And,  ere  the  charging  squadrons  mix'd. 
His  plea  was  cast,  his  doom  was  fix'd. 
I  watch 'd  him  through  the  doubtful  fray, 
That  chang'd  as  March's  moody  day, 
Till,  like  a  stream  that  bursts  its  bank. 
Fierce  Rupert  thunder'd  on  our  flank. 
'Twasthen, midst  tumult,  smoke,  andstrife, 
W^here  each  man  fought  for  death  or  life, 
'Twas  then  I  fired  my  petronel. 
And  Mortham,  steed  and  rider,  fell. 
One  dying  look  he  upward  cast. 
Of  wralh  and  anguish  —  'twas  his  last. 
Think  not  that  there  I  stopp'd  to  view 
What  of  the  battle  should  ensue; 
But  ere  I  clear' d  that  bloody  press, 
Our  northern  horse  ran  masterless; 
Monckton  and  Mitton  told  the  news, 
How  troops  of    roundheads  choked  the 

Ouse, 
And  many  a  bonny  Scot,  aghast. 
Spurring  his  palfrey  northward,  past. 


2o8 


HOKE  BY. 


Canto  I. 


Cursing  the  day  when  zeal  or  meed 
First  lured  their  Lesley  o'er  the  Tweed.* 
Yet  when  I  reach'd  the  banks  of  Swale, 
Had  rumor  learn'd  another  tale; 
With  his  barb'd  horse,  fresh  tidings  say, 
Stout  Cromwell  has  redeem'd  the  day:" 
But  whether  false  the  news,  or  true, 
Oswald,  I  reck  as  light  as  you." 


Not  then  by  Wycliffe  might  be  shown. 
How  his  pride  startled  at  the  tone 
In  which  his  complice,  fierce  and  free. 
Asserted  guilt's  equality. 
In  smoothest  terms  his  speech  he  wove. 
Of  endless  friendship,  faith,  and  love; 
Promised  and  vow'd  in  courteous  sort. 
But  Bertram  broke  professions  short:  — 
"  Wycliffe,  he  sure  not  here  I  stay. 
No,  scarcely  till  the  rising  day; 
Warn'd  by  the  legends  of  my  youth, 
I  trust  not  an  associate's  truth. 
Do  not  my  native  dales  prolong 
Of  Percy  Rede  the  tragic  song. 
Train'd  forward  to  his  bloody  fall, 
By  Girsonfield,  that  treacherous  Hall?** 
Oft,  by  the  Pringle's  haunted  side. 
The  shepherd  sees  his  spectre  glide. 
And  near  the  spot  that  gave  me  name. 
The  moated  mound  of  Risingham, 
Where  Reed  upon  her  margin  sees 
Sweet  Woodburnc's  cottages  and  trees. 
Some  ancient  sculptor's  art  has  shown 
An  outlaw's  image  on  the  stone;  ^ 
Unmatch'd  in  strength,  a  giant  he. 
With  quiver'd  back,  and  kirtled  knee. 
Ask  how  he  died,  that  hunter  bold. 
The  tameless  monarch  of  the  wold. 
And  age  and  infancy  can  tell. 
By  brother's  treachery  he  fell. 
Thus  warn'd  by  legends  of  my  youth, 
I  trust  to  no  associate's  truth. 


"  When  last  we  reason'd  of  this  deed, 
Naught,  I  bethink  me,  was  agreed, 
Or  by  what  rule,  or  when,  or  where, 
The    wealth    of    Mortham    we    should 

share. 
Then  list,  while  I  the  portion  name, 
Our  differing  laws  give  each  to  claim. 
Tiiou,  vassal  sworn  to  England's  throne, 
Her  rules  of  heritage  must  own ; 


They  deal  thee,  as  to  nearest  heir. 
Thy  kinsman's  lands  and  livings  fair, 
And  these  I  yield :  —  do  thou  revere 
The  statutes  of  the  Buccaneer. i" 
Friend  to  the  sea,  and  foeman  sworn 
To  all  that  on  her  waves  are  borne, 
When  falls  a  mate  in  battle  broil, 
His  comrade  heirs  his  portion'd  spoil; 
When  dies  in  fight  a  daring  foe, 
He    claims    his   wealth   who   struck   the 

blow; 
And  either  rule  to  me  assigns 
Those  spoils  of  Indian  seas  and  mines, 
Hoarded  in  Mortham's  caverns  dark; 
Ingot  of  gold  and  diamond  spark. 
Chalice  and  plate  from  churches  borne, 
And  gems  from  shrieking  beauty  torn. 
Each  string  of  pearl,  each  silver  bar. 
And  all  the  wealth  of  western  war. 
I  go  to  search,  where,  dark  and  deep, 
Those  trans-Atlantic  treasures  sleep. 
Thou  must  along  —  for,  lacking  thee, 
The  heir  will  scarce  find  entrance  free; 
And  then  farewell.      I  haste  to  try 
Each  varied  pleasure  wealth  can  buy; 
When  cloy'd  each  wish,  these  wars  afford 
Fresh  work  for  Bertram's  restless  sword." 


An  undecided  answer  hung 
On  Oswald's  hesitating  tongue. 
Despite  his  craft,  he  heard  with  awe 
This  ruffian  stabber  fix  the  law; 
While  his  own  troubled  passions  veer 
Through  hatred,  joy,  regret,  and  fear:  — 
Joy'd  at  the  soul  that  Bertram  flies, 
He  grudged  the  murderer's  mighty  prize, 
Hated  his  pride's  presumptuous  tone, 
And  fear'd  to  wend  with  him  alone. 
At  length,  that  middle  course  to  steer, 
To  cowardice  and  craft  so  dear, 
"  His  charge,"  he  said;  "  would  ill  alhjw 
His  absence  from  the  fortress  now; 
Wilfrid  on  Bertram  should  attend, 
His  son  should  journey  with  his  friend." 


Contempt  kept  Bertram's  anger  down, 
And  wreathed  to  sav.age  smile  his  frown. 
"  Wilfrid,  or  thou —  'tis  one  to  me. 
Whichever  bears  the  golden  key. 
Yet  think  not  but  I  mark,  and  smile 
To  mark,  thy  poor  and  selfish  wile ! 


Canto  I. 


ROKEBY. 


10^ 


If  injury  from  me  you  fear, 

What,    Oswald    Wycliffe,    shields    thee 

here? 
I've  sprung  from  walls  more  high   than 

these, 
I've  swam  through  deeper  streams  than 

Tees. 
Might  not  I  stab  thee,  ere  one  yell 
Could  rouse  the  distant  sentinel? 
Start  not  —  it  is  not  my  design. 
But,  if  it  were,  weak  fence  were  thine: 
And,  trust  me,  that,  in  time  of  need. 
This  hand  hath  done  more  desperate  deed. 
Go,  haste  and  rouse  thy  slum'oering  son; 
Time  calls,  and  I  must  needs  be  gone." 


Naught  of  his  sire's  ungenerous  part 
Polluted  Wilfrid's  gentle  heart; 
A  heart  too  soft  from  early  life 
To  hold  with  fortune  needful  strife. 
His  sire,  while  yet  a  hardier  race 
Of. numerous  sons  were  Wycliffe's  grace, 
On  Wilfrid  set  contemptuous  brand. 
For  feeble  heart  and  forceless  hand; 
But  a  fond  mother's  care  and  joy 
Were  centred  in  her  sickly  boy. 
No  touch  of  childhood's  frolic  mood 
Show'd  the  elastic  spring  of  blood; 
Hour  after  hour  he  loved  to  pore 
On  Shakspeare's  rich  and  varied  lore. 
But  turn'd  from  martial  scenes  and  light, 
From  Falstaff's  feast  and  Percy's  fight. 
To  ponder  Jaques'  moral  strain. 
And  muse  with  Hamlet,  wise  in  vain; 
And  weep  himself  to  soft  repose 
O'er  gentle  Desdemona's  woes. 


In  youth  he  sought  not  pleasures  found 
By  youth  in  horse  and  hawk  and  hound, 
But  loved  the  quiet  joys  that  wake 
By  lonely  stream  and  silent  lake; 
In  Deepdale's  solitude  to  lie. 
Where  all  is  cliff  and  copse  and  sky; 
To  climb  Catcastle's  dizzy  peak. 
Or  lone  Pendragon's  mound  to  seek. 
Such  was  his  wont;  and  there  his  dream 
Soar'd  on  some  wild  fantastic  theme. 
Of  faithful  love,  or  ceaseless  spring. 
Till  Contemplation's  wearied  wing 
The  enthusiast  could  no  more  sustain, 
And  sad  he  sunk  to  earth  again. 


He  loved  —  as  many  a  lay  can  tell. 
Preserved  in  Stanmore's  lonely  dell; 
For  his  was  minstrel's  skill,  he  caught 
The  art  unteachable,  untaught; 
He  loved  —  his  soul  did  nature  frame 
For  love,  and  fancy  nursed  the  flame; 
Vainly  he  loved  —  for  seldom  swain 
Of  such  soft  mould  is  loved  again; 
Silent  he  loved  —  in  every  gaze 
Was  passion,  friendship  in  his  phrase. 
So  mused  his  life  away —  till  died 
His  brethren  all,  their  father's  pride. 
Wilfrid  is  now  the  only  heir 
Of  all  his  stratagems  and  care. 
And  destined,  darkling,  to  pursue 
Ambition's  maze  by  Oswald's  clue. 


Wilfrid  must  love  and  woo  the  bright 
Matilda,  heir  of  Rokeby's  knight. 
To  love  her  was  an  easy  hest, 
The  secret  empress  of  his  breast ; 
To  woo  her  was  a  harder  task 
To  one  that  durst  not  hope  or  ask. 
Yet  all  Matilda  could,  she  gave 
In  pity  to  her  gentle  slave; 
Friendship,  esteem,  and  fair  regard, 
And  praise,  the  poet's  best  reward ! 
She  read  the  tales  his  taste  approved, 
And  sung  the  lays  he  framed  or  loved; 
Yet,  loth  to  nurse  the  fatal  flame 
Of  hopeless  love  in  friendship's  name. 
In  kind  caprice  she  oft  withdrew 
The  favoring  glance  to  friendship  due, 
Then  grieved  to  see  her  victim's  pain, 
And  gave  the  dangerous  smiles  again. 


So  did  the  suit  of  Wilfrid  stand. 
When  war's  loudsummons  waked  theland 
Three  banners,  floating  o'er  the  Tees, 
The  woe-foreboding  peasant  sees; 
In  concert  oft  they  braved  of  old 
The  bordering  Scot's  incursion  bold; 
Frowning  defiance  in  their  pride. 
Their  vassals  now  and  lords  divide. 
From  his  fair  hall  on  Greta  banks. 
The  Knight  of  Rokeby  led  his  ranks, 
To  aid  the  valiant  northern  Earls, 
Who  drew  the  sword  for  royal  Charles. 
Mortham,  by  marriage  near  allied,  — 
His  sister  had  been  Rokeby's  bride, 


ROKEBY. 


Canto  I. 


Though  long  before  the  civil  fray, 
In  peaceful  grave  the  lady  lay,  — 
Philip  of  Mortham  raised  his  band. 
And  march'd  at  Fairfax's  command; 
While  Wycliffe,  bound  by  many  a  train 
Of  kindred  art  with  wily  Vane, 
Less  prompt  to  brave  the  bloody  field, 
Made  Barnard's  battlements  his  shield, 
Secured  them  with  his  Lunedale  powers, 
And  for  the  Commons  held  the  towers. 


The  lovely  heir  of  Rokeby's  Knight 
Waits  in  his  halls  the  event  of  fight; 
For  England's  war  revered  the  claim 
Of  every  unprotected  name. 
And  spared,  amid  its  fiercest  rage, 
Childhood  and  womanhood  and  age. 
But  Wilfrid,  son  to  Rokeby's  foe, 
Must  the  dear  privilege  forego, 
By  Greta's  side,  in  evening  gray, 
To  steal  upon  Matilda's  way. 
Striving,  with  fond  hypocrisy 
For  careless  step  and  vacant  eye; 
Calming  each  anxious  look  and  glance, 
To  give  the  meeting  all  to  chance. 
Or  framing,  as  a  fair  excuse, 
The  book,  the  pencil,  or  the  muse; 
Something  to  give,  to  sing,  to  say. 
Some  modern  tale,  some  ancient  lay. 
Then,  while  the  long'd-for  minutes  last, — 
Ah  !  minutes  quickly  over-past ! 
Recording  each  expression  free. 
Of  kind  or  careless  courtesy. 
Each  friendly  look,  each  softer  tone. 
As  food  for  fancy  when  alone. 
All  this  is  o'er  —  but  still  unseen, 
Wilfrid  may  lurk  in  Eastwood  green. 
To  watch  Matilda's  wonted  round. 
While  springs  his  heart  at  every  sound. 
She  comes!  'tis  but  a  passing  sight, 
Yet  serves  to  cheat  his  weary  night ; 
She    comes    not  —  He    will    wait     the 

hour. 
When  her  lamp  lightens  in  the  tower; 
'Tis  something  yet,  if,  as  she  past. 
Her  shade  is  o'er  the  lattice  cast. 
"  What  is  my  life,  my  hope?  "  he  said; 
"  Alas !  a  transitory  shade." 


Thus  wore  his  life,  though  reason  strove 
For  mastery  in  vain  with  love. 


Forcing  upon  his  thoughts  the  sum 
Of  present  woe  and  ills  to  come. 
While  still  he  turn'd  impatient  ear 
From  Truth's  intrusive  voice  severe. 
Gentle,  indifferent,  and  subdued. 
In  all  but  this,  unmoved  he  view'd 
Each  outward  change  of  ill  and  good : 
But  Wilfrid,  docile,  soft,  and  mild. 
Was  Fancy's  spoil'd  and  wayward  child; 
In  her  bright  car  she  bade  him  ride, 
With  one  fair  form  to  grace  his  side. 
Or,  in  some  wild  and  lone  retreat, 
Flung  her  high  spells  around  his  seat, 
Bathed  in  her  dews  his  languid  head. 
Her  fairy  mantle  o'er  him  spread, 
For  him  her  opiates  gave  to  flow. 
Which  he  who  tastes  can  ne'er  forego, 
And  placed  him  in  her  circle,  free 
From  every  stern  reality, 
Till,  to  the  Visionary,  seem 
Her  day-dreams  truth,  and  truth  a  dream. 


Woe  to  the  youth  whom  Fancy  gains. 
Winning  from  Reason's  hand  the  reins, 
Pity  and  woe !   for  such  a  mind 
Is  soft,  contemplative,  and  kind; 
And  woe  to  those  who  train  such  youth, 
And  spare  to  press  the  rights  of  truth, 
The  mind  to  strengthen  and  anneal. 
While  on  the  stithy  glows  the  steel ! 
O  teach  him  while  your  lessons  last. 
To  judge  the  present  by  the  past; 
Remind  him  of  each  wish  pursued, 
How    rich    it    glow'd     with     promised 

good; 
Remind  him  of  each  wish  enjoy'd, 
How  soon  his  hopes  possession  cloy'd ! 
Tell  him,  we  play  unequal  game. 
Whene'er  we  shoot  by  Fancy's  aim; 
And,  ere  he  strip  him  for  her  race. 
Show  the  conditions  of  the  chase. 
Two  sisters  by  the  goal  are  set, 
Cold  Disappointment  and  Regret; 
One  disenchants  the  winner's  eyes, 
And  strips  of  all  its  worth  the  prize. 
While  one  augments  its  gaudy  show. 
More  to  enhance  the  loser's  woe. 
The  victor  sees  his  fairy  gold, 
Transform'd,  when  won,  to  drossy  mold, 
But    still    the    vanquish'd    mourns    his 

loss. 
And  rues,  as  gold,  th»t  glittering  dross. 


Canto  II. 


KOKEBY. 


More   wouldst  thou  know  —  yon  tower 

survey, 
Yon  couch  unpress'd  since  parting  day, 
Yon  untrimm'd  lamp,  whose  yellow  gleam 
Is  mingling  with  the  cold  moonbeam, 
And  yon  thin  form  !  —  the  hectic  red 
On  his  pale  cheek  unequal  spread; 
The  head  reclin'd,  the  loosen'd  hair, 
The  limbs  relaxed,  the  mournful  air.  — 
See,  he  looks  up;    a  woeful  smile 
Lightens  his  woe-worn  cheek  a  while,  — 
'Tis  Fancy  wakes  some  idle  thought, 
To  gild  the  ruin  she  has  wrought; 
For,  like  the  bat  of  Indian  brakes. 
Her  pinions  fan  the  wound  she  makes. 
And  soothing  thus  the  dreamer's  pain. 
She  drinks  his  life-blood  from  the  vein. 
Now  to  the  lattice  turn  his  eyes, 
\'ain  hope !  to  see  the  sun  arise. 
The  moon  with  clouds  is  still  o'ercast. 
Still  howls  by  fits  the  stormy  blast; 
Another  hour  must  wear  away. 
Ere  the  East  kindle  into  day. 
And  hark  !  to  waste  that  weary  hour. 
He  tries  the  minstrel's  magic  power:  — 


SONG. 
To  the  Moon. 
Hail  to  thy  cold  and  clouded  beam. 

Pale  pilgrim  of  the  troubled  sky ! 
Hail, though  the  miststhat  o'ertheestream 

Lend  to  thy  brow  their  sullen  dye ! 
How  should  thy  pure  and  peaceful  eye 

Untroubled  view  our  scenes  below. 
Or  how  a  tearless  beam  supply 

To  light  a  world  of  war  and  woe  ! 

Fair  Queen  !  I  will  not  blame  thee  now. 

As  once  by  Greta's  fairy  side 
Each  little  cloud  that  dimm'd  thy  brow 

Did  then  an  angel's  beauty  hide. 
And  of  the  shades  I  then  coultl  chide. 

Still  are  the  thoughts  to  memory  dear, 
For,  while  a  softer  strain  I  tried, 

They  hid  my  blush,  and  calm'd  my  fear. 

Then  did  I  swear  thy  ray  serene 

Was  form'd  to  light  some  lonely  dell. 

By  two  fond  lovers  only  seen. 
Reflected  from  the  crystal  well. 


Or  sleeping  on  the  mossy  cell, 

Or  quivering  on  the  lattice  bright, 

Or  glancing  on  their  couch,  to  tell 
How  swiftly  wanes  the  summer  night ! 


He  starts  —  a  step  at  this  lone  hour ! 
A  voice  —  his  father  seeks  the  tower. 
With  haggard  look  and  troubled  sense. 
Fresh  from  his  dreadful  conference. 
"  Wilfrid  —  what,  not  to  sleep  address'd? 
Thou  hast  no  cares  to  chase  thy  rest. 
Mortham  has  fall'n  on  Marston-moor; 
Bertram  brings  warrant  to  secure 
His  treasures,  bought  by  spoil  and  blood. 
For  the  State's  use  and  public  good. 
The  menials  will  thy  voice  obey; 
Let  his  commission  have  its  way. 
In  every  point,  in  every  word."  — 
Then,  in  a  whisper  —  "  Take  thy  sword  ! 
Bertram  is  —  what  I  must  not  tell. 
I  hear  his  hasty  step  —  farewell !  " 


CANTO   SECOND. 


I. 


Far  in  the  chamlieis  of  the  west. 
The  gale  has  sigh'd  itself  to  rest; 
The  moon  was  cloudless  now  and  clear, 
But  pale  and  soon  to  disappear. 
The  thin  gray  clouds  wax  dimly  light 
On  Brusleton  and  Houghton  height : 
And  the  rich  dale,  that  eastward  lay. 
Waited  the  wakening  touch  of  day. 
To  give  its  woods  and  cultured  plain 
And  towers  and  spires,  to  light  again. 
But,     westward,    Stanmore's    shapeless 

swell. 
And  Lunedale  wild,  and  Kelton-fell, 
And  rock-begirdled  Gilmanscar, 
And  Arkingarth,  lay  dark  afar, 
While  as  a  livelier  twilight  falls. 
Emerge  proud  Barnard's  banner'd  walls, 
High  crown'd  he  sits,  in  dawning  pale, 
The  sovereign  of  the  lovely  vale. 


What  prospects,    from  his  watch-tower 

high, 
Gleam  gradual  on  the  warder's  eye  !  — 


ROKEBY. 


Canto  II. 


Far  sweeping  to  the  east,  he  sees 
Down    his    deep    woods    the    course    of 

Tees/i 
And  tracks  his  wanderings  by  the  steam 
Of  summer  vapors  from  the  stream; 
And  ere  he  paced  his  destined  hour 
By  Brackenbury's  dungeon-tower, 
These  silver  mists  shall  melt  away, 
And  dew  the  woods  with  glittering  spray. 
Then  in  broad  lustre  shall  be  shown 
That  mighty  trench  of  living  stone, 
And  each  huge  trunk  that,  from  the  side, 
Reclines  him  o'er  the  darksome  tide, 
Where  Tees,  full  many  a  fathom  low. 
Wears  with  his  rage  no  common  foe; 
For  pebbly  bank,  nor  sand-bed  here. 
Nor  clay-mound,  checks  his  fierce  career, 
Condemn'd  to  mine  a  channell'd  way, 
O'er  solid  sheets  of  marble  gray. 


Nor  Tees  alone,  in  dawning  bright, 

Shall  rush  upon  the  ravish'd  sight; 

But  many  a  tributary  stream 

Each  from  his  own  dark  dell  shall  gleam; 

Staindrop,  who,  from  her  sylvan  bowers. 

Salutes  proud  Raby's  battled  towers; 

The  rural  brook  of  Egliston, 

And  Balder,  named  from  Odin's  son; 

And  Greta,  to  whose  banks  ere  long 

We  lead  the  lovers  of  the  song; 

And  silver  Lune,  from  Stanmore  wild. 

And  fairy  Thorsgill's  murmuring  child. 

And  last  and  least,  but  loveliest  still, 

Romantic  Deepdale's  slender  rill. 

Who  in  that  dim-wood  glen  hath  stray'd. 

Yet  long'd  for  Roslin's  magic  glade? 

Who,   wandering  there,  hath  sought   to 

change. 
Even  for  that  vale  so  stern  and  strange, 
Where  Cartland's  Crags,*   fantastic  rent, 
Through  her  green  copse   like  spires  are 

sent? 
Yet,  Albin,  yet  the  praise  be  thine, 
Thy  scenes  and  story  to  combine ! 
Thou  bid'st  him,  who  by  Roslin  strays. 
List  to  the  deeds  of  other  days; 
Mid  Cartland's  Crags  thou  show'st  the 

cave, 
The  refuge  of  thy  champion  brave; 


*  Near  Lanark  :  celebrated  as  among  the  favor- 
ite retreats  of  Sir  William  Wallace. 


Giving  each  rock  its  storied  tale. 
Pouring  a  lay  for  every  dale. 
Knitting,  as  with  a  moral  band. 
Thy  native  legends  with  thy  land. 
To  lend  each  scene  the  interest  high 
Which  genius  beams  from  Beauty's  eye. 


Bertram  awaited  not  the  sight 

Which   sun-rise    shows   from    Barnard's 

height. 
But  from  the  towers,  preventing  day. 
With  Wilfrid  took  his  early  way. 
While  misty  dawn,  and  moonbeam  pale, 
Still  mingled  in  the  silent  dale. 
By  Barnard's  bridge  of  stately  stone. 
The  southern  bank  of  Tees  they  won; 
Their  winding  path  then  eastward  cast. 
And  Egliston's  gray  ruins  pass'd;^' 
Each  on  his  own  deep  visions  bent. 
Silent  and  sad  they  onward  went. 
Well  may  you  think  that  Bertram's  mood, 
To  Wilfrid  savage  seem'd  and  rude; 
Well  may  you  think  bold  Risingham 
Held  Wilfrid  trivial,  poor,  and  tame; 
And  small  the  intercourse,  I  ween. 
Such  uncongenial  souls  between. 


Stern  Bertram  shunn'd  the  nearer  way, 
Through  Rokeby's  park  and  chase  that  lay. 
And,  skirting  high  the  valley's  ridge. 
They  cross'd  by  Greta's  ancient  l^ridge. 
Descending  where  her  waters  wind 
Free  for  a  space  and  unconfined. 
As,  'scaped    from  Brignall's  dark-wood 

glen. 
She  seeks  wild  Mortham's  deeper  den. 
There,  as  his  eye  glanced  o'er  the  mound. 
Raised  by  that  Legion  ^-^  long  renown'd. 
Whose  votive  shrine  asserts  their  claim. 
Of  pious,  faithful,  conquering  fame, 
"  Stern  sons  of  war  !"  sad  Wilfrid  sigh'd, 
"  Behold  the  boast  of   Roman  pride  ! 
What  now  of  all  your  toils  .arc  known? 
A  grassy  trench,  a  broken  stone  !  "  — 
This  to  himself;  for  moral  strain 
To  Bertram  were  address'd  in  vain. 


Of  different  mood,  a  deeper  sigh 
Awoke,  when  Rokeby's  turrets  high'* 


Canto  II. 


ROKEBY. 


«?3 


Were  northward  in  the  dawning  seen 
To  rear  them  o'er  the  thicket  green. 
O  then,  the'  Spenser's  self  had  stray'd 
Beside  him  through  the  lovely  glade, 
Lending  his  rich  luxuriant  glow 
Of  fancy,  all  its  charms  to  show. 
Pointing  the  stream  rejoicing  free, 
As  captive  set  at  liberty. 
Flashing  her  sparkling  waves  abroad, 
And  clamoring  joyful  on  her  road  ; 
Pointing  where,  up  the  sunny  banks. 
The  trees  retire  in  scatter 'd  ranks. 
Save  where,  advanced  before  the  rest, 
On  knoll  or  hillock  rears  his  crest, 
Lonely  and  huge,  the  giant  Oak, 
As  champions,  when  their  band  is  broke. 
Stand  forth  to  guard  the  rearward  post, 
The  bulwark  of  the  scatter'd  host-^ 
All  this,  and  more,  might  Spenser  say, 
Yet  waste  in  vain  his  magic  lay. 
While  Wilfrid  eyed  the  distant  tower. 
Whose  lattice  lights  Matilda's  bower. 


The  open  vale  is  soon  passed  o'er, 
Rokeby,  though  nigh,  is  seen  no  more; 
Sinking  mid  Greta's  thickets  deep, 
A  wild  and  darker  course  they  keep, 
A  stern  and  lone,  yet  lovely  road, 
As  e'er  the  foot  of  Minstrel  trode !  ^^ 
Broad  shadows  o'er  their  passage  fell, 
Deeper  and  narrower  grew  the  dell; 
It  seem'd  some  mountain,  rent  and  riven, 
A  channel  for  the  stream  had  given. 
So  high  the  cliffs  of  limestone  gray 
Hung  beetling  o'er  the  torrent's  way, 
Yielding,  along  their  rugged  base, 
A  flinty  footpath's  niggard  space, 
Where   he,  who  winds  'twixt   rock   and 

wave. 
May  hear  the  headlong  torrent  rave. 
And  like  a  steed  in  frantic  fit. 
That  flings  the  froth  from  curb  and  bit. 
May  view  her  chafe  her  waves  to  spray, 
O'er  every  rock  that  bars  her  way. 
Till  foam-globes  on  her  eddies  ride. 
Thick  as  the  schemes  of  human  pride 
That  down  life's  current  drive  amain, 
As  frail,  as  frothy,  and  as  vain  ! 


The  cliffs  that  rear  their  haughty  head 
High  o'er  the  river's  darksome  bed. 


Were  now  all  naked,  wild,  and  gray. 
Now  waving  all  with  greenwood  spray; 
Here  trees  to  every  crevice  clung, 
And  o'er  the  dell  their  branches  hung; 
And  there,  all  splinter'd  and  uneven, 
The  shiver'd  rocks  ascend  to  heaven; 
Oft,  too,  the  ivy  swath'd  their  breast. 
And  wreathed  its   garland   round   their 

crest. 
Or  from  the  spires  bade  loosely  flare 
Its  tendrils  in  the  middle  air. 
As  pennons  wont  to  wave  of  old 
O'er  the  high  feast  of  Baron  bold. 
When  revell'd  loud  the  feudal  rout. 
And  the  arch'd  halls  return'd  their  shout; 
Such  and  more  wild  is  Greta's  roar. 
And  such  the  echoes  from  her  shore. 
And  so  the  ivied  banner's  gleam. 
Waved  wildly  o'er  the  brawling  streain. 


Now  from  the  stream  the  rocks  recede, 

But  leave  between  no  sunny  mead. 

No,  nor  the  spot  of  pebbly  .sand. 

Oft  found  by  such  a  mountain  strand; 

Forming  such  warm  and  dry  retreat. 

As  fancy  deems  the  lonely  seat. 

Where  hermit  wandering  from  his  cell. 

His  rosary  might  love  to  tell. 

But  here,  'twixt  rock  and  river,  grew 

A  dismal  grove  of  sable  yew. 

With  whose  sad  tints  were  mingled  seen 

The  blighted  fir's  sepulchral  green. 

Seem'd  that  the  trees  their  shadows  cast. 

The  earth  that  nourish'd  them  to  blast; 

For  never  knew  that  swarthy  grove 

The  verdant  hue  that  fairies  love; 

Nor  wilding  green,  nor  woodland  flower. 

Arose  within  its  baleful  bower : 

The  dank  and  sable  earth  receives 

Its  only  carpet  from  the  leaves. 

That,  from  the  withering  branches  cast, 

Bcstrew'd  the  ground  with  every  blast. 

Though  now  the  sun  was  o'er  the  hill. 

In  this  dark  spot  'twas  twilight  still. 

Save  that  on  Greta's  farther  side 

Some  straggling  beams  through    copse - 

wood  glide; 
And  wild  and  savage  contrast  made 
That  dingle's  deep  and  funeral  shade. 
With  the  bright  tints  of  early  day. 
Which,  glimmering  through  the  ivy  spray, 
On  the  opposing  summit  lay. 


214 


ROKEBY. 


Canto  II. 


The  lated  peasant  shunn'd  the  dell; 
For  Superstition  wont  to  tell 
Of  many  a  grisly  sound  and  sight, 
Scaring  its  path  at  dead  of  night. 
When   Christmas    logs    blaze   high   and 

wide, 
Such  wonders  speed  the  festal  tide; 
While  Curiosity  and  Fear, 
Pleasure  and  Pain,  sit  crouching  near, 
Till  childhood's  cheek  no  longer  glows. 
And  village  maidens  lose  the  rose. 
The  thrilling  interest  rises  higher. 
The  circle  closes  nigh  and  nigher, 
And  shuddering  glance  is  cast  behind. 
As  louder  moans  the  wintry  wind. 
Believe,  that  fitting  scene  was  laid 
For  such  wild  tales  in  Mortham  glade; 
For  who  had  seen,  on  Greta's  side. 
By  that  dim  light  fierce  Bertram  stride. 
In  such  a  spot,  at  such  an  hour,  — 
If  touch'd  by  Superstition's  power. 
Might  well  have  deem'd  that   Hell  had 

given 
A  murderer's  ghost  to  upper  heaven, 
While  Wilfrid's  form  had  seem'd  to  glide 
Like  his  pale  victim  by  his  side. 


Nor  think  to  village  swains  alone 
Are  these  unearthly  terrors  known; 
For  not  to  rank  nor  sex  confined 
Is  this  vain  ague  of  the  mind: 
Hearts  firm  as  steel,  as  marble  hard, 
'Gainst  faith  and  love  and  pity  barr'd. 
Have  quaked,  like  aspen  leaves  in  May, 
Beneath  its  universal  sway. 
Bertram  had  listed  many  a  tale 
Of  wonder  in  his  native  dale. 
That  in  his  secret  soul  retain'd 
The  credence  they  in  childhood  gain'd: 
Nor  less  his  wild  adventurous  youth 
Believed  in  every  legend's  truth; 
Learn'd  when,  beneath  the  tropic  gale, 
Full  swell'd  the  vessel's  steady  sail. 
And  the  broad  Indian  moon  her  light 
Pour'd  on  the  watch  of  middle  night. 
When  seamen  love  to  hear  and  tell 
Of  portent,  prodigy,  and  spell : 
What  gales  are  sold  on  Lapland's  shore. 
How  whistle  rash  bids  tempests  roar,!'' 
Of  witch,  of  mermaid,  and  of  sprite. 
Of  Erick's  cap  and  Elmo's  light;" 


Or  of  that  Phantom  Ship,  whose  form 
Shoots  like  a  meteor  through  the  storm; 
When  the  dark  scud  comes  driving  hard 
And  lower'd  is  every  topsail-yard. 
And  canvas,  wove  in  earthly  looms. 
No  more  to  brave  the  storm  presumes  ! 
Then  mid  the  war  of  sea  and  sky, 
Top  and  top-gallant  hoisted  high, 
Full  spread  and  crowded  every  sail. 
The  Demon  Frigate  braves  the  gale;i* 
And  well  the  doom'd  spectators  know 
The  harbinger  of  wreck  and  woe. 


Then,  too,  were  told,  in  stifled  tone. 
Marvels  and  omens  all  their  own; 
How,  by  some  desert  isle  or  key,!* 
Where  Spaniards  wrought  their  cruelty, 
Or  where  the  savage  pirate's  mood 
Repaid  it  home  in  deeds  of  blood. 
Strange  nightly  sounds  of  woe  and  fear 
Appall'd  the  listening  Buccaneer, 
Whose  Ijght-arm'd  shallop  anchor'd  lay 
In  ambush  by  the  lonely  bay. 
The  groan  of  grief,  the  shriek  of  pain, 
Ring    from     the    moonlight    groves    of 

cane; 
The  fierce  adventurer's  heart  they  scare. 
Who  wearies  memory  for  a  prayer, 
Curses  the  road-stead,  and  with  gale 
Of  early  morning  lifts  the  sail. 
To  give,  in  thirst  of  blood  and  prey, 
A  legend  for  another  bay. 

XIII. 

Thus,  as  a  man,  a  youth,  a  child, 
Train'd  in  the  mystic  and  the  wild, 
With  this  on  Bertram's  soul  at  times 
Rush'd  a  dark  feeling  of  his  crimes; 
Such  to  his  trouliled  soul  their  form. 
As  the  pale  Death-ship  to  the  storm. 
And  such  their  omen  dim  and  dread. 
As  shrieks  and  voices  of  the  dead.  — 
That  pang,  whose  transitory  force 
Hover'd  'twixt  horror  and  remorse; 
That  pang,  perchance,  his  bosom  press'd. 
As  Wilfrid  sudden  he  address'd  :  — 
"Wilfrid,  this  glen  is  never  trod 
Until  the  sun  rides  high  abroad; 
Yet  twice  have  I  beheld  to-day 
A  Form,  that  seem'd  to  dog  our  way; 
Twice  from  my  glance  it  seem'd  to  flee, 
And  shroud  itself  by  cliff  or  tree. 


Canto  II. 


ROKEBY. 


215 


How  think 'st  thou? — Is  our  path  waylaid? 
Or  hath  thy  sire  my  trust  betrayed? 
If  so  "  —  Ere,  starting  from  his  dream, 
That  turn'd  upon  a  gentler  theme, 
Wilfrid  had  roused  him  to  reply, 
Bertram  sprung  forward,  shouting  high, 
"  Whate'er    thou    art,    thou    now    shalt 

stand ! ' ' 
And  forth  he  darted,  sword  in  hand. 


As  bursts  the  levin,  in  his  wrath 

He  shot  him  down  the  sounding  path; 

Rock,  wood,  and  stream,  rang  wildly  out, 

To  his  loud  step  and  savage  shout. 

Seems  that  the  object  of  his  race 

Hath  scaled  the  cliffs;   his  frantic  chase 

Sidelong  he  turns,  and  now  'tis  bent 

Right  up  the  rock's  tall  battlement; 

Straining  each  sinew  to  ascend. 

Foot,  hand,  and  knee,  their  aid  must  lend. 

Wilfrid,  all  dizzy  with  dismay. 

Views  from  beneath  his  dreadful  way : 

Now  to  the  oak's  warp'd  roots  he  clings. 

Now  trusts  his  weight  to  ivy  strings; 

Now,  like  the  wild-goat,  must  he  dare 

An  unsupported  leap  in  air; 

Hid  in  the  shrubby  rain-course  now. 

You  mark  him  by  tlie  crashing  bough, 

And  by  his  corslet's  sullen  clank. 

And  by  the  stones  spurn'd  from  the  bank. 

And  by  the  hawk  scared  from  her  nest. 

And  ravens  croaking  o'er  their  guest. 

Who  deem  his  for.feit  limbs  shall  pay 

The  tribute  of  his  bold  essay. 


See  !  he  emerges  —  desperate  now 
All  farther  course  —  Yon  beetling  brow 
In  cragged  nakedness  sublime, 
What  heart  or  foot  shall  dare  to  climb? 
It  bears  no  tendril  for  his  clasp. 
Presents  no  angle  for  his  grasp : 
Sole  stay  his  foot  may  rest  upon, 
Is  yon  earth-bedded  jetting  stone. 
Balanced  on  such  precarious  prop. 
He  strains  his  grasp  to  reach  the  top. 
Just  as  the  dangerous  stretch  he  makes. 
By  Heaven,  his  faithless  footstool  shakes ! 
Beneath  his  tottering  bulk  it  bends. 
It  sways  ...  it  loosens  ...  it  descends  ! 
And  downward  holds  its  headlong  way. 
Crashing  o'er  rock  and  copsewood  spray. 


Loud  thunders  shake  the  echoing  dell !  — 

Fell  it  alone  ?  —  alone  it  fell. 

Just  on  the  very  verge  of  fate. 

The  hardy  Bertram's  falling  weight 

He  trusted  to  his  sinewy  hands. 

And  on  the  top  unharm'd  he  stands !  — ' 


Wilfrid  a  safer  path  pursued; 
At  intervals  where,  roughly  hew'd. 
Rude  steps  ascending  from  the  dell 
Render'd  the  cliffs  accessible. 
By  circuit  slow  he  thus  attain'd 
The  height  that  Risingham  had  gain'd 
And  when  he  issued  from  the  wood. 
Before  the  gate  of  Mortham  stood.^o 
'Twas  a  fair  scene  !  the  sunbeam  lay 
On  battled  tower  and  portal  gray : 
And  from  the  grassy  slope  he  sees 
The  Greta  flow  to  meet  the  Tees; 
Where,  issuing  from  her  darksome  bed. 
She  caught  the  morning's  eastern  red. 
And  through  the  softening  vale  below 
RolI'd  her  bright  waves  in  rosy  glow. 
All  blushing  to  her  bridal  bed. 
Like  some  shy  maid  in  convent  bred; 
While  linnet,  lark,  and  blackbird  gay. 
Sing  forth  her  nuptial  roundelay. 


'Twas  sweetly  sung  that  roundelay; 
That    summer    morn    shone    bright    and 

gay; 
But  morning  beam,  and  wild-bird's  call, 
Awaked  not  Mortham's  silent  hall. 
No  porter,  by  the  low-brow'd  gate. 
Took  in  the  wonted  niche  his  seat; 
To  the  paved  court  no  peasant  drew; 
Waked  to  their  toil  no  menial  crew; 
The  maiden's  carol  was  not  heard, 
As  to  her  morning  task  she  fared : 
In  the  void  offices  around. 
Rung  not  a  hoof,  nor  bay'd  a  hound; 
Nor  eager  steed,  with  shrilling  neigh, 
Accused  the  lagging  groom's  delay; 
Untrimm'd,  undress'd,  neglected  now, 
Was  alley 'd  walk  and  orchard  bough; 
All  spoke  the  master's  absent  care, 
All  spoke  neglect  and  disrepair. 
South  of  the  gate  an  arrow  flight. 
Two  mighty  elms  their  limljs  unite, 
As  if  a  canopy  to  spread 
O'er  the  lone  dwelling  of  the  dead; 


2l6 


ROKEBY. 


Canto  II. 


For  their  huge  boughs  in  arches  bent 
Above  a  massive  monument, 
Carv'd  o'er  in  ancient  Gothic  wise, 
With  many  a  scutcheon  and  device; 
There,  spent  with  toil  and  sunk  in  gloom, 
Bertram  stood  pondering  by  the  tomb. 


"  It  vanisli'd,  like  a  flitting  ghost! 
Behind  tliistomb,"  he  said,  "  'twas  lost  — 
This    tomb,    where    oft    I    deem'd    lies 

stored 
Of  Mortham's  Indian  wealth  the  hoard. 
'Tis  true,  the  aged  servants  said 
Here  his  lamented  wife  is  laid; 
But  weightier  reasons  may  be  guess'd 
For  their  lord's  strict  and  stern  behest, 
That  none  should  on  his  steps  intrude. 
Whene'er  he  sought  this  solitude.  — 
An  ancient  mariner  I  knew. 
What  time  I  sail'd  with  Morgan's  crew. 
Who  oft,  mid  our  carousals,  spake 
Of  Raleigh,  Frobisher,  and  Drake; 
Adventurous  hearts  !   who  barter'd  bold. 
Their  English  steel  for  Spanish  gold. 
Trust  not,  would  his  experience  say. 
Captain  or  comrade  with  your  prey; 
But  seek  some  charnel,  when,  at  full. 
The  moon  gilds  skeleton  and  skull : 
There  dig,  and  tomb  your  precious  heap. 
And  bid  the  dead  your  treasure  keep;  "" 
Sure  stewards  they,  if  fitting  spell 
Their  service  to  the  task  compel. 
Lacks  there  such  charnel  ?  —  kill  a  slave, 
Or  prisoner,  on  the  treasure-grave; 
And  bid  his  discontented  ghost 
Stalk  nightly  on  his  lonely  post.  — 
Such  was  his  tale.     Its  truth,  I  ween, 
Is  in  my  morning  vision  seen." 


Wilfrid,  who  scorn'd  the  legend  wild. 
In  mingled  mirth  and  pity  smiled. 
Much  marvelling  that  a  breast  so  bold 
In  such  fond  tale  l)elie{  should  hold; 
But  yet  of  Bertram  sought  to  know 
The  apparition's  form  and  show.  — 
The  power  within  the  guilty  breast. 
Oft  vanquish'd,  never  quite  suppress'd, 
That  unsubdued  and  lurking  lies 
To  take  the  felon  by  surprise. 
And  force  him,  as  by  magic  spell, 
In  his  despite  his  guilt  to  tell,22  — 


That  power  in  Bertram's  breast  awoke ; 
Scarce    conscious     he    was     heard,     he 

spoke:— 
"  'Twas  Mortham's  form,  from  foot  to 

head ! 
His  morion,  with  the  plume  of  red. 
His  shape,  his  mien  —  'twas  Mortham, 

right 
As  when  I  slew  him  in  the  fight."  — 
' '  Thou  slay  him  ?  —  thou  ?  "  —  With  con- 
scious start 
He  heard,  then  mann'd  his  haughty  heart : 
"  I  slew  him? —  I !  —  I  had  forgot 
Thou,  stripling,  knew'st  not  of  the  plot. 
But  it  is  spoken  —  nor  will  I 
Deed  done,  or  spoken  word,  deny. 
I  slew  him;    I !   for  thankless  pride; 
'Twas  by  this  hand  that  Mortham  died." 


Wilfrid,  of  gentle  hand  and  heart, 
Averse  to  every  active  part. 
But  most  averse  to  martial  broil. 
From  danger  shrunk ,  and  turn 'd  from  toil ; 
Yet  the  meek  lover  of  the  lyre 
Nursed  one  brave  spark  of  noble  fire, 
Against  injustice,  fraud,  or  wrong. 
His   blood   beat    high,  his   hand  wax'd 

strong. 
Not  his  the  nerves  that  could  sustain. 
Unshaken,  danger,  toil,  and  pain; 
But,  when  that  spark  blazed  forth  to  flame, 
He  rose  superior  to  his  frame. 
And  now  it  came,  that,  generous  mood : 
And,  in  full  current  of  his  blood. 
On  Bertram  he  laid  desperate  hand, 
Placed  firm  his  foot,  and  drew  his  brand. 
"Should  every  fiend,  to  whom  thou'rt 

sold. 
Rise  in  thine  aid,  I  keep  my  hold. 
Arouse  there,  ho  !  take  spear  and  sword  ! 
Attach  the  murderer  of  your  Lord  I  " 

XXI. 

A  moment,  fix'd  as  by  a  spell. 
Stood  Bertram.  — It  seem'd  miracle, 
That  one  so  feeble,  soft,  and  tame 
Set  grasp  on  warlike  Risingham. 
But  when  he  felt  a  feeble  stroke. 
The  fiend  within  the  ruffian  woke ! 
To  wrench  the  sword  from  Wilfrid's  hand. 
To  dash  him  headk)ng  on  the  sand. 
Was  but  one  moment's  work, —  one  moie 


Canto  II. 


ROKEBY. 


zyi 


Had  drench 'd  the  blade  in  Wilfrid's  gore; 
But,  in  the  instant  it  arose, 
To  end  his  life,  his  love,  his  woes, 
A  warlike  form,  that  niark'd  the  scene, 
Presents  his  rapier  sheathed  Ixitween, 
I'arries  the  fast-descending  blow, 
And  steps  'twixt  Wilfrid  and  his  foe; 
Nor  then  unscabbarded  his  brand. 
Hut,  sternly  poirrting  with  his  hand. 
With  monarch's  voice  forbade  the  fight, 
And  motion'd  Bertram  from  his  sight. 
"  Go,  and  repent,"  he  said,  "  while  time 
Is  given  thee;    add  not  crime  to  crime." 


Mute  and  imcertain  and  amazed. 

As  on  a  vision  Bertram  gazed ! 

'Twas    Mortham's    bearing,    bold     and 

high. 
His  sinewy  frame,  his  falcon  eye. 
His  look  and  accent  of  command. 
The  martial  gesture  of  his  hand, 
His  stately  form,  spare-built  and  tall, 
His    war-bleach'd    locks  —  'twas     Mor- 

tham  all. 
Through  Bertram's  dizzy  brain  career 
A  thousand  thoughts,  and  all  of  fear; 
His  wavering  faith  received  not  quite 
The  form  he  saw  as  Mortham's  sprite. 
But  more  he  fear'd  it,  if  it  stood 
His  lord,  in  living  flesh  and  blood.  — 
What  spectre  can  the  charnel  send, 
So  dreadful  as  an  injured  friend? 
Then,  too,  the  habit  of  command. 
Used  by  the  leader  of  the  band. 
When  Risingham,  for  many  a  day. 
Had    march'd    and    fought    beneath  his 

sway, 
Tamed  him  — and,  with  reverted  face. 
Backwards  he  bore  his  sullen  pace; 
Oft  stopp'd,  and  oft  on  Mortham  stared, 
And  dark  as  rated  mastiff  glared; 
But  when  the  tramp  of  steeds  was  heard, 
Plunged  in  the  glen,  and  disappear'd;  — 
Nor  longer  there  the  warrior  stood, 
Retiring  eastward  through  the  wood; 
But  first  to  Wilfrid  warning  gives, 
"  Tell  thou  to  none  that  Mortham  lives." 


Still  rung  these  words  in  Wilfrid's  ear, 
Hinting  he  knew  not  what  of  fear; 
When  nearer  came  the  coursers'  tread, 


And,  with  his  father  at  their  head. 
Of  horsemen  arm'd  a  gallant  power 
Rein'd  up  their  steeds  before  the  tower. 
"Whence  these    pale  looks,  my  son?" 

he  said: 
"  Where's  Bertram  ?  —  Why  that    naked 

blade?" 
Wilfrid  ambiguously  replied, 
(For  Mortham's  charge  his  honor  tied,) 
"  Bertram  is  gone  —  the  villain's  word 
Avouch 'd  him  murderer  of  his  lord  ! 
Even  now  we  fought  —  but,  when  your 

tread 
Announced  you  nigh,  the  felon  fled." 
In  Wycliffe's  conscious  eye  appear 
A  guilty  hope,  a  guilty  fear; 
On  his  pale  brow  the  dewdrop  broke. 
And  his  lip  quiver'd  as  he  spoke: — 


"  A  murderer  !  —  Philip  Mortham  died 
Amid  the  battle's  wildest  tide. 
Wilfrid  !  or  Bertram  raves,  or  you  ! 
Yet,  grant  such  strange  confession  true, 
Pursuit  were  vain  — let  him  fly  far  — 
Justice  must  sleep  in  civil  war." 
A  gallant  Youth  rode  near  his  side. 
Brave  Rokeby's  page,  in  battle  tried; 
That  morn,  an  embassy  of  weight 
He  brought  to  Barnard's  castle  gate. 
And  follow'd  now  in  Wycliffe's  train, 
An  answer  for  his  lord  to  gain. 
His  steed,  whose  arch'd  and  sable  neck 
A  hundred  wreaths  of  foam  bedeck, 
Chafed  not  against  the  curb  more  high 
Than  he  at  Oswald's  cold  reply: 
He  bit  his  lip,  implored  his  saint, 
(His   the    old    faith)  —  then    burst    re- 
straint :  — 

XXV. 

"Yes  !  I  beheld  his  bloody  fall 
By  that  base  traitor's  dastard  ball. 
Just  when  I  thought  to  measure  sword,  — 
Presumptuous  hope  !  —  with  Mortham's 

lord. 
And  shall  the  murderer  'scape,  who  slew 
His  leader,  generous,  brave,  and  true  ? 
Escape,  while  on  the  dew  you  trace 
The  marks  of  his  gigantic  pace? 
No !  ere  the  sun  that  dew  shall  dry. 
False  Risingham  shall  yield  or  die.  — 
Ring  out  the  castle  'larum  bell  I 
Arouse  the  peasants  with  the  knell ! 


2l8 


ROKEBY. 


Canto  II. 


Meantime  disperse  —  ride,  gallants,  ride  ! 
Beset  the  wood  on  every  side. 
But  if  among  you  one  there  be, 
That  honors  Mortham's  memory, 
Let  him  dismount  and  follow  me ! 
Else  on  your  crests  sit  fear  and  shame. 
And  foul  suspicion  dog  your  name ! " 


Instant  to  earth  young  Redmond  sprung; 
Instant  on  earth  the  harness  rung 
Of  twenty  men  of  Wycliffe's  band, 
Who  waited  not  their  lord's  command. 
Redmond  his  spurs  from  buskins  drew. 
His  mantle  from  his  shoulders  threw. 
His  pistols  in  his  belt  he  placed. 
The    green-wood    gain'd,    the    footsteps 

traced. 
Shouted  like  huntsman  to  his  hounds, 
"  To  cover,  hark  !  "  —  and  in  he  bounds. 
Scarce  heard  was  Oswald's  anxious  cry, 
"  Suspicion  !   yes  —  pursue  him,  fly  — 
But  venture  not,  in  useless  strife. 
On  ruffian  desperate  of  his  life. 
Whoever  finds  him,  shoot  him  dead! 
Five  hundred  nobles  for  his  head  !  " 

XXVII. 

The  horsemen  gallop'd,  to  make  good 
Each  path  that  issued  from  the  wood. 
Loud  from  the  thickets  rung  the  shout 
Of  Redmond  and  his  eager  rout ! 
With  them  was  Wilfrid,  stung  with  ire, 
And  envying  Redmond's  martial  fire, 
And  emulous  of  fame.  —  But  where 
Is  Oswald,  noble  Mortham's  heir? 
He,  bound  by  honor,  law,  and  faith. 
Avenger  of  his  kinsman's  death?  — 
Leaning  against  the  elmin  tree. 
With  drooping  head  and  slacken'd  knee. 
And   clenched    teeth,    and   close-clasp'd 

hands. 
In  agony  of  soul  he  stands ! 
His  downcast  eye  on  earth  is  bent. 
His  soul  to  every  sound  is  lent; 
For  in  each  shout  that  cleaves  the  air, 
May  ring  discovery  and  despair. 

XXVIII. 
What  'vail'd  it  him,  that  brightly  play'd 
The  morning  sun  on  Mortham's  glade? 
All  seems  in  giddy  round  to  ride. 
Like  objects  on  a  stormy  tide. 


Seen  eddying  by  the  moonlight  dim, 
Imperfectly  to  sink  and  swim. 
What  'vail'd  it,  that  the  fair  domain. 
Its  battled  mansion,  hill,  and  plain. 
On  which  the  sun  so  brightly  shone. 
Envied  so  long,  was  now  his  own  ? 
The  lowest  dungeon,  in  that  hour. 
Of  Brackenbury's  dismal  tower,-^ 
Had    been    his    choice,    could    such    a 

doom 
Have  open'd  Mortham's  bloody  tomb ! 
Forced,  too,  to  turn  unwilling  ear 
To  each  surmise  of  hope  or  fear, 
Murmur'd  among  the  rustics  round. 
Who  gather'd  at  the  'larum  sound; 
He  dared  not  turn  his  head  away. 
E'en  to  look  up  to  heaven  to  pray. 
Or  call  on  hell  in  bitter  mood, 
For  one  sharp  death-shot  from  the  wood  ! 


At  length,  o'erpast  that  dreadful  space. 
Back  straggling  came  the  scatter'd  chase : 
Jaded  and  weary,  horse  and  man, 
Return'd  the  troopers  one  by  one. 
Wilfrid,  the  last,  arrived  to  say, 
All  trace  was  lost  of  Bertram's  way. 
Though  Redmond  still,  up  Brignall  wood 
The  hopeless  quest  in  vain  pursued.  — 
O,  fatal  doom  of  human  race ! 
What  tyrant  passions  passions  chase ! 
Remorse  from  Oswald's  brow  is  gone. 
Avarice  and  pride  resume  their  throne; 
The  pang  of  instant  terror  by. 
They  dictate  thus  their  slave's  reply: — 


"  Ay  —  let  him  range  like  hasty  hound  ! 
And  if  the  grim  wolf's  lair  be  found, 
Small  is  my  care  how  goes  the  game 
With  Redmond  or  with  Risingham.  — 
Nay,  answer  not,  thou  simple  boy! 
Thy  fair  Matilda,  all  so  coy 
To  thee,  is  of  another  mood 
To  that  bold  youth  of  Erin's  blood. 
Thy  ditties  will  she  freely  praise. 
And  pay  thy  pains  with  courtly  phrase; 
In  a  rough  path  will  oft  command  — 
Accept  at  least  —  thy  friendly  hand; 
Ills  she  avoids,  or,  urged  and  pray'd. 
Unwilling  takes  his  proffer'd  aid. 
While  conscious  passion  plainly  speaks 
In  downcast  look  and  blushing  cheeks. 


i'avto  III. 


ROKEBY. 


219 


Whene'er  he  sings,  will  she  glide  nigh. 
And  all  her  soul  is  in  her  eye; 
Vet  doubts  she  still  to  tender  free 
The  wonted  words  of  courtesy. 
These  are  strong  signs !  — yet  wherefore 

sigh. 
And  wipe,  effeminate,  thine  eye? 
Thine  shall  she  be,  if  thou  attend 
The  couHsels  of  thy  sire  aiid  friend. 


' '  Scarce  wert  thou  gone,  when  peep  of 

light 
IJrought  genuine  news  of  Marston's  fight. 
I^rave  Cromwell  turn'd  the  doubtful  tide, 
And  conquest  bless'd  the  rightful  side; 
Three  thousand  cavaliers  lie  dead, 
Rupert  and  that  bold  Marquis  fled; 
Xobles  and  knights,  so  proud  of  late. 
Must  fine  for  freedom  and  estate. 
Of  these,  committed  to  my  charge. 
Is  Rokeby,  prisoner  at  large; 
Redmond,  his  page,  arrived  to  say 
lie  reaches  Barnard's  towers  to-day. 
Right  heavy  shall  his  ransom  be, 
Unless  that  maid  compound  with  thee  !  ^ 
( io  to  her  now  —  be  bold  of  cheer. 
While    her    soul    floats  'twixt  hope  and 

fear; 
It  is  the  very  change  of  tide. 
When  best  the  female  heart  is  tried  — 
Pride,  prejudice,  and  modesty 
Are  in  the  current  swept  to  sea; 
And  the  bold  swain,  who  plies  his  oar. 
May  lightly  row  his  bark  to  shore." 


CANTO   THIRD. 


I. 


The  hunting  trilx;s  of  air  and  earth 
Respect  the  brethren  of  their  birth; 
Nature,  who  loves  the  claim  of  kind. 
Less  cruel  chase  to  each  assign'd. 
The  falcon,  poised  on  soaring  wing. 
Watches  the  wild-duck  by  the  spring; 
The  slow-hound  wakes  the  fox's  lair; 
The  greyhound  presses  on  the  hare; 
The  eagle  pounces  on  the  lamb; 
The  wolf  devours  the  fleecy  dam: 
Even  tiger  fell,  and  sullen  bear. 
Their  likeness  and  their  lineage  spare; 


Man,  only,  mars  kind  Nature's  plan. 
And  turns  the  fierce  pursuit  on  man : 
Plying  war's  desultory  trade. 
Incursion,  flight,  and  ambuscade. 
Since  Nimrod,  Cush's  mighty  son. 
At  first  the  bloody  game  begun. 


The  Indian,  prowling  for  his  prey. 
Who  hears  the  settlers  track  his  way,^ 
And  knows  in  distant  forest  far, 
Camp  his  red  brethren  of  the  war; 
He,  when  each  double  and  disguise 
To  baffle  the  pursuit  he  tries. 
Low  crouching  now  his  head  to  hide, 
Where    swampy    streams    thro'    rushes 

glide. 
Now  covering  with  the  wither'd  leaves 
The  foot-prints  that  the  dew  receives: 
He,  skill'd  in  every  sylvan  guile. 
Knows  not,  nor  tries  such  various  wile, 
As  Risingham,  when  on  the  wind 
Arose  the  loud  pursuit  behind. 
In  Redesdale  his  youth  had  heard 
Each  art  her  wily  dalesmen  dared. 
When  Rooken-edge,  and  Redswair  high, 
To  bugle  rung  and  blood-hound's  cry,* 
Announcing  Jedwood-axe  and  spear, 
And  Lid'sdale  riders  in  the  rear; 
And  well  his  venturous  life  had  proved 
The  lessons  that  his  childhood  loved. 


Oft  had  he  shown  in  climes  afar. 
Each  attribute  of  roving  war; 
The  sharpen'd  ear,  the  piercing  eye. 
The  quick  resolve  in  danger  nigh; 
The  speed,  that  in  the  flight  or  chase, 
Outstripp'd  the  Charib's  rapid  race; 
The  steady  brain,  the  sinewy  limb. 
To  leap,  to  climb,  to  dive,  to  swim; 
The  iron  frame  inured  to  bear 
Each  dire  inclemency  of  air, 
Nor  less  confirm'd  to  undergo 
Fatigue's  faint  chill,  and  famine's  throe. 
These  arts  he  proved,  his  life  to  save. 
In  peril  oft  by  land  and  wave. 
On  Arawaca's  desert  shore. 
Or  where  La  Plata's  billows  roar, 
When  oft  the  sons  of  vengeful  Spain 
Track'd  the  marauder's  steps  in  vain 
These  arts  in  Indian  warfare  tried. 
Must  save  him  now  by  Greta's  side. 


ROKEBY. 


Canto  III. 


Twas  then,  in  hour  of  utmost  need, 
He  proved  his  courage,  art,  and  speed. 
Now    slow    he    stalk'd    with     stealthy 

pace. 
Now  started  forth  in  rapid  race. 
Oft  doubling  back  in  mazy  train. 
To  blind  the  trace  the  dews  retain; 
Now  clomb  the  rocks  projecting  high. 
To  bailie  the  pursuer's  eye; 
Now  sought  the  stream,  whose  brawling 

sound 
The  echo  of  his  footsteps  drown'd. 
But  if  the  forest  verge  he  nears, 
There  trample  steeds, and  glimmer  spears ; 
If  deeper  down  the  copse  he  drew, 
He  heard  the  rangers'  loud  halloo. 
Beating  each  cover  while  they  came. 
As  if  to  start  the  sylvan  game. 
'Twas  then  —  like  tiger  close  beset 
At  every  pass  with  toil  and  net, 
'Counter'd,  where'er  he  turns  his  glare. 
By  clashing  arms  and  torches'  flare. 
Who  meditates,  with  furious  bound, 
To  burst  on  hunter,  horse,  and  hound,  — 
'Twas  then  that  Bertram's  soul  arose. 
Prompting  to  rush  upon  his  foes : 
But  as  that  crouching  tiger,  cow'd 
By  brandish'd  steel  and  shouting  crowd. 
Retreats  beneath  the  jungle's  shroud, 
Bertram  suspends  his  purpose  stern. 
And  couches  in  the  brake  and  fern. 
Hiding  his  face,  lest  foemen  spy 
The  sparkle  of  his  swarthy  eye.'^" 


Then  Bertram  might  the  bearing  trace 
Of  the  bold  youth  who  led  the  chase; 
Who  paused  to  list  for  every  sound, 
Climb  every  height  to  look  around. 
Then  rushing  on  with  naked  sword, 
Each  dingle's  bosky  depths  explored. 
'Twas  Redmond  —  by  the  azure  eye ; 
'Twas  Redmond  —  by  the  locks  that  fly 
Disorder'd  from  his  glowing  cheek; 
Mien,  face,  and  form,  young  Redmond 

speak. 
A  form  more  active,  light,  and  strong. 
Ne'er  shot  the  ranks  of  war  along; 
The  modest,  yet  the  manly  mien, 
Might  grace  the  court  of  maiden  queen. 
A  face  more  fair  you  well  might  fintl, 
For  Redmond's  knew  the  sun  and  wind, 


Nor  boasted,  from  their  tinge  when  free. 
The  charm  of  regularity; 
But  every  feature  had  the  power 
To  aid  the  expression  of  the  hour: 
Whether  gay  wit,  and  humor  sly, 
Danced  laughing  in  his  light-blue  eye; 
Or  bended  brow,  and  glance  of  fire. 
And  kindling  cheek,  spoke  Erin's  ire; 
Or  soft  and  sadden'd  glances  show 
Her  ready  sympathy  with  woe; 
Or  in  that  wayward  mood  of  mind, 
When  various  feelings  are  combined. 
When  joy  and  sorrow  mingle  near. 
And  hope's  bright  wings  are  check 'd  by 

fear, 
And  rising  doubts  keep  transport  down, 
And  anger  lends  a  short-lived  frown; 
In  that  strange  mood  which  maids  approve 
Even  when  they  dare  not  call  it  love; 
With  every  change  his  features  play'd. 
As  aspens  show  the  light  and  shade. 


Well  Risingham  young  Redmond  knew: 
An<l  much  he  marvell'd  that  the  crew. 
Roused  to  revenge  bold  Morlham  dead. 
Were  by  that  Morthnm's  foeman  led; 
For  never  fi-lt  his  soul  the  woe. 
That  wails  a  generous  foeman  low, 
Far  less  that  sense  of  justice  strong, 
That  wreaks  a  generous  foeman's  wrong. 
But  small  his  leisure  now  to  pause; 
Redmond  is  first,  whate'er  the  cause: 
And  twice  that  Redmond  came  so  near 
Where  Bertram  couch'd  like  hunted  deer, 
The  very  boughs  his  steps  displace. 
Rustled  against  the  ruffian's  face, 
Who,  desperate,  twice  prepared  to  start. 
And  plunge  his  dagger  in  his  heart ! 
But  Redmond  turn'd  a  different  way. 
And  the  bent  boughs  resumeil  their  sway, 
And  Bertram  held  it  wise,  unseen, 
Deejier  to  plunge  in  coppice  green. 
Thus,  circled  in  his  coil,  the  snake. 
When  roving  hunters  beat  the  brake. 
Watches  witifi  red  and  glistening  eye, 
Prepared,  if  heedless  step  draw  nigh. 
With  forked  tongue  and  venom'd  fang 
Instant  to  dart  the  deadly  pang; 
But  if  the  intruders  turn  aside. 
Away  his  coils  unfolded  glide, 
And  through  the  deep  savannah  wind. 
Some  undisturb'd  retreat  to  find. 


Canto  III. 


ROKEBY. 


But  Bertram,  as  he  backward  drew, 
And  heard  the  loud  pursuit  renew, 
And  Redmond's  hollo  on  the  wind, 
Oft  nuUter'd  in  his  savage  mind:  — 
"  Redmond  O'Neale  !  were  thou  and  I 
Alone  this  day's  event  to  try, 
With  not  a  second  here  to  see. 
But  the  gray  cliff  and  oaken  tree, — 
Til  at  voice  of  thine  that  shouts  so  loud, 
Should  ne'er  repeat  its  summons  proud  ! 
No !   nor  e'er  try  its  melting  power 
Again  in  maiden's  summer  lx)wer." 
Eluded,  now  behind  him  die, 
Faint  and  more  faint,  each  hostile  cry; 
He  stands  in  Scargill  wood  alone. 
Nor  hears  he  now  a  harsher  tone 
Than  the  hoarse  cushat's  plaintive  cry, 
Or  Greta's  sound  that  murmurs  by; 
And  on  the  dale,  so  lone  and  wild. 
The  summer  sun  in  quiet  smiled. 


He  listen'd  long  with  anxious  heart. 
Ear  bent  to  hear,  and  foot  to  start, 
And,  while  his  stretch'd  attention  glows. 
Refused  his  weary  frame  repose. 
'Twas  silence  all  —  he  laid  him  down. 
Where  purple  heath  profusely  strown. 
And  ihroatwort,  with  its  azure  bell. 
And  moss  and  thyme  his  cushion  swell. 
There,  spent  with  toil,  he  listless  eyed 
The  course  of  Greta's  playful  tide; 
Beneath  her  banks  now  eddying  dun. 
Now  brightly  gleaming  to  the  sun. 
As,  dancing  over  rock  and  stone. 
In  yellow  light  her  currents  shone. 
Matching  in  hue  the  favorite  gem 
Of  Albin's  mountain-diadem. 
Then,  tired  to  watch  the  current's  play, 
He  turn'd  his  weary  eyes  away. 
To  where  the  bank  opposing  show'd 
Its  huge,  square  cliffs  thro'  shaggy  wood. 
One,  prominent  above  the  rest, 
Rear'd  to  the  sun  his  pale  gray  breast; 
Around  its  broken  summit  grew 
The  hazel  rude  and  sable  yew; 
.\  thousand  varied  lichens  dyed 
Its  waste  and  weather-beaten  side. 
And  round  its  rugged  basis  lay. 
By  time  or  thunder  rent  away, 
Tragments,  that,  from  ijs  frontlet  torn. 
Were  mantled  now  by  verdant  thorn. 


Such  was  the  scene's  wild  majesty, 
That  filled  stern  Bertram's  gazing  eye. 


In  sullen  mood  he  lay  reclined. 
Revolving,  in  his  stormy  mind, 
The  felon  deed,  the  fruitless  guilt. 
His  patron's  blood  by  treason  spilt; 
A  crime,^  it  seem'd,  so  dire  and  dread. 
That  it  had  power  to  wake  the  dead. 
Then,  pondering. on  his  life  Vjetray'd 
By  Oswald's  art  to  Redmond's  blade, 
In  treacherous  purpose  to  withhold, 
So  seem'd  it,  Mortham's  promised  gold, 
A  deep  and  full  revenge  he  vow'd 
On  Redmond,  forward,  fierce,  and  proud; 
Revenge  on  Wilfrid  —  on  his  sire 
Redoubled  vengeance,  swift  and  dire ! — 
If,  in  such  a  mood  (as  legends  say. 
And  well  believed  that  simple  day). 
The  Enemy  of  man  has  power 
To  profit  by  the  evil  hour. 
Here  stood  a  wretch,  prepared  to  change 
His  soul's  redemption  for  revenge  !  ** 
But  though  his  vows,  with  such  a  fire 
Of  earnest  and  intense  desire 
For  vengeance  dark  and  fell,  were  made. 
As  well  might  reach  hell's  lowest  shade. 
No  deeper  clouds  the  grove  embrown'd. 
No  nether  thunders  shook  the  ground;  — 
The  demon  knew  his  vassal's  heart. 
And  spared  temptation's  needless  art. 


Oft,  mingled  with  the  direful  theme. 

Came  Mortham's  form  —  Was  it  a  dream  ? 

Or  had  he  seen,  in  vision  true, 

That  very  Mortham  whom  he  slew? 

Or  had  in  living  flesh  appear'd 

The  only  man  on  earth  he  fear'd?  — 

To  try  the  mystic  cause  intent, 

His  eyes,  that  on  the  cliff  were  Ix^nt, 

'Counter'd  at  once  a  dazzling  glance, 

Like    sunbeam    flash'd    from    sword    or 

lance. 
At  once  he  started  as  for  fight, 
But  not  a  foeman  was  in  sight; 
He  heard  the  cushat's  murmur  hoarse. 
He  heard  the  river's  sounding  course; 
The  solitary  woodlands  lay. 
As  slumbering  in  the  summer  ray. 
He  gazed,  like  lion  roused,  around. 
Then  sunk  again  upon  the  ground. 


ROKEBY. 


Ci¥!<TO    III. 


'Twas  but,  he  thought,  some  fitful  beam, 
Glanced     sudden     from     the    sparkling 

stream; 
Then  plunged  him  from  his  gloomy  train 
Of  ill-connected  thoughts  again, 
Until  a  voice  behind  him  cried:  — 
"  Bertram!  well  met  on  Greta  side." 


Instant  his  sword  was  in  his  hand. 
As  instant  sunk  the  ready  brand  ; 
Yet,  dubious  still,  opposed  he  stood 
To  him  that  issued  from  the  wood : 
"  Guy  Denzil !  —is  it  thou?  "  he  said; 
"Do  we  two  meet  in  Scargill  shade?  — 
Stand  back  a  space  !  —  thy  purpose  show. 
Whether  thou  comest  as  friend  or  foe. 
Report  hath  said,  that  Denzil's  name 
From    Rokeby's    band    was    razed    with 

shame."  — 
"  A  shame  I  owe  that  hot  O'Neale, 
Who  told  his  knight,  in  peevish  zeal. 
Of  my  marauding  on  the  clowns 
Of  Calverley  and  Bradford  downs. ^ 
I  reck  not.     In  a  war  to  strive. 
Where,  save  the  leaders,  none  can  thrive, 
Suits  ill  my  mood;  and  lx;tter  game 
Awaits  us  both,  if  thou'rt  the  same 
Unscrupulous,  bold  Risingham, 
Who  watch'd  with  me  in  midnight  dark. 
To  snatch  a  deer  from  Rokeby-park. 
How  think'st  thou?  " — "  Speak  thy  pur- 
pose out; 
\  love  not  mystery  or  doubt." — 

XII. 
"Then,  list.  —  Not  far  there  lurk  a  crew 
Of  trusty  comrades  stanch  and  true, 
Glean'd    from    both     factions  —  Round- 
heads freed 
From  cant  of  sermon  and  of  creed; 
And  Cavaliers,  whose  souls,  like  mine. 
Spurn  at  the  bonds  of  discipline. 
Wiser,  we  judge,  by  dale  and  wold, 
A  warfare  of  our  own  to  hold, 
Than  breathe  our  last  on  battle-down, 
For  cloak  or  surplice,  mace  or  crown. 
Our  schemes  are  laid,  our  purpose  set, 
A  chief  and  leader  lack  we  yet.  — 
Thou  art  a  wanderer,  it  is  said; 
For  Mortham's  death,  thy  steps  way-laid. 
Thy  head  at  price  —  so  say  our  spies. 
Who  range  the  valley  in  disguise. 


Join  then  with  us: — tho'  wild  debate 
And  wrangling  rend  our  infant  state, 
Each  to  an  equal  loth  to  bow. 
Will  yield  to  chief  renown'd  as  thou." — 


"  Even  now,"  thought  Bertram,  passion- 

stirr'd, 
"  I  called  on  hell,  and  hell  has  heard ! 
What  lack  I,  vengeance  to  command, 
But  of  stanch  comrades  such  a  band? 
This  Denzil,  vow'd  to  every  evil, 
Might  read  a  lesson  to  the  devil. 
Well,  l>e  it  so !  each  knave  and  fool 
Shall  serve  as  my  revenge's  tool." — 
Aloud,  "  I  take  thy  proffer,  Guy, 
But  tell  me  where  thy  comrades  lie?  " 
"  Not  far  from  hence,"  Guy  Denzil  said; 
"  Descend,  and  cross  the  river's  bed. 
Where  rises  yonder  cliff  so  gray." 
"Do  thou,"  said   Bertram,   "lead    the 

way." 
Then  mutter'd,  "  It  is  best  make  sure; 
Guy  Denzil's  faith  was  never  pure." 
He  follow'd  down  the  steep  descent, 
Then  through  the  Greta's  streams  they 

went; 
And,  when  they  reach'd  the  farther  shore. 
They  stood  the  lonely  cliff  before. 


With  wonder  Bertram  heard  within 

The  flinty  rock  a  murmur'd  din; 

But  when  Guy  puU'd  the  wilding  spray. 

And  brambles,  from  its  base  away, 

He  saw,  appearing  to  the  air, 

A  little  entrance,  low  and  square. 

Like  opening  cell  of  hermit  lone. 

Dark,  winding  through  the  living  stone. 

Here  enter'd  Denzil,  Bertram  here; 

And  loud  and  louder  on  their  car. 

As  from  the  bowels  of  the  earth, 

Resounded  shouts  of  boisterous  mirth. 

Of  old,  the  cavern  strait  and  rude. 

In  slaty  rock  the  peasant  hew'd; 

.A^nd  Brignall's  woods, andScargill's wave, 

E'en  now,  o'er  many  a  sister  cave,^ 

Where,  far  within  the  darksome  rift. 

The  wedge  and  lever  ply  their  thrift. 

But  war  had  silenced  rural  trade. 

And  the  deserted  mine  was  made  ' 

The  banquet-hall^  and  fortress  too. 

Of  Denzil  and  his  desperate  crew. — 


Canto  III. 


SOKES  Y. 


223 


There  Guilt  his  anxious  revel  kept; 
There,  on  his  sordid  pallet,  slept 
Guilt-born  Excess,  the  goblet  drain'd 
Still  in  his  slumbering  grasp  retain'd; 
Regret  was  there,  his  eye  still  cast 
With  vain  repining  on  the  past; 
Among  the  feasters  waited  near 
Sorrow,  and  unrepentant  Fear, 
And  Blasphemy,  to  frenzy  driven, 
With  his  own  crimes  reproaching  heaven; 
While  Bertram  show'd,  amid  the  crew, 
The  Master-Fiend  that  Milton  drew. 


Hark  !  the  loud  revel  wakes  again. 
To  greet  the  leader  of  the  train. 
Behold  the  group  by  the  pale  lamp. 
That  struggles  with  the  earthy  damp. 
By  what  strange  features  Vice  hath  known, 
To  single  out  and  mark  her  own ! 
Yet  some  there  are,  whose  brows  retain 
Less  deeply  stamp'd  her  brand  and  stain. 
See  yon  pale  stripling  !  when  a  boy, 
A  mother's  pride,  a  father's  joy ! 
Now,  'gainst  the  vault's  rude  walls  re- 
clined. 
An  early  image  fills  his  mind: 
The  cottage,  once  his  sire's,  he  sees, 
Embower'd  upon  the  banks  of  Tees; 
He    views    sweet    Winston's    woodland 

scene. 
And  shares  the  dance  on  Gainford-green. 
A  tear  is  springing  —  but  the  zest 
Of  some  wild  tale  or  brutal  jest, 
I  lath  to  l(3ud  laughter  stirr'd  the  rest. 
On  him  they  call,  the  aptest  mate 
For  jovial  song  and  merry  feat : 
Fast    flies    his    dream  - —  with    dauntless 

air 
As  one  victorious  o'er  Despair, 
He  bids  the  ruby  cup  go  round. 
Till  sense  and  sorrow  both  are  drown 'd: 
And  soon,  in  merry  wassail,  he. 
The  life  of  all  their  revelry. 
Peals   his   loud    song !  —  The    muse    has 

found 
Her  blossoms  on  the  wildest  ground, 
Mid  noxious  weeds  at  random  strew'd. 
Themselves  all  profitless  and  rude.  — 
With  desperate  merriment  he  sung. 
The  cavern  to  the  chorus  rung; 
Yet  mingled  with  his  reckless  glee 
Remorse's  bitter  agony. 


XVI. 

SONG. 
O,  Brignall  banks  are  wild  and  fair. 

And  Greta  woods  are  green, 
And  you  may  gather  garlands  there, 

Would  grace  a  summer  queen. 
And  as  I  rode  by  Dalton-hall, 

Beneath  the  turrets  high, 
A  Maiden  on  the  castle  wall 

Was  singing  merrily,  — 

CHORUS. 

"O,  Brignall  banks  are  fresh  and  fair, 
And  Greta  woods  are  green; 

I'd  rather  rove  with  Edmund  there. 
Than  reign  our  English  queen."  — 

"  If,  Maiden,  thou  wouldst  wend  with  me. 

To  leave  both  tower  and  town, 
Thou  first  must  guess  what  life  lead  we. 

That  dwell  by  dale  and  down? 
And  if  thou  canst  that  riddle  read, 

As  read  full  well  you  may. 
Then  to  the  greenwood  shall  thou  speed. 

As  blithe  as  Queen  of  May."  — 

CHORUS. 

Yet  sung  she,  "  Brignall  banks  are  fair. 
And  Greta  woods  are  green; 

I'd  rather  rove  with  Edmund  there. 
Than  reign  our  English  queen. 


"  I  read  you,  by  your  bugle-horn, 

And  by  your  palfrey  good, 
I  read  you  for  a  ranger  sworn. 

To  keep  the  king's  greenwood."  — 
"  A  Ranger,  lady,  winds  his  horn, 

And  'tis  at  peep  of  light; 
His  blast  is  heard  at  merry  morn, 

And  mine  at  dead  of  night."  — 

CHORUS. 

Yet  sung  she,  "  Brignall  banks  are  fair. 

And  Greta  woods  are  gay; 
I  would  I  were  with  Edmund  there. 

To  reign  his  Queen  of  May  ! 

"  With  burnish 'd  brand  and  musketoon, 

So  gallantly  you  come, 
I  read  you  for  a  lx>ld  Dragoon, 

That  lists  the  tuck  of  drum."  — 


224 


ROKEBY. 


Canto  III. 


"  I  list  no  more  the  tuck  of  drum, 
No  more  the  trumpet  hear; 

But  when  the  beetle  sounds  his  hum, 
My  comrades  take  the  spear. 


"  And,  O  !  tho'  Brignall  banks  be  fair, 

And  Greta  woods  be  gay. 
Yet  mickle  must  the  maiden  dare, 

Would  reign  my  Queen  of  May  ! 

XVIII. 

"  Maiden  !  a  nameless  life  I  lead, 

A  nameless  death  I'll  die  ! 
The  fiend,  whose  lantern  lights  the  mead, 

Were  better  mate  than  I ! 
And  when  I'm  with  my  comrades  met. 

Beneath  the  greenwood  bough. 
What  once  we  were  we  all  forget. 

Nor  think  what  we  are  now. 

CHORUS. 
"  Yet  Brignall  hanks  are  fresh  and  fair. 

And  Greta  woods  are  green. 
And  you  may  gather  garlands  there. 

Would  grace  a  summer  queen." 

When  Edmund  ceased  his  simple  song, 
Was  silence  on  the  sullen  throng, 
Till  waked  some  ruder  mate  their  glee 
With  note  of  coarser  minstrelsy. 
But,  far  apart,  in  dark  divan, 
Denzil  and  Bertram  many  a  plan 
Of  import  foul  and  fierce  design'd. 
While  still  on  Bertram's  grasping  mind 
The  wealth  of  murder'd  Mortham  hung; 
Tho'  half  he  fear'd  his  daring  tongue, 
When  it  should  give  his  wishes  birth, 
Might  raise  a  spectre  from  the  earth  ! 


At  length  his  wondrous  tale  he  told: 
When,  scornful,  smiled  his  comrade  liold; 
For,  train'd  in  license  of  a  court, 
Religion's  self  was  Denzil's  sport; 
Then  judge  in  what  contempt  he  held 
The  visionary  tales  of   eld  ! 
His  awe  for  Bertram  scarce  repress'd 
The  unbeliever's  sneering  jest. 
*'  'Twcre  hard,"  he  said,  "for  sage  or  seer 
To  spell  the  subject  of  your  fear; 
Nor  do  I  boast  the  art  renown'd, 
Vision  and  omen  to  expound. 


Yet,  f.aith,  if  I  must  needs  afford 
To  spectre  watching  treasured  hoard, 
As  bandog  keeps  his  master's  roof. 
Bidding  the  plunderer  stand  aloof, 
This  doubt  remains  —  thy  goblin  gaunt 
Hath  chosen  ill  his  ghostly  haunt; 
For  why  his  guard  on  Mortham  hold. 
When  Rokeby  castle  hath  the  gold 
Thy  patron  won  on  Indian  soil. 
By  stealth,  by  piracy,  and  spoil?  " 


At  this  he  paused  —  for  angry  shame 
Lower'd  on  the  brow  of   Risingham. 
He  blush'd  to  think  that  he  should  seem 
Assertor  of  an  airy  dream, 
And  gave  his  wrath  another  theme. 
"  Denzil,"  he  says,  "tho'  lowly  laid, 
Wrong  not  the  memory  of  the  dead; 
For,  while  he  lived,  at  Mortham's  look 
Thy  very  soul,  Guy  Denzil,  shook  ! 
And  when  he  tax'd  thy  breach  of  word 
To  yon  fair  Rose  of  Allenford, 
I  saw  thee  crouch  like  chasten'd  hound. 
Whose    back  the  huntsman's   lash  hath 

found. 
Nor  dare  to  call  his  foreign  wealth 
The  spoil  of  piracy  or  stealth; 
He  won  it  bravely  with  his  brand, 
When    Spain    waged    warfare    with    our 

land.^i 
Mark,  too  —  I  brook  no  idle  jeer. 
Nor  couple  Bertram's  name  with  fear; 
Mine  is  but  half  the  demon's  lot. 
For  I  believe,  but  tremble  not.  — 
Enough  of  this.  —  Say,  why  this  hoard 
Thou  deem'st  at  Rokeby  castle  stored; 
Or  think'st  that  Mortham  would  bestow 
His  treasure  with  his  faction's  foe?  " 


Soon    quench'd    was    Denzil's    ill-timed 

mirth; 
Rather  he  would  have  seen  the  earth 
Give  to  ten  thousand  spectres  birth, 
Than  venture  to  awake  to  flame 
The  deadly  wrath  of   Risingham. 
Submiss    he    answer'd: —  "  Mortham's 

mind, 
Thou  know'st,  to  joy  was  ill  inclined. 
In  youth,  'tis  said,  a  gallant  free, 
A  lusty  reveller  was  he; 
But  since  return'd  from  over  sea, 


Canto  III. 


ROKEBY. 


225 


A  sullen  and  a  silent  mood 

Hath  numb'd  the  current  of  his  blood. 

Hence  he  refused  each  kindly  call 

To  Rokeby's  hospitable  hall, 

And  our  stout  knight,  at  dawn  of  morn 

Who  loved  to  hear  the  bugle  horn, 

Nor  less,  when  eve  his  oaks  embrown'd, 

To  see  the  ruddy  cup  go  round, 

Took  umbrage  that  a  friend  so  near 

Refused  to  share  his  chase  and  cheer; 

Thus  did  the  kindred  barons  jar. 

Ere  they  divided  in  the  war. 

Yet,  trust  me,  friend,  Matilda  fair 

Of  Mortham's  wealth  is  destined  heir."  — 


"  Destined  to  her  !  to  yon  slight  maid  ! 
The  prize  my  life  had  wellnigh  paid, 
When  'gainst  Laroche,  by  Cayo's  wave, 
I  fought,  my  patron's  wealth  to  save  !  — 
Denzil,  I  knew  him  long,  yet  ne'er 
Knew  him  that  joyous  cavalier. 
Whom  youthful  friends  and  early  fame 
Call'd  soul  of  gallantry  and  game. 
A  moody  man,  he  sought  our  crew, 
Desperate  and  dark,  whom  no  one  knew; 
And  rose,  as  men  with  us  must  rise. 
By  scorning  life  and  all  its  ties. 
On  each  adventure  rash  he  roved, 
As  danger  for  itself  he  loved; 
On  his  sad  brow  nor  mirth  nor  wine 
Could  e'er  one  wrinkled  knot  untwine; 
111  was  the  omen  if  he  smiled, 
For  'twas  in  peril  stern  and  wild; 
But  when  he  laugh'd,  each  luckless  mate 
Might  hold  our  fortune  desperate. 
Foremost  he  fought  in  every  broil, 
Then  scornful  turn'd  him  from  the  spoil; 
Nay,  often  strove  to  bar  the  way 
Between  his  comrades  and  their  prey; 
I'reaching,  even  then,  to  such  as  we. 
Hot  with  our  dear-bought  victory, 
Of  mercy  and  humanity. 

XXIII. 
"  I  loved  him  well  —  His  fearless  part. 
His  gallant  leading,  won  my  heart. 
And  after  each  victorious  fight, 
'Twas  I  that  wrangled  for  his  right, 
Redeem'd  his  portion  of  the  prey 
That  greedier  mates  had  torn  away : 
In  field  and  storm  thrice  saved  his  life, 
And  once  amid  our  comrades'  strife.*^  — 


Yes,  I  have  loved  thee  !  Well  have  proved 
My  toil,  my  danger,  how  I  loved  ! 
Yet  will  I  mourn  no  more  thy  fate, 
Ingrate  in  life,  in  death  ingrate. 
Rise  if  thou  canst !"  he  look'd  around, 
And  sternly  stamp'd  upon  the  ground  — 
"  Rise,  with  thy  bearing  proud  and  high. 
Even  as  this  morn  it  met  mine  eye. 
And  give  me,  if  thou  darest,  the  lie!  " 
He  paused — then,  calm  and  passion-freed. 
Bade  Denzil  with  his  tale  proceed. 


"  Bertram,  to  thee  I  need  not  tell, 
What  thou  hast  cause  to  wot  so  well. 
How  Superstition's  nets  were  twined 
Around  the  Lord  of  Mortham's  mind ! 
But  since  he  drove  thee  from  his  tower, 
A  maid  he  found  in  Greta's  bower. 
Whose  speech,   like  David's  harp,    had 

sway, 
To  charm  his  evil  fiend  away. 
I  know  not  if  her  features  moved 
Remembrance  of  the  wife  he  loved; 
But  he  would  gaze  upon  her  eye, 
Till  his  mood  soften'd  to  a  sigh. 
He,  whom  no  living  mortal  sought 
To  question  of  his  secret  thought, 
Now  every  thought  and  care  confess'd 
To  his  fair  niece's  faithful  breast; 
Nor  was  there  aught  of  rich  and  rare. 
In  earth,  in  ocean,  or  in  air, 
But  it  must  deck  Matilda's  hair. 
Her  love  still  bound  him  unto  life; 
But  then  awoke  the  civil  strife. 
And  menials  bore,  by  his  commands. 
Three  coffers,  with  their  iron  bands. 
From  Mortham's  vault,  at  midnight  deep. 
To  her  lone  bower  in  Rokeby-Keep, 
Ponderous  with  gold  and  plate  of  pride. 
His  gift,  if  he  in  battle  died."  — 

XXV. 

"  Then  Denzil,  as  I  guess,  lays  train. 
These  iron-banded  chests  to  gain; 
Else,  wherefore  should  he  hover  here. 
Where  many  a  peril  waits  him  near. 
For  all  his  feats  of  war  and  peace, 
For  plunder'd  boors,  and  harts  of  greese  ?* 
Since  thro'  the  hamlets  as  he  fared. 
What  hearth  has  Guy's  marauding  spared, 

*  Deer  lu  suasoB. 


226 


ROKEBY. 


Canto  III. 


Or  where  the  chase  that  hath  not  rung 
With       Denzil's      bow,     at      midnight 

strung  ?  "  — 
"  I  hold  my  wont  —  my  rangers  go, 
Even  now,  to  track  a  milk-white  doe. 
By  Rokeby-hall  she  takes  her  lair, 
In  Greta  wood  she  harbors  fair. 
And  when  my  huntsman  marks  her  way, 
What  think'st  thou,  Bertram,  of  the  prey? 
Were  Rokeby's  daughter  in  our  power, 
We  rate  her  ransom  at  her  dower." 

XXVI. 
"  'Tis  well !  —  there's  vengeance  in  the 

thought : 
Matilda  is  by  Wilfrid  sought; 
And  hot-brain'd  Redmond,  too,  'tis  said. 
Pays  lover's  homage  to  the  maid. 
Bertram  she  scorn'd. —  If  met  by  chance, 
She    turn'd    from    me    her    shuddering 

glance, 
Like  a  nice  dame,  that  will  not  brook 
On  what  she  hates  and  loathes  to  look; 
She  told  to  Mortham  she  could  ne'er 
Behold  me  without  secret  fear, 
F"oreboding  evil.  — She  may  rue 
To  find  her  prophecy  fall  true  !  — >- 
The  war  has  weeded  Rokeby's  train. 
Few  followers  in  his  halls  remain  : 
If  thy  scheme  miss,  then,  brief  and  bold. 
We  are  enow  to  storm  the  hold; 
Bear  off  the  plunder,  and  the  dame, 
And  leave  the  castle  all  in  flame."  — 


"  Still  art  thou  Valor's  venturous  son  ! 

Yet  ponder  first  the  risk  to  run: 

The  menials  of  the  castle,  true, 

And  stubborn   to   their   charge,  though 

few; 
The  wall  to  scale  —  the  moat  to  cross  — 
The  wicket-grate  —  the  inner  fosse."  — 
— "Fool !  if  we  l)lench  for  toys  like  these, 
On  what  fair  guerdon  can  we  seize? 
Our  hardiest  venture,  to  explore 
Some  wretched  peasant's  fenceless  door, 
And  the  best  prize  we  bear  away. 
The  earnings  of  his  sordid  day."  — 
"A  while  thy  hasty  taunt  forbear: 
In  sight  of  road  more  sure  and  fair. 
Thou   wouldst  not    choose,  in  blindfold 

wrath. 
Or  wantonness,  a  desperate  path? 


List,  then;  — for  vantage  or  assault. 
From  gilded  vane  to  dungeon-vault. 
Each  pass  of  Rokeby-house  I  know: 
There  is  one  postern,  dark  and  low. 
That  issues  at  a  secret  spot, 
By  most  neglected  or  forgot. 
Now,  could  a  spial  of  our  train 
On  fair  pretext  admittance  gain, 
That  sally-port  might  be  unbarr'd : 
Then,  vain  were  battlement  and  ward  !" — 

XXVIII. 

"  Now  speak'st  thou  well:  —  to  me  the 

same. 
If  force  or  art  shall  urge  the  game; 
Indifferent,  if  like  fox  I  wind, 
Or  spring  like  tiger  on  the  hind.  — 
But,  hark  !  our  merry  men  so  gay 
Troll  forth  another  roundelay."  — 

SONG. 

"  A  weary  lot  is  thine,  fair  maid, 

A  weary  lot  is  thine  ! 
To     pull     the    thorn     thy     brow    to 
braid, 
And  press  the  rue  for  wine ! 
A  lightsome  eye,  a  soldier's  mien, 

A  feather  of  the  blue, 
A  doublet  of  the  Lincoln  green,  — 
No  more  of  me  you  knew. 

My  love ! 
No  more  of  me  you  knew. 

"This  morn  is  merry  June,  I  trow. 

The  rose  is  budding  fain; 
But  she  shall  bloom  in  winter  snow. 

Ere  we  two  meet  again." 
He  turn'd  his  charger  as  he  spake. 

Upon  the  river  shore, 
He  gave  his  bridle-reins  a  shake, 

Said,  "Adieu  for  evermore, 

My  love ! 
And  adieu  for  evermore."  — ^ 

XXIX. 

"  What  youth  is  this,  your  band  among. 
The  best  for  minstrelsy  and  song? 
In  his  wild  notes  seem  aptly  met 
A  strain  of  pleasure  and  regret."  — 
"  Edmund  of  Winston  is  his  name; 
The  hamlet  sounded  with  the  fame 
Of  early  hopes  his  childhood  gave,  — 
Now  centr'd  all  in  Brignall  cave  ! 


Canto  III. 


ROKEBY. 


i-rj 


I  watch  him  well  —  his  wayward  course 
Shows  oft  a  tincture  of  remorse. 
Some  early  love-shaft  grazed  his  heart. 
And  oft  the  scar  will  ache  and  smart. 
Yet  is  he  useful;  —  of  the  rest, 
By  fits,  the  darling  and  the  jest, 
His  harp,  his  story,  and  his  lay, 
Oft  aid  the  idle  hours  away. 
When  unemploy'd,  each  fiery  mate 
Is  ripe  for  mutinous  debate. 
He  tuned  his  strings  e'en  now  —  again 
He  wakes  them  with  a  blither  strain." 


SONG, 

Allen-a-Dale. 

Allen-a-Dale  has  no  fagot  for  burning, 
Allen-a-Dale  has  no  furrow  for  turning, 
Allen-a-Dale  has  no  fleece  for  the  spin- 

ing. 

Yet  Allen-a-Dale  has  red  gold  for  the 
winning. 

Come,  read  me  my  riddle !  come,  hear- 
ken my  tale ! 

And  tell  me  the  craft  of  bold  Allen-a- 
Dale. 

The  Baron  of  Ravensworth  *  prances  in 
pride. 

And  he  views  his  domains  upon  Arkin- 
dale  side. 

The  mere  for  his  net,  and  the  land  for 
his  game, 

The  chase  for  the  wild,  and  the  park  for 
the  tame, 

Yet  the  fish  of  the  lake,  and  the  deer  of 
the  vale, 

Are  less  free  to  Lord  Dacre  than  Allen- 
a-Dale  ! 

Allen-a-Dale  was  ne'er  belted  a  knight. 
Though  his   spur   l)e   as   sharp,   and  his 

blade  be  as  bright; 
Allen-a-Dale  is  no  baron  or  lord, 
Yet  twenty  tall  yeomen  will  draw  at  his 

word; 

*  The  ruins  of  Ravensworth  Castle  stand  in 
the  North  Riding  of  Yorkshire,  about  three 
miles  from  the  town  of  Richmond,  and  adjoin- 
ing to  the  waste  called  the  P'orest  of  Arkin- 
garth.  It  belonged  originally  to  the  powerful 
family  of  Fitz-Hugh,  from  whom  it  passed  to 
the  Lords  Dacre  of  the  South. 


And  the  best  of  our  nobles  his  bonnet 

will  vail. 
Who  at  Rere-cross  ^  on  Stanmore  meets 

Allen-a-Dale. 

Allen-a-Dale  to  his  wooing  is  come; 
The  mother,  she  ask'd  of  his  household 

and  home : 
"  Tho'  the  castle  of  Richmond  stand  fair 

on  the  hill, 
My  hall,"   quoth    bold    Allen,   "  shows 

gallanter  still; 
'Tis  the  blue  vault  of  heaven,  with  its 

crescent  so  pale. 
And  with  all  its  bright  spangles !  "  said 

Allen-a-Dale. 

The  father  was  steel,  and  the  mother  was 
stone; 

They  lifted  the  latch,  and  they  bade  him 
begone ; 

But  loud,  on  the  morrow,  their  wail  and 
their  cry : 

He  had  laugh'd  on  the  lass  with  his 
bonny  black  eye. 

And  she  fled  to  the  forest  to  hear  a  love- 
tale. 

And  the  youth  it  was  told  by  was  Allen- 
a-Dale  ! 


"  Thou  see' St  that,  whether  sad  or  gay. 
Love  mingles  ever  in  his  lay. 
But  when  his  boyish  wayward  fit 
Is  o'er,  he  hath  address  and  wit; 

0  !   'tis  a  brain  of  fire,  can  ape 
Each  dialect,  each  various  shape." 
"Nay,  then,  to  aid  thy  project,  Guy^ 
Soft !  whocomeshere?" — "Mytrustyspy, 
Speak,   Hamlin !    hast  thou    lodged  our 

deer?  "  —  ^ 
"  I  have  — but  two  fair  stags  are  near. 

1  watch'd  her,  as  she  slowly  stray'd 
From  Egliston  up  Thorsgill  glade; 
But  Wilfrid  Wycliffe  sought  her  side, 
And  then  young  Redmond,  in  his  pride, 
Shot  down  to  meet  them  on  their  way : 
Much,  as  it  seem'd,  was  theirs  to  say 
There's  time  to  pitch  lx)th  toil  and  net, 
Before  their  path  he  homeward  set." 

A  hurried  and  a  whisper'd  speech 
Did  Bertram's  will  to  Denzil  teach; 
Who,  turning  to  the  robber  band. 
Bade  four,  the  bravest,  take  the  brand. 


228 


ROKEBY. 


Canto  IV. 


CANTO  FOURTH. 
I. 
When  Denmark's  raven  soar 'd  on  high, 
Triumphant  thro'  Northumbrian  sky, 
Till,  hovering  near,  her  fatal  croak 
Bade  Rcged's  Britons  dread  the  yoke,** 
And  the  broad  shadow  of  her  wing 
Blacken'd  each  cataract  and  spring. 
Where  Tees  in  tumult  leaves  his  source. 
Thundering    o'er    Caldron    and    High- 
Force  : 
Beneath  the  shade  the  Northmen  came, 
Fix'd  on  each  vale  a  Runic  name,"^ 
Rear'd  high  their  altar's  rugged  stone. 
And  gave  their  Gods  the  land  they  won. 
Then,  Balder,  one  bleak  garth  was  thine, 
And  one  sweet  brooklet's  silver  line. 
And  Woden's  Croft  did  title  gain 
From  the  stern  Father  of  the  Slain; 
But  to  the  Monarch  of  the  Mace, 
That  held  in  fight  the  foremost  place, 
To  Odin's  son,  and  Sifia's  spouse, 
Near  Strat  forth  high  they  paid  their  vows, 
Rememlwr'd  Thor's  victorious  fame. 
And  gave  the  dell  the  Thunderer's  name. 


Yet  Scald  or  Kemper  err'd,  I  ween. 
Who  gave  that  soft  and  quiet  scene. 
With  all  its  varied  light  and  shade. 
And  every  little  sunny  glade. 
And  the  blithe  brook  that  strolls  along 
Its  pebbled  bed  with  summer  song. 
To  the  grim  God  of  blood  and  scar. 
The  grisly  King  of  Northern  War. 
O,  better  were  its  banks  assign'd 
To  spirits  of  a  gentler  kind  ! 
For  where  the  thicket-groups  recede. 
And  the  rath  primrose  decks  the  mead, 
The  velvet  grass  seems  carpet  meet 
For  the  light  fairies'  lively  feet. 
Yon  tufte(l  knoll,  with  daisies  strown. 
Might  make  proud  Oberon  a  throne. 
While,  hidden  in  the  thicket  nigh, 
I'uck  should  brood  o'er  his  frolic  sly; 
And  where  profuse  the  wood-vetch  clings 
Round  ash  and  elm,  in  verdant  rings. 
Its  pale  and  azure-pencill'd  flower 
Should  canopy  Titania's  bower. 


Here  rise  no  cliffs  the  vale  to  shade; 
But,  skirting  every  sunny  glade. 


In  f.iir  variety  of  green 
The  woodland  lends  its  sylvan  screen. 
Hoary,  yet  haughty,  frowns  the  oak. 
Its  boughs  by  weight  of  ages  broke; 
And  towers  erect,  in  sable  spire. 
The  pine-tree  scathed  by  lightning  fire; 
The  drooping  ash  and  birch,  between, 
Hang  their  fair  tresses  o'er  the  green, 
And  all  beneath,  at  random  grow 
Each  coppice  dwarf  of  varied  show. 
Or,  round  the  stems  profusely  twined. 
Fling  summer  o<lors  on  the  wind. 
Such  varied  group  Urbino's  hand 
Round  Him  of  Tarsus  nobly  plann'd. 
What  time  he  bade  proud  Athens  own 
On  Mars's  Mount  the  God  unknown ! 
Then  gray  Philosophy  stood  nigh, 
Tho'  bent  by  age,  in  spirit  high: 
Then  rose  the  scar-seam'd  veteran's  spear. 
There  Grecian  Beauty  bent  to  hear. 
While  Childhood  at  her  foot  was  placed. 
Or  clung  delighted  to  her  waist. 


"And  rest  we  here,"  Matilda  said. 
And  sat  her  in  the  varying  shade. 
"  Chance-met,  we  well  may  steal  an  hour. 
To  friendship  due,  from  fortune's  power. 
Thou,  Wilfrid,  ever  kind,  must  lend 
Thy  counsel  to  thy  sister-friend; 
And,  Redmond,  thou,  at  my  behest, 
No  farther  urge  thy  desperate  quest. 
For  to  my  care  a  charge  is  left. 
Dangerous  to  one  of  aid  bereft; 
Well  nigh  an  orphan,  and  alone, 
Captive  her  sire,  her  house  o'erthrown." 
Wilfrid,  with  wonted  kindness  graced. 
Beside  her  on  the  turf  she  placed; 
Then  paused,  with  downcast  look  and  eye, 
Nor  bade  young  Redmond  seat  him  nigh. 
Her  conscious  diffidence  he  saw. 
Drew  backward,  as  in  modest  awe. 
And  sat  a  little  space  removed, 
Unmark'd  to  gaze  on  her  he  loved. 


Wreathed  in   its  dark-brown  rings,  her 

hair 
Half  hid  Matilda's  forehead  fair, 
Half  hid  and  half  reveal'd  to  view 
Her  full  dark  eye  of  hazel  hue. 
The  rose,  with  faint  and  feeble  streak, 
So  slightly  tinged  the  maiden's  cheek, 


Canto  IV, 


ROl^EBY. 


Mfy 


That  you  had  said  her  hue  was  pale; 
But  if  she  faced  the  summer  gale, 
Or  spoke,  or  sung,  or  quicker  moved. 
Or  heard  the  praise  of  those  she  loved, 
Or  when  of  interest  was  express'd 
Aught  that  waked  feeling  in  her  breast. 
The  mantling  blood  in  ready  play 
Rivail'd  the  blush  of  rising  day. 
There  was  a  soft  and  pensive  grace, 
A  cast  of  thought  upon  her  face, 
Tliat  suited  well  the  forehead  high, 
Ihe  eyelash  dark,  and  downcast  eye; 
1  he  mild  expression  spoke  a  mind 
III  duty  firm,  composed,  resign'd; 
■  lis  that  which  Roman  art  has  given 
I  o  mark  their  maiden  Queen  of  Heaven. 
In  hours  of  sport,  that  mood  gave  way 
To  fancy's  light  and  frolic  play; 
And  when  the  dance,  or  tale,  or  song, 
In  harmless  mirth  sped  time  along, 
Fidl  oft  her  doting  sire  would  call 
Mis  Maud  the  merriest  of  them  all. 
But  days  of  war  and  civil  crime, 
AUow'd  but  ill  such  festal  time. 
And  her  soft  pensiveness  of  brow 
Had  deepen'd  into  sadness  now. 
In  Marston  field  her  father  ta'en. 
Her    friends   dispersed,   brave    Mortham 

slain, 
While  every  ill  her  soul  foretold, 
From  Oswald's  thirst  of  power  and  gold. 
And    boding    thoughts     that    she    must 

part 
With  a  soft  vision  of  her  heart, — 
All  lower'd  around  the  lovely  maid, 
To  darken  her  dejection's  shade. 


Who  has  not  heard  —  while  Erin  yet 
Strove  'gainst  the  Saxon's  iron  bit  — 
Who  has  not  heard  how  brave  O'Neale 
In  English  blood  imbrued  his  steel, ^^ 
Against  St.  George's  cross  blazed  high 
The  banners  of  his  Tanistry, 
To  fiery  Essex  gave  the  foil. 
And  reign'd  a  prince  on  Ulster's  soil? 
But  chief  arose  his  victor  pride,    , 
When  that    brave    Marshal    fought    and 

died,39 
And  Avon-Duff  to  ocean  Ixjre 
His  billows  red  with  Saxon  gore. 
'Twas  first  in  that  disastrous  fight, 
Rokeby  and  Mortham  proved  their  might. 


There  had  they  fallen  'mongst  the  rest, 
But  pity  touch'd  a  chieftain's  breast; 
The  Tanist  he  to  great  O'Neale ;*" 
He  check'd  his  followers'  bloody  zeal. 
To  quarter  took  the  kinsmen  bold, 
And  bore  them  to  his  mountain-hold. 
Gave  them  each  sylvan  joy  to  know, 
Slieve-Donard's   cliffs  and  woods  could 

show, 
Shared  with  them  Erin's  festal  cheer, 
Show'd  them  the  chase  of  wolf  and  deer. 
And,  when  a  fitting  time  was  come. 
Safe  and  unransom'd  sent  them  home, 
Loaded  with  many  a  gift,  to  prove 
A  generous  foe's  respect  and  love. 


Years  speed  away.     On  Rokeby's  head 
Some  touch  of  early  snow  was  shed; 
Calm  he  enjoy'd,  by  Greta's  wave. 
The  peace  which  James  the  Peaceful  gave, 
While  Mortham,  far  beyond  the  main. 
Waged  his  fierce  wars  on  Indian  Spain. — 
It  chanced  upon  a  wintry  night. 
That  whiten'd  Stanm<»re's  stormy  height. 
The  chase  was  o'er,  the  stag  was  kill'd, 
In  Rokeby  hall  the  cups  were  fill'd. 
And  by  the  huge  stone  chimney  sate 
The  Knight  in  hospitable  state. 
Moonless  the  sky,  the  hour  was  late, 
When  a  loud  summons  shook  the  gate, 
And  sore  for  entrance  and  for  aid 
A  voice  of  foreign  accent  pray'd. 
The  porter  answer'd  to  the  call. 
And  instant  rush'd  into  to  the  hall 
A  Man,  whose  aspect  and  attire 
Startled  the  circle  by  the  fire. 


His  plaited  hair  in  elf-locks  spread 

Around  his  bare  and  matted  head; 

On  leg  and  thigh,  close  stretch'd  and  trim. 

His  vesture  show'd  the  sinewy  limb; 

In  saffron  dyed,  a  linen  vest 

Was  frequent  folded  round  his  breast: 

A  mantle  long  and  loose  he  wore. 

Shaggy  with  ice,  and  stain'd  with  gore. 

He  clasp'd  a  burden  to  his  heart. 

And,  resting  on  a  knotted  dart. 

The  snow  from  hair  and  beard  he  shook, 

And  round  him  gazed  with  wilder'd  look; 

Then  up  the  hall  with  staggering  pace. 

He  hasten'd  by  the  blaze  to  place. 


230 


ROKEBY. 


Canto  IV. 


Half  lifeless  from  the  bitter  air, 
His  load,  a  Boy  of  beauty  rare. 
To  Rokeby,  next,  he  louted  low, 
Then  stood  erect  his  tale  to  show, 
With  wild  majestic  port  and  tone, 
Like  envoy  of  some  barbarous  throne. *i 
"Sir  Richard,  Lord  of  Rokeby,  hear! 
Turlough  O'Neale  salutes  thee  dear; 
He  graces  thee,  and  to  thy  care 
Young    Redmond    gives,    his    grandson 

fair. 
He  bids  thee  breed  him  as  thy  son. 
For  Turlough's  days  of  joy  are  done; 
And  other  lords  have  seized  his  land. 
And  faint  and  feeble  is  his  hand; 
And  all  the  glory  of  Tyrone 
Is  like  a  morning  vapor  flown. 
To  bind  the  duty  on  thy  soul. 
He  bids  thee  think  on  Erin's  bowl ! 
If  any  wrong  the  young  O'Neale, 
He  bids  thee  think  of  Erin's  steel. 
To  Mortham  first  this  charge  was  due. 
But,  in  his  absence,  honors  you. — 
Now  is  my  master's  message  by. 
And  Ferraught  will  contented  die." 


His  look  grew  fix'd,  his  cheek  grew  pale. 
He  sunk  when  he  had  told  his  tale; 
For,  hid  l)eneath  his  mantle  wide, 
A  mortal  wound  was  in  his  side. 
Vain  was  all  aid  —  in  terror  wild. 
And  sorrow,  scream'd  the  orphan  Child. 
Poor  Ferraught  raised  his  wistful  eyes, 
Anfl  faintly  strove  to  soothe  his  cries; 
All  reckless  of  his  dying  pain. 
He  lilest  and  blest  him  o'er  again  ! 
And  kiss'd  the  little  hands  outspread. 
And  kiss'd  and  cross'd  the  infant  head. 
And,  in  liis  native  tongue  and  phrase, 
Pray'd  to  each  Saint  to  watch  his  days; 
Then  all  his  strength  together  drew. 
The  charge  to  Rokeby  to  renew. 
When  half  was  falter'd  from  his  breast. 
And  half  by  dying  signs  express'd, 
"  Bless  the  O'Neale  !  "  he  faintly  said, 
And  thus  the  faithful  spirit  fled. 


'Twas  long  ere  soothing  might  prevail 
Upon  the  Child  to  end  the  tale; 
And  then  he  said,  that  from  his  home 
His  grandsire  had  been  forced  to  roam, 


Which  had  not  been  if  Redmond's  hand 
Had  but  had  strength  to  draw  the  brand, 
The  brand  of  Lenaugh  More  the  Red, 
That  hung  beside  the  gray  wolf's  head.  — 
'Twas  from  his  broken  phrase  described. 
His  foster-father  was  his  guide, '''•^ 
Who,  in  his  charge,  from  Ulster  bore 
Letters  and  gifts  a  goodly  store : 
But  ruffians  met  them  in  the  wood, 
Ferraught  in  battle  boldly  stood. 
Till  wounded  and  o'erpower'd  at  length. 
And  stripp'd  of  all,  his  failing  strength 
Just  bore  him  here  —  and  then  the  child 
Renew'd  again  his  moaning  wild. 


The  tear  down   childhood's  cheek   that 

flows, 
Is  like  the  dewdrop  on  the  rose; 
When  next  the  summer  breeze  comes  by, 
And  waves  the  bush,  the  flower  is  dry. 
Won  by  their  care,  the  orphan  Child 
Soon  on  his  new  protector  smiled. 
With  dimpled  cheek  and  eye  so  fair. 
Thro'  his  thick  curls  of  flaxen  hair. 
But  blithest  laugh'd  that  cheek  and  eye, 
When  Rokeby 's  little  maid  was  nigh; 
'Twas  his,  with  elder  brother's  pride, 
Matilda's  tottering  steps  to  guide; 
His  native  lays  in  Irish  tongue. 
To  soothe  her  infant  ear  he  sung. 
And  primrose  twined  with  daisy  fair, 
To  form  a  chaplet  for  her  hair. 
By  lawn,  by  grove,  by  brooklet's  strand. 
The  children  still  were  hand  in  hand, 
And  good  Sir  Richard  smiling  eyed 
The  early  knot  so  kindly  tied. 


But  summer  months  bring  wilding  siioot 
From  bud  to  bloom,  from  bloom  to  fruit; 
And  years  draw  on  our  human  span. 
From  child  to  boy,  from  boy  to  man; 
And  soon  in  Rokeby's  woods  is  seen 
A  gallant  boy  in  hunter's  green. 
He  loves  to  wake  the  felon  boar, 
In  his  dark  haunt  on  Greta's  shore, 
And  loves,  against  the  deer  so  dun, 
To  draw  the  shaft,  or  lift  the  gun: 
Yet  more  he  loves,  in  autumn  prime, 
The  hazel's  spreading  boughs  to  climb. 
And  down  its  cluster'd  stores  to  hail. 
Where  young  Matilda  holds  her  veil. 


Canto  IV. 


ROKEBY. 


231 


And  she,  whose  veil  receives  the  shower, 

Is  alter'd  too,  and  knows  her  power; 

Assumes  a  nionitress'a  pride, 

Her  Redmond 's  dangerous  sports  to  chide. 

Vet  listens  still  to  hear  him  tell 

Mow  the  grim  wild  boar  fought  and  fell. 

How  at  his  fall  the  bugle  rung, 

Till  rock  and  greenwood  answer  flung; 

Then  blesses  her,  that  man  can  find 

iV  pastime  of  such  savage  kind ! 


But  Redmond  knew  to  weave  his  tale 
So  well  with  praise  of  wood  and  dale. 
And  knew  so  well  each  point  to  trace, 
Gives  living  interest  to  the  chase, 
And  knew  so  well  o'er  all  to  throw 
His  spirit's  wild  romantic  glow. 
That,  while  she  blamed,  and  while  she 

fear'd. 
She  loved  each  venturous  tale  she  heard. 
Oft,  too,  when  drifted  snow  and  rain 
To  bower  and  hall  their  steps  restrain, 
Together  they  explored  the  page 
Of  glowing  l)ard  or  gifted  sage: 
Oft,  placed  the  evening  fire  beside. 
The  minstrel  art  alternate  tried. 
While  gladsome  harp  and  lively  lay 
Bade  winter-night  flit  fast  away; 
Thus,  from  their  childhood,  blending  still 
Their  sport,  their  study,  and  their  skill, 
An  union  of  the  soul  they  prove, 
But  must  not  think  that  it  was  love. 
But  tho'  they  dared  not,  envious  Fame 
Soon  dared  to  give  that  union  name; 
And  when  so  often,  side  by  side. 
From  year  to  year  the  pair  she  eyed, 
She    sometimes    blamed    the    good    old 

Knight, 
As  dull  of  ear  and  dim  of  sight, 
Sometimes  his  purpose  would  declare. 
That  young  O'Neale  should  wed  his  heir. 

XIV. 

The  suit  of  Wilfrid  rent  disguise 
And  bandage  from  the  lovers'  eyes; 
'Twas  plain  that  Oswald,  for  his  son. 
Had  Rokeby's  favor  wellnigh  won. 
Now    must  they   meet  with   change    of 

cheer, 
With  mutual  looks  of  shame  and  fear; 
Now  must  Matilda  stray  apart, 
To  school  her  disobedient  heart : 


And  Redmond  now  alone  must  rue 
The  love  he  never  can  subdue. 
But  factions  rose,  and  Rokeby  sware 
No  rebel's  son  should  wed  his  heir; 
And  Redmond,  nurtured  while  a  child 
In  many  a  bard's  traditions  wild. 
Now  sought  the  lonely  wood  or  stream. 
To  cherish  there  a  happier  dream, 
Of  maiden  won  by  sword  or  lance. 
As  in  the  regions  of  romance; 
And  count  the  heroes  of  his  line, 
Great  Nial  of  the  Pledges  Nine,*" 
Shane-Dymas  **  wild,  and  Geraldine,'"' 
And  Connan-more,  who  vow'd  his  race 
Forever  to  the  fight  and  chase. 
And  cursed  him,  of  his  lineage  born, 
Should  sheathe   the   sword  to   reap   the 

corn. 
Or  leave  the  mountain  and  the  wold. 
To  shroud  hin>self  in  castled  hold. 
From  such  examples  hope  he  drew. 
And  brighten'd  as  the  trumpet  blew. 


If  brides  were  won  by  heart  and  blade, 
Redmond  had  both  his  cause  to  aid. 
And  all  beside  of  nurture  rare 
That  might  beseem  a  baron's  heir. 
Turlough  O'Neale,  in  Erin's  strife. 
On  Rokeby's  Lord  bestow'd  his  life. 
And  well  did  Rokeby's  generous  Knight 
Young  Redmond  for  the  deed  requite. 
Nor  was  his  liberal  care  and  cost 
Upon  the  gallant  stripling  lost; 
Seek  the  North-Riding  broad  and  wide. 
Like  Redmond  none  could  steed  bestride; 
From  Tynemouth  search  to  Cumberland, 
Like  Redmond  none  could  wield  a  brand; 
And  then,  of  humor  kind  and  free. 
And  bearing  him  to  each  degree 
With  frank  and  fearless  courtesy. 
There  never  youth  was  form'd  to  steal 
Upon  the  heart  like  brave  O'Neale. 

XVI. 
Sir  Richard  loved  him  as  his  son : 
And  when  the  days  of  peace  were  done, 
And  to  the  gales  of  war  he  gave 
The  banner  of  his  sires  to  wave, 
Redmond,  distinguish'd  by  his  care, 
He  chose  that  honor'd  flag  to  bear. 
And  named  his  page,  the  next  degree. 
In  that  old  time,  to  chivalry.**' 


232 


ROKEBY. 


Canto  IV. 


In  five  pitch'd  fields  he  well  maintain'd 
The  honor'd  place  his  worth  obtain'd, 
And  high  was  Redmond's  youthful  name 
Blazed  in  the  roll  of  martial  fame. 
Had  fortune  smiled  on  Marston  fight, 
The  eve  had  seen  him  duhb'd  a  knight; 
Twice,  mid  the  battle's  doubtful  strife. 
Of  Rokeby's  Lord  he  saved  the  life. 
But  when  he  saw  him  prisoner  made. 
He  kiss'd  and  then  resign'd  his  blade, 
And  yielded  him  an  easy  prey 
To  those  who  led  the  Knight  away; 
Resolved  Matilda's  sire  should  prove 
In  prison,  as  in  fight,  his  love. 


When  lovers  meet  in  adverse  hour, 
'Tis  like  a  sun-glimpse  through  a  shower, 
A  watery  ray,  an  instant  seen 
The  darkly  closing  clouds  between. 
As  Redmond  on  the  turf  reclined, 
The  past  and  present  fill'd  his  mind: 
"  It  was  not  thus,"  Affection  said, 
"  I  dream'd  of  my  return,  dear  maid ! 
Not  thus,  when  from  thy  trembling  hand, 
I  took  the  banner  and  the  brand. 
When  round  me,  as  the  bugles  blew, 
Their  blades  three  hundred  warriors  drew, 
And,  while  the  standard  I  unroH'd, 
Clash'd  their   bright   arms,  with   clamor 

bold. 
Where  is  that  banner  now?  —  its  pride 
Lies  'whelm'd  in  Ouse's  sullen  tide! 
Where  now  these  warriors? — in  theirgore, 
They  cumber  Marston's  dismal  moor  ! 
And  what  avails  a  useless  brand. 
Held  by  a  captive's  shackled  hand, 
That  only  would  his  life  retain, 
To  aid  thy  sire  to  bear  his  chain !  " 
Thus  Redmond  to  himself  apart; 
Nor  lighter  was  his  rival's  heart; 
For  Wilfrid,  while  his  generous  soul 
Disdain'd  to  profit  V)y  control. 
By  many  a  sign  could  mark  too  plain. 
Save  with  such  aid,  his  hopes  were  vain  — 
But  now  Matilda's  accents  stole 
On  the  dark  visions  of  their  soul, 
And  bade  their  mournful  musing  fly. 
Like  mist  before  the  zephyr's  sigh. 


"  I  need  not  to  my  friends  recall, 
How  Mortham  shunn'd  my  father's  hall; 


A  man  of  silence  and  of  woe, 
Yet  ever  anxious  to  bestow 
On  my  poor  self  whate'er  could  prove 
A  kinsman's  confidence  and  love. 
My  feeble  aid  could  sometimes  chase 
The  clouds  of  sorrow  for  a  space : 
But  oftener,  fix'd  beyond  my  power, 
I  mark'd  his  deep  despondence  lower. 
One  dismal  cause,  by  all  unguess'd, 
His  fearful  confidence  confess'd; 
And  twice  it  was  my  hap  to  see 
Examples  of  that  agony, 
Which  for  a  season  can  o'erstrain 
And  wreck  the  structure  of  the  brain. 
He  had  the  awful  power  to  know 
The  approaching  mental  overthrow, 
And  while  his  mind  had  courage  yet 
To  struggle  with  the  dreadful  fit. 
The  victim  writhed  against  its  throes, 
Like  wretch  beneath  a  murderer's  blows. 
This  malady,  I  well  could  mark, 
Sprung  from  some  direful  cause  and  dark; 
But  still  he  kept  its  source  conceal'd. 
Till  arming  for  the  civil  field; 
Then  in  my  charge  he  bade  me  hold 
A  treasure  huge  of  gems  and  gold. 
With  this  disjointed  dismal  scroll, 
That  tells  the  secret  of  his  soul. 
In  such  wild  words  as  oft  betray, 
A  mind  by  anguish  forced  astray."  — 

XIX. 

mortham's  history. 
"  Matilda !   thou  hast  seen  me  start. 
As  if  a  dagger  thrill'd  my  heart. 
When  it  has  hap'd  some  casual  phrase 
Waked  memory  of  my  former  days. 
Believe,  that  few  can  backward  cast 
Their  thoughts  with  pleasure  on  the  past; 
But  I !  — my  youth  was  rash  and  vain. 
And  blood  and  rage  my  manhood  stain, 
And  my  gray  hairs  must  now  descend 
To  my  cold  grave  without  a  friend ! 
Even  thou,  Matilda,  wilt  disown 
Thy  kinsman,  when  his  guilt  is  known. 
And  must  I  lift  the  bloody  veil. 
That  hides  my  dark  and  fatal  tale  ! 
I  must  —  I  will  —  Pale  phantom,  cease  . 
Leave  me  one  little  hour  in  peace  ! 
Thus  haunted,  think'st  thou  I  have  ski:r 
Thine  own  commission  to  fulfil? 
Or,  while  thou  point'st  with  gesture  fierv-', 
Thy  blighted  cheek,  thy  bloody  hearse, 


Canto  IV. 


ROKEBY. 


233 


How  can  I  paint  thee  as  thou  wert, 
So  fair  in  face,  so  warm  in  heart ! 


"  Yes,  she  was  fair  !  —  Matilda,  thou 
Hast  a  soft  sadness  on  thy  brow; 
But  hers  was  like  the  sunny  glow, 
That  laughs  on  earth  and  all  below ! 
We  wedded  secret  —  there  was  need  — 
Differing  in  country  and  in  creed; 
And,  when  to  Mortham's  tower  she  came. 
We  mention'd  not  her  race  and  name, 
Until  thy  sire,  who  fought  afar. 
Should  turn  him  home  from  foreign  war, 
On  whose  kind  influence  we  relied 
To  soothe  her  father's  ire  and  pride. 
Few  months  we  lived  retired,  unknown. 
To  all  l)ut  one  dear  friend  alone, 
One  darling  friend  —  I  spare  his  shame, 
I  will  not  write  the  villain's  name  ! 
My  trespasses  I  might  forget, 
And  sue  in  vengeance  for  the  debt 
Due  by  a  brother  worm  to  me. 
Ungrateful  to  God's  clemency. 
That  spared  me  penitential  time, 
Nor  cut  me  off  amid  my  crime.  — 


"  A  kindly  smile  to  all  she  lent, 
But  on  her  husljand's  friend  'twas  bent 
So  kind,  that  from  its  harmless  glee. 
The  wretch  misconstrued  villany. 
Repulsed  in  his  presumptuous  love, 
A  vengeful  snare  the  traitor  wove. 
Alone  we  sat  —the  flask  had  flow'd. 
My  blood  with  heat  unwonted  glow'd, 
When  thro'  the  alley'd  walk  we  spied 
With  hurried  steji  my  Edith  glide. 
Cowering  lienealh  the  verdant  screen, 
As  one  unwilling  to  be  seen. 
Words  cannot  paint  the  fiendish  smile. 
That  curl'd  the  traitor's  cheek  the  while  ! 
Fiercely  I  question'd  of  the  cause; 
He  made  a  cold  and  artful  pause, 
Then    pray'd    it    might    not    chafe    my 

mood  — 
'  There  was  a  gallant  in  the  wood ! ' 
We  had  been  shooting  at  the  deer; 
My  cross-bow  (evil  chance  !)  was  near: 
That  ready  weapon  of  my  wrath 
I  caught,  and,  hasting  up  the  path, 
In  the  yew  grove  my  wife  I  found, 
A  stranger's  arms  her  neck  had  bound  ! 


I  mark'd  his  heart  —  the  bow  I  drew  — 
I  loosed  the  shaft  —'twas  more  than  true  ! 
I  found  my  Edith's  dying  charms 
Lock'd  in  her  murder'd  brother's  arms ! 
He  came  in  secret  to  inquire 
Her  state,  and  reconcile  her  sire. 


"All  fled  my  rage  —  the  villain  first, 
Whose  craft  my  jealousy  had  nursed; 
He  sought  in  far  and  foreign  clime 
To  'scape  the  vengeance  of  his  crime. 
The  manner  of  the  slaughter  done 
Was  known  to  few,  my  guilt  to  none; 
Some  tale  my  faithful  steward  framed  — 
I  know  not  what  —  of  shaft  mis-nim'd; 
And  even  from  those  the  act  who  knew, 
He  hid  the  hand  from  which  it  flew. 
Untouch'd  by  human  laws  I  stood. 
But  God  had  heard  the  cry  of  blood  ! 
There  is  a  blank  upon  my  mind, 
A  fearful  vision  ill-defined, 
Of  raving  till  my  flesh  was  torn, 
Of  dungeon-bolts  and  fetters  worn  — 
And  when  I  waked  to  woe  more  mild. 
And  question'd  of  my  infant  child, 
(Have  I  not  written,  that  she  bare 
A  boy,  like  summer  morning  fair?)  — 
With  looks  confused  my  menials  tell 
That  armed  men  in  Mortham  dell 
Beset  the  nurse's  evening  way. 
And  bore  her,  with  her  charge,  away. 
My  faithless  friend,  and- none  but  he. 
Could  profit  by  this  villany; 
Him,  then,  I  sought,  with  purpose  dread 
Of  treble  vengeance  on  his  head  ! 
He  'scaped  me  —  but  my  bosom's  wound 
Some  faint  relief  from  wandering  found; 
And  over  distant  land  and  sea 
I  bore  my  load  of  misery. 

XXIII. 

"  'Twas  then  that  fate  my  footsteps  led 
Among  a  daring  crew  and  dread. 
With  whom  full  oft  my  hated  life 
I  ventured  in  such  desperate  strife. 
That  even  my  fierce  associates  saw 
My  frantic  deeds  with  doubt  and  awe. 
Much  then  I  learn'd,  and  much  can  show, 
Of  human  guilt  and  human  woe. 
Yet  ne'er  have,  in  my  wanderings,  known 
A    wretch    whose    sorrows    match'd    niy 
own !  — 


234 


ROKEBY. 


Canto  IV. 


It  chanced,  that  after  battle  fray, 
Upon  the  bloody  field  we  lay; 
The  yellow  moon  her  lustre  shed 
Upon  the  wounded  and  the  dead. 
While,  sense  in  toil  and  wassail  drown'd, 
My  ruffian  comrades  slept  around, 
There  came  a  voice  —  its  silver  tone 
Was  soft,  Matilda,  as  thine  own:  — 
*  Ah,   wretch !  '     it  said,    '  what   makest 

thou  here. 
While  unavenged  my  bloody  bier. 
While  unprotected  lives  mine  heir, 
Without  a  father's  name  and  care?  ' 


"I  heard — obey'd — and  homeward  drew. 

The  fiercest  of  our  desperate  crew 

I  brought  at  time  of  need  to  aid 

My  purposed  vengeance,  long  delay'd. 

But,  humble  be  my  thanks  to  Heaven, 

That  better  hopes  and  thoughts  has  given. 

And   by    our    Lord's    dear    prayer    has 

taught, 
Mercy  by  mercy  must  be  bought !  — 
Let  me  in  misery  rejoice  — 
I've  seen  his  face  —  I've  heard  his  voice — 
I  claim'd  of  him  my  only  child  — 
As  he  disown'd  the  theft,  he  smiled  ! 
That  very  calm  and  callous  look. 
That  fiendish  sneer  his  visage  took. 
As  when  he  said,  in  scornful  mood:  — 
'  There  is  a  gallant  in  the  wood  !  ' 
I  did  not  slay  him  as  he  stood  — 
All  praise  be  to  my  Maker  given ! 
Long  sufferance  is  one  path  to  Heaven." 


Thus  far  the  woeful  tale  was  heard, 
When  something  in  the  thicket  stirr'd. 
Up  Redmond  sprung;    the  vjjlain  Guy 
(For  he  it  was  that  lurk'd  so  nigh), 
Drew  back  —  he  durst  not  cross  his  steel 
A  moment's  space  with  brave  O'Neale 
For  all  the  treasured  gold  that  rests 
In  Mortham's  iron-banded  chests. 
Redmond  resumed  his  seat; —  he  said. 
Some  roe  was  rustling  in  the  shade. 
Bertram  laugh'd  grimly  when  he  saw 
His  timorous  comrade  backward  draw; 
"  A  trusty  mate  art  thou,  to  fear 
A  single  arm,  and  aid  so  near ! 
Yet  have  I  seen  thee  mark  a  deer. 
Give  me  thy  carabine  —  I'll  show. 


An  art  that  thou  wilt  gladly  know. 
How  thou  mayst  safely  quell  a  foe." 

XXVI. 

On  hands  and  knees  fierce  Bertram  drew 
The  spreading  birch  and  hazels  through. 
Till  he  had  Redmond  full  in  view; 
The  gun  he  levell'd.  • —  Mark  like  this 
Was  Bertram  never  known  to  miss, 
When  fair  opposed  to  aim  there  sate 
An  object  of  his  mortal  hate. 
That  day  young   Redmond's  death   had 

seen. 
But  twice  Matilda  came  between 
The  carabine  and  Redmond's  breast. 
Just  ere  the  spring  his  finger  press'd. 
A  deadly  oath  the  ruffian  swore. 
But  yet  his  fell  design  forebore. 
"  It  ne'er,"  he  mutler'd,  "  shall  be  said, 
That  thus  I  scath'd  thee,  haughty  maid  !" 
Then  moved  to  seek  more  open  aim. 
When  to  his  side  Guy  Denzil  came: 
"  Bertram,  forbear  !  —  we  are  undone 
Forever,  if  thou  fire  the  gun. 
By  all  the  fiends,  an  armed  force 
Descends  the  dell,  of  foot  and  horse  \ 
We  perish  if  they  hear  a  shot  — 
Madman !  we  have  a  safer  plot  — 
Nay,   friend,    be    ruled,    and    bear   thee 

back ! 
Behold,  down  yonder  hollow  track. 
The  warlike  leader  of  the  band 
Comes,  with  his  broadsword  in  his  hand. ' ' 
Bertram  look'd  up;  he  saw,  he  knew 
That  Denzil's  fears  had  counsel) 'd  true. 
Then  cursed  his  fortune  and  withdrew. 
Threaded  the  woodlands  undescried, 
And  gained  the  cave  on  Greta  side. 

XXVII. 

They  whom  dark  Bertram,  in  his  wrath, 
Doom'd  to  captivity  or  death. 
Their  thoughts  to  one  sad  subject  lent. 
Saw  not  nor  heard  the  ambushment. 
Heedless  and  unconcern'd  they  sate, 
While  on  the  very  verge  of  fate; 
Heedless  and  unconcern'd  remain'd. 
When   Heaven  the   murderer's   arm   re- 

strain'd; 
As  ships  drift  darkling  down  the  tide, 
Nor  see  the  shelves  o'er  which  they  glide. 
Uninterrupted  thus  they  heard 
What  Mortham's  closing  tale  declared. 


Canto  IV. 


ROKEBY. 


235 


He  spoke  of  wealth  as  of  a  load, 

I')y  Fortune  on  a  wretch  bestow'd. 

In  bitter  mockery  of  hate, 

His  cureless  woes  to  aggravate; 

Hut  yet  he  pray'd  Matilda's  care 

Might  save  that  treasure  for  his  heir  — 

His  Edith's  son  —  for  still  he  raved 

As  confident  his  life  was  saved; 

In  frequent  vision,  he  averr'd. 

He  saw  his  face,  his  voice  he  heard; 

Then  argued  calin  —  had  murder  been, 

The  blood,  the  corpses,  had  been  seen; 

Some  had  pretended,  too,  to  mark 

On  Windermere  a  stranger  bark. 

Whose  crew,  with  jealous  care,  yet  mild, 

Guarded  a  female  and  a  child. 

While    these    faint  proofs   he    told   and 

press'd, 
Hope  seem'd  to  kindle  in  his  breast; 
rho'  inconsistent,  vague,  and  vain, 
It  warp'd  his  judgment,  and  his  brain. 

XXVIII. 

These  solemn  words  his  story  close:  — 
"  Heaven  witness  for  me,  that  I  chose 
My  part  in  this  sad  civil  fight, 
Moved  by  no  cause  but  England's  right. 
My  country's  groans  have  bid  me  draw 
My  sword  for  Gospel  and  for  law;  — 
These  righted,  I  fling  arms  aside. 
And  seek  my  son  thro'  Europe  wide. 
My  wealth,  on  which  a  kinsman  nigh 
Already  casts  a  grasping  eye. 
With  thee  may  unsuspected  lie. 
When  of  my  death  Matilda  hears, 
Let  her  retain  her  trust  three  years; 
If  none,  from  me,  the  treasure  claim, 
Perish'd  is  Mortham's  race  and  name. 
Then  let  it  leave  her  generous  hand. 
And  flow  in  lx>unty  o'er  the  land; 
Soften  the  wounded  prisoner's  lot, 
Rebuild  the  peasant's  ruin'd  cot; 
So  spoils,  ac(|uired  by  fight  afar. 
Shall  mitigate  domestic  war." 

XXIX. 

The    generous    youths,    who    well    had 

known 
Of  Mortham's  mind  the  powerful  tone. 
To  that  high  mind,  by  sorrow  swerved. 
Gave  sympathy  his  woes  deserved; 
But  Wilfrid  chief,  who  saw  reveal'd 
Why  Mortham  wish'd  his  life  conceal'd. 


In  secret,  doubtless,  to  pursue 

The  schemes  his  wilder'd  fancy  drew. 

Thoughtful  he  heard  Matilda  tell, 

That  she  would  share  her  father's  cell. 

His  partner  of  captivity, 

Where'er  his  prison-house  should  be; 

Yet  grieved  to  think  that  Rokeby  hall. 

Dismantled,  and  forsook  by  all. 

Open  to  rapine  and  to  stealth. 

Had  now  no  safe-guard  for  the  wealth 

Intrusted  by  her  kinsman  kind^ 

And  for  such  noble  use  design 'd. 

"  Was  Barnard  Castle  then  her  choice," 

Wilfrid  enquired  with  hasty  voice, 

"  Since  there  the  victor's  laws  ordain, 

Her  father  must  a  space  remain?" 

A  flutter'd  hope  his  accent  shook, 

A  flutter'd  joy  was  in  his  look. 

Matilda  hasten'd  to  reply. 

For  anger  flash'd  in  Redmond's  eye;  — 

"  Duty,"  she  said,  with  gentle  grace, 

"  Kind  Wilfrid,  has  no  choice  of  place; 

Else  had  I  for  my  sire  assign'd 

Prison  less  galling  to  his  mind. 

Than   that   his   wild-wood  haunts  which 

sees 
And  hears  the  murmurs  of  the  Tees, 
Recalling  thus,  with  every  glance. 
What  captive's  sorrow  can  enhance; 
But  where  those  woes  are  highest,  there 
Needs  Rokeby  most  his  daughter's  care." 

XXX. 

He  felt  the  kindly  check  she  gave. 
And     stood     abash'd  —  then     answer'd 

grave : 
"  I  sought  thy  purpose,  noble  maid. 
Thy  doubts  to  clear,  thy  schemes  to  aid. 
I  have  beneath  mine  own  command. 
So  wills  my  sire,  a  gallant  band. 
And  well  could  send  some  horseman  wight 
To  l)ear  the  treasure  forth  by  night. 
And  so  bestow  it  as  you  deem 
In  these  ill  days  may  safest  seem."  — 
"  Thanks,  gentle  Wilfrid,  thanks,"   she 

said : 
"  O,  be  it  not  one  day  delay 'd  ! 
And,  more,  thy  sister-friend  to  aid. 
Be  thou  thyself  content  to  hold. 
In  thine  own  keeping,  Mortham's  gold. 
Safest    with    thee."  —  While    thus    she 

spoke, 
Arm'd  soldiers  on  their  converse  broke, 


236 


ROKEB  V. 


Canto  V. 


The  same  of  whose  approach  afraid, 
The  ruffians  left  their  ambuscade. 
Their  chief  to  Wilfrid  bended  low, 
Then  look'd  around  as  for  a  foe. 
"  What    niean'st   thou,    friend,"   young 

Wycliffe  said, 
"  Why  thus  in  arms  beset  the  glade  ?"  — 
"That  would  I  gladly  learn  from  you: 
For  up  my  squadron  as  I  drew, 
To  exercise  our  martial  game 
Upon  the  moor  of  Barninghame, 
A  stranger  told  you  were  waylaid. 
Surrounded,  and  to  death  bctray'd. 
He  had  a  leader's  voice,  I  ween, 
A  falcon  glance,  a  warrior's  mien. 
He  Ijade  me  bring  you  instant  aid; 
I  doubted  not,  and  I  obey'd." 

XXXI. 

Wilfrid  changed  color,  and  amazed, 
Turn'd  short,  and  on  the  speaker  gazed; 
While  Redmond  every  thicket  round 
Track'd  earnest  as  a  questing  hound, 
And  Denzil's  carabine  he  found; 
Sure  evidence,  by  which  they  knew 
The  warning  was  as  kind  as  true. 
Wisest  it  seem'd,  with  cautious  speed 
To  leave  the  dell.     It  was  agreed. 
That  Redmond,  with  Matilda  fair. 
And  fitting  guard,  should  home  repair; 
At  nightfall  Wilfrid  should  attend, 
With  a  strong  band,  his  sister-friend, 
To  bear  with  her  from  Rokcby's  bowers 
To  Barnard  Castle's  lofty  towers, 
Secret  and  safe  the.  banded  chests. 
In  which  the  wealth  of  Mortham  rests 
This  hasty  purpose  fix'd,  they  i"'art, 
Each  with  a  grieved  and  anxious  heart. 


CANTO  FIFTH. 
I. 
The  sultry  summer  day  is  done, 
The  western  hills  have  hid  the  sun, 
But  mountain  peak  and  village  spire 
Retain  reflection  of  his  fire. 
Old  Barnard's  towers  are  purple  still. 
To  those  that  gaze  from  Toller-hill; 
Distant  and  high,  the  tower  of   Bowes 
Like  steel  upon  the  anvil  glows; 
And  Stanmore's  ridge,  behind  that  lay. 
Rich  with  the  spoils  of  parting  day. 


In  crimson  and  in  gold  array 'd, 
Streaks  yet  a  while  the  closing  shade, 
Then  slow  resigns  to  darkening  heaven 
The    tints    which    brighter    hours    had 

given. 
Thus  aged  men,  full  loth  and  slow. 
The  vanities  of  life  forego, 
And  count  their  youthful  follies  o'er. 
Till  Memory  lends  her  light  no  more. 


The  eve,  that  slow  on  upland  fades, 
Has  darker  closed  on  Rokeby's  glades, 
Where,  sunk  within  their  banks  profound 
Her  guardian  streams  to  meeting  wound. 
The  stately  oaks,  whose  sombre  frown 
Of  noontide  made  a  twilight  brown, 
Impervious  now  to  fainter  light, 
Of  twilight  make  an  early  night. 
Hoarse  into  middle  air  arose 
The  vespers  of  the  roosting  crows. 
And  with  congenial  murmurs  seem 
To  wake  the  Genii  of  the  stream; 
For  louder  clamor'd  Greta's  tide, 
And  Tees  in  deeper  voice  replied. 
And  fitful  waked  the  evening  wind, 
P'itful  in  sighs  its  breath  resign'd. 
Wilfrid,  whose  fancy-nurtured  soul 
Felt  in  the  scene  a  soft  control, 
With  lighter  footstep  press'd  the  ground, 
And  often  paused  to  look  around; 
And,  tho'  his  path  was  to  his  love, 
Could  not  but  linger  in  the  grove, 
To  drink  the  thrilling  interest  dear, 
Of  awful  pleasure  check'd  by  fear. 
.Such  inconsistent  moods  have  we, 
Even  when  our  passions  strike  the  key. 


Now,  thro'  the  wood's  dark  mazes  past, 
The  opening  lawn  he  reach'd  at  last, 
Where,  silver'd  by  the  moonlight  ray. 
The  ancient  Hall  before  him  lay. 
Those  martial  terrors  long  were  fled, 
That  frown'd  of  old  around  its  head: 
The  battlements,  the  turrets  gray, 
Seem'd  half  abandon'd  to  decay;  *^ 
On  barbican  and  keep  of  stone 
Stern  Time  the  foeman'swork  had  done. 
Where  banners  the  invader  braved. 
The  harebell  now  and  wallflower  waved; 
In  the  rude  guard-room,  where  of  yore 
Their  weary  hours  the  warders  wore, 


Canto  V. 


ROKEBY. 


237 


Now,  while  the  cheerful  fagots  blaze. 
On  the  paved  floor  the  spindle  plays; 
The  flanking  guns  dismounted  lie, 
The  moat  is  ruinous  and  dry, 
The  grim  portcullis  gone  —  and  all 
The  fortress  turn'd  to  peaceful  Hall. 


But  yet  precautions,  lately  ta'en, 
Show'd  danger's  day  revived  again; 
The  court-yard  wall  show'd  marks  of  care. 
The  fall'n  defences  to  repair. 
Lending   such  strength   as  might  with- 
stand 
The  insult  of  marauding  band. 
The  l>eams  once  more  were  taught  to  bear 
The  trembling  drawbridge  into  air. 
And  not,  till  question'd  o'er  and  o'er. 
For  Wilfrid  oped  the  jealous  door, 
And  when  he  enter'd  bolt  and  bar 
Resumed  their  place  with  sullen  jar; 
Then,  as  he  cross'd  the  vaulted  porch. 
The  old  gray  porter  raised  his  torch. 
And  view'd  him  o'er,  from  foot  to  head. 
Ere  to  the  hall  his  steps  he  led. 
That  huge  old  hall,  of  knightly  state. 
Dismantled  seem'd  and  desolate. 
The  moon  thro'  transom-shafts  of  stone, 
Which  cross'd  the  latticed  oriels,  shone, 
And  by  the  mournful  light  she  gave. 
The  Gothic  vault  seem'd  funeral  cave. 
Pennon  and  banner  waved  no  more 
O'er  beams  of  stag  and  tusks  of  boar. 
Nor   glimmering  arms  were    marshall'd 

seen 
To  glance  those  sylvan  spoils  between. 
Those  arms,  those  ensigns,  borne  away, 
Accomplish'd  Rokeby's  brave  array, 
But  all  were  lost  on  Marston's  day ! 
Yet  here  and  there  the  moonbeams  fall 
Where  armor  yet  adorns  the  wall, 
Cumbrous  of  size,  uncouth  to  sight, 
And  useless  in  the  modern  fight ! 
Like  veteran  relic  of  the  wars, 
Known  only  by  neglected  scars. 


Matilda  soon  to  greet  him  came, 
And  bade  them  light  the  evening  flame; 
Said,  all  for  parting  was  prepared. 
And  tarried  but  for  Wilfrid's  guard. 
But  then,  reluctant  to  unfold 
His  father's  avarice  of  gold, 


He  hinted,  that  lest  jealous  eye 
.Should  on  their  precious  burden  pry, 
He  judged  it  best  the  castle  gate 
To  enter  when  the  night  wore  late; 
And  therefore  he  had  left  command 
With  those  he  trusted  of  his  band. 
That  they  should  be  at  Rokeby  met. 
What  time  the  midnight-watch  was  set. 
Now    Redmond    came,    whose    anxious 

care 
Till  then  was  busied  to  prepare 
All  needful,  meetly  to  arrange 
The  mansion  for  its  mournful  change. 
With  Wilfrid's  care  and  kindness  pleased. 
His  cold  unready  hand  he  seized, 
And  press'd  it,  till  his  kindly  strain 
The  gentle  youth  return'd  again. 
Seem'd  as  between  them  this  was  said, 
"  A  while  let  jealously  be  dead; 
And  let  our  contest  be,  whose  care 
Shall  best  assist  this  helpless  fair." 


There  was  no  speech  the  truce  to  bind, 

It  was  a  compact  of  the  mind,  — 

A  generous  thought,  at  once  impress'd 

On  either  rival's  generous  breast. 

Matilda  well  the  secret  took. 

From  sudden  change  of  mien  and  look; 

And  —  for  not  small  had  been  her  fear 

Of  jealous  ire  and  danger  near  — 

Felt,  even  in  her  dejected  state, 

A  joy  beyond  the  reach  of  fate. 

They  closed  beside  the  chimney's  blaze. 

And     talk'd     and     hoped    for    happier 

days. 
And  lent  their  spirits'  rising  glow 
A  while  to  gild  impending  woe;  — 
High  privilege  of  youthful  time, 
Worth  all  the  pleasures  of  our  prime ! 
The  bickering  fagot  sparkled  bright, 
And  gave  the  scene  of  love  to  sight. 
Bade  Wilfrid's  cheek  more  lively  glow, 
Play'd  on  Matilda's  neck  of  snow. 
Her  nut-brown  curls  and  forehead  high, 
And  laugh'd  in  Redmond's  azure  eye. 
Two  lovers  by  the  maiden  sate, 
Without  a  glance  of  jealous  hate; 
The  maid  her  lovers  sat  between. 
With  open  brow  and  equal  mien;  — 
It  is  a  sight  but  rarely  spied. 
Thanks    to    man's    wrath    and  woman's 

pride. 


238 


ROKEBY. 


Canto  V. 


While  thus  in  peaceful  guise  they  sate, 
A.  knock  alarm'd  the  outer  gate, 
And  ere  the  tardy  porter  stirr'd, 
The  tinkling  of  a  harp  was  hoard. 
A  manly  voice  of  mellow  swell, 
Bore  burden  to  the  music  well. 

SONG. 

"  Summer  eve  is  gone  and  past. 
Summer  dew  is  falling  fast;  — 
I  have  wander'd  all  the  day, 
Do  not  bill  me  farther  stray ! 
Gentle  hearts,  of  gentle  kin. 
Take  the  wandering  harper  in  !  " 

But  the  stern  porter  answer  gave. 

With    "  Get    thee   hence,  thou  strolling 

knave ; 
The  king  wants  soldiers;  war,  I  trow. 
Were  meeter  trade  for  such  as  thou." 
At  this  unkind  reproof,  again 
Answer'd  the  ready  Minstrel's  strain. 

SONG    RESUMED. 

"  Bid  not  me,  in  battle-field, 
Buckler  lift,  or  broadsword  wield ! 
All  my  strength  and  all  my  art 
Is  to  touch  the  gentle  heart. 
With  the  wizard  notes  that  ring 
From  the  peaceful  minstrel-string." 

The  porter,  all  unmoved,  replied:  — 
"  Depart  in  peace,  with  Heaven  to  guide; 
If  longer  by  the  gate  thou  dwell, 
Trust  me,  thou  shalt  not  part  so  well." 


With  somewhat  of  appealing  look, 
The  harper's  part  young  Wilfrid  took: 
"  These  notess  so  wild  and  ready  thrill. 
They  show  no  vulgar  minstrel's  skill; 
Hard  were  his  t.ask  to  seek  a  home 
More  distant,  since  the  night  is  come. 
And  for  his  faith  I  dare  engage  — 
Your  Harpool's  blood  is  sour'd  by  age. 
His  gate,  once  readily  display'd. 
To  greet  the  friend,  the  poor  to  aid, 
Now    even    to    me,    though    known    of 

old. 
Did  but  reluctantly  unfold." — 
"  O  blame  not,  as  poor  Harpool's  crime 
An  evil  of  this  evil  time. 


He  deems  dependent  on  his  care 

The  safety  of  his  patron's  heir, 

Nor  judges  meet  to  ope  the  tower 

To  guest  unknown  at  parting  hour. 

Urging  his  duty  to  excess 

Of  rough  and  stubborn  faithfulness. 

For  this  poor  harper,  I  would  fain 

He  may  relax :  —  Hark  to  his  strain  !  "  — 

IX. 

SONG    RESUMED. 

*'  I  have  song  of  war  for  knight. 
Lay  of  love  for  lady  bright, 
Fairy  tale  to  lull  the  heir, 
Goblin  grim  the  maids  to  scare. 
Dark  the  night,  and  long  till  day. 
Do  not  bid  me  farther  stray ! 

"  Rokeby's  lords  of  martial  fame, 
I  can  count  them  name  Ijy  name; 
Legends  of  their  line  there  be. 
Known  to  few,  but  known  to  me; 
If  you  honor  Rokeby's  kin. 
Take  the  wandering  harper  in  ! 

"  Rokeby's  lords  had  fair  regard 
For  the  harp,  and  for  the  bard : 
Baron's  race  throve  never  well. 
Where  the  curse  of  minstrel  fell. 
If  you  love  that  noble  kin, 
Take  the  weary  harper  in  !  "  — 

"  Hark  !     Harpool    parleys  —  there    is 

hope," 
Said    Redmond,    "that    the    gate    will 

ope."  — 
— "  For    all    thy    brag    and    boast,     I 

trow, 
Naught    know'st    thou    of     the    Felon 

Sow,"''^ 
Quoth  Harpool,  "  nor  how  Greta-side 
She  roam'd,  and  Rokeby  forest  wide: 
Nor  how  Ralph  Rokeby  gave  the  beast 
To  Richmond's  friars  to  make  a  feast. 
Of  Gillx-rt  Griffinson  the  tale 
Goes,  and  of  gallant  Peter  Dale, 
That  well  could  strike  with  sword  amain, 
And  of  the  valiant  son  of  Spain, 
Friar  Middleton,  and  blithe  Sir  Ralph: 
There  was  a  jest  to  make  us  laugh ! 
If  thou  canst  tell  it,  in  yon  shed 
Thou'st  won  thy  supper  and  thy  bed." 


Canto  V. 


ROKEBY. 


239 


Matilda  smiled;  "Cold  hope,"  said  she, 
"  From  Harpool's  love  of  minstrelsy! 
But,  for  this  harper,  may  we  dare, 
Redmond,  to  mend  his  couch  and  fare  ?  " — 
"  O,  ask  me  not !  — At  minstrel-string 
My  heart  from  infancy  would  spring; 
Nor  can  I  hear  its  simplest  strain, 
But  it  brings  Erin's  dream  again. 
When  placed  hy  Owen  Lysagh's  knee, 
(The  Filea  of  O'Neale  was  he,''" 
A  blind  and  bearded  man,  whose  eld 
Was  sacred  as  a  prophet's  held,) 
I've  seen  a  ring  of  rugged  kerne. 
With  aspects  shaggy,  wild,  and  stern. 
Enchanted  by  the  master's  lay. 
Linger  around  the  livelong  day. 
Shift  from  wild  rage  to  wilder  glee, 
To  love,  to  grief,  to  ecstasy, 
And  feel  each  varied  change  of  soul 
Obedient  to  the  bard's  control. — • 
Ah,  Clandeboy  !  thy  friendly  floor 
Slieve-Donard's  oak  shall  light  no  more ; ^ 
Nor  Owen's  harp,  beside  the  blaze. 
Tell  maiden's  love,  or  hero's  praise ! 
The  mantling  brambles  hide  thy  hearth, 
Centre  of  hospitable  mirth; 
All  undistinguish'd  in  the  glade. 
My  sires'  glad  home  is  prostrate  laid. 
Their  vassals  wander  wide  and  far. 
Serve  foreign  lords  in  distant  war. 
And  now  the  stranger's  sons  enjoy 
The  lovely  woods  of  Clandeboy  !  " 
He  spoke,  and  proudly  turn'd  aside, 
The  starting  tear  to  dry  and  hide. 


Matilda's  dark  and  soften'd  eye 
Was  glistening  ere  O'Neale's  was  dry. 
Her  hand  upon  his  arm  she  laid, — 
"  It  is  the  will  of  Heaven,"  she  said. 
"  And  think'st  thou,  Redmond,  I  can  part 
From   this   loved   home  with   lightsome 

heart, 
Leaving  to  wild  neglect  whate'er 
Even  from  my  infancy  was  dear  ? 
For  in  this  calm  domestic  bound 
Were  all  Matilda's  pleasures  found. 
That  hearth,  my  sire  was  wont  to  grace. 
Full  soon  may  be  a  stranger's  place; 
This  hall,  in  which  a  child  I  play'd. 
Like  thine,  dear  Redmond,  lowly  laid, 
The  bramble  and  the  thorn  may  braid; 


Or,  passed  for  aye  from  me  and  mine. 

It  ne'er  may  shelter  Rokeby's  line. 

Yet  is  this  consolation  given, 

My  Redmond  —  'tis  the  will  of  Heaven." 

Her  word,  her  action,  and  her  phrase. 

Were  kindly  as  in  early  days; 

For  cold  reserve  had  lost  its  power. 

In  sorrow's  sympathetic  hour. 

Young  Rcdmond.dared  not  trust  his  voice, 

But  rather  had  it  been  his  choice 

To  share  that  melancholy  hour^ 

Than,  arm'd  with  all  a  chieftain's  power, 

In  full  possession  to  enjoy 

Slieve-Donard  wide,  and  Clandeboy. 


The  blood  left  Wilfrid's  ashen  cheek; 
Matilda  sees,  and  hastes  to  speak :  — 
"  Happy  in  friendship's  ready  aid, 
Let  all  my  murmurs  here  be  staid  ! 
And  Rokeby's  Maiden  will  not  part 
From  Rokeby's  hall  with  moody  heart. 
This  night  at  least,  for  Rokeby's  fame. 
The  hospitable  hearth  shall  flame. 
And,  ere  its  native  heir  retire. 
Find  for  the  wanderer  rest  and  fire, 
While  this  poor  harper,  by  the  blaze, 
Recounts  the  tale  of  other  days. 
Bid  Harpool  ope  the  door  with  speed. 
Admit  him,  and  relieve  each  need.  — 
Meantime,  kind  Wycliffe,  wilt  thou  try 
Thy  minstrel  skill?  —  Nay,  no  reply  — 
And  look  not  sad  !  —  I  guess  thy  thought. 
Thy  verse  with  laurels  would  be  bought; 
And  poor  Matilda,  landless  now. 
Has  not  a  garland  for  thy  brow. 
True,  I  must  leave  sweet  Rokeby's  glades, 
Nor  wander  more  in  Greta's  shades: 
But  sure,  no  rigid  jailer,  thou 
Wilt  a  short  prison-walk  allow. 
Where  summer  flowers  grow  wild  at  will. 
On  Marwood-chase  and  Toller  Hill;^^ 
Then  holly  green  and  lily  gay 
Shall  twine  in  guerdon  of  thy  lay." 
The  mournful  youth,  a  space  aside, 
To  tune  Matilda's  harp  applied; 
And  then  a  low  sad  descant  rung, 
As  prelude  to  the  lay  he  sung: — 

XIII. 
THE   CYPRESS    WREATH. 

O,  Lady  twine  no  wreath  for  me. 
Or  twine  it  of  the  cypress-tree  ! 


24© 


ROKEB  Y. 


Canto  V. 


Too  lively  glow  the  lilies  light, 
The  varnishd  holly's  all  too  bright, 
The  May-flower  and  the  eglantine 
May  shade  a  brow  less  sad  than  mine; 
But,  Lady,  weave  no  wreath  for  me, 
Or  weave  it  of  the  cypress-tree ! 

Let  dimpled  Mirth  his  temples  twine 
With  tendrils  of  the  laughing  vine; 
The  manly  oak,  the  pensive  yew, 
To  patriot  and  to  sage  be  due; 
The  myrtle  bough  bids  lovers  live, 
But  that  Matilda  will  not  give; 
Then,  Lady,  twine  no  wreath  for  me. 
Or  twine  it  of  the  cypress-tree  ! 

Let  merry  England  proudly  rear 

Her  blended  roses,  bought  so  dear; 

Let  Albin  bind  her  bonnet  blue 

With  heath  and  harebell  dipp'd  in  dew; 

On  favor'd  Erin's  crest  be  seen 

The  flower  she  loves  of  emerald  green  — 

But,  Lady,  twine  no  wreath  for  me. 

Or  twine  it  of  the  cypress-tree. 

Strike  the  wild  harp,  while  maids  prepare 
The  ivy  meet  for  minstrel's  hair; 
And,  while  his  crown  of  laurel- leaves. 
With  bloody  hand  the  victor  weaves, 
Let  the  loud  trump  his  triumph  tell; 
But,  when  you  hear  the  passing-bell. 
Then,  Lady,  twine  a  wreath  for  me. 
And  twine  it  of  the  cypress-tree. 

Yes !  twine  for  me  the  cypress  bough; 
But,  O  Matilda,  twine  not  now  ! 
Stay  till  a  few  Virief  months  are  past, 
And  I  have  look'd  and  loved  my  last ! 
When  villagers  my  shroud  Ijestrew 
With  pansies,  rosemary,  and  rue,  — 
Then,  Lady,  weave  a  wreath  for  me, 
And  weave  it  of  the  cypress-tree. 


O'Neale  observed  the  starting  tear. 
And    spoke    with    kind    and    blithesome 

cheer : — 
"  No,  noble  Wilfrid  !  ere  the  day 
When  mourns  the  land  thy  silent  lay. 
Shall  many  a  wreath  Ije  freely  wove 
By  hand  of  friendship  and  of  love. 
I  would  not  wish  that  rigid  Fate 
Had  doom'd  thee  to  a  captive's  state. 


Whose  hands  are  bound  by  honor's  law. 
Who  wears  a  sword  he  must  not  draw; 
But  were  it  so,  in  Minstrel  pride 
The  land  together  would  we  ride. 
On  prancing  steeds,  like  harpers  old. 
Bound  for  the  halls  of  barons  Ixild, 
Each  lover  of  the  lyre  we'd  seek. 
From  Michael's  Mount  toSkiddaw'sPeak, 
Survey  wild  Albin's  mountain  strand, 
And  roam  green  Erin's  lovely  land. 
While  thou  the  gentler  souls  should  move 
With  lay  of  pity  and  of  love, 
And  L  thy  mate,  in  rougher  strain. 
Would  sing  of  war  and  warriors  slain. 
Old    England's    bards   were    vanquish'd 

then, 
And  Scotland's  vaunted  Hawthornden, 
And,  silenced  on  lernian  shore, 
M'Curtin's  harp  should  charm  no  more  !"^'^ 
In  lively  mood  he  spoke,  to  wile 
From  Wilfrid's  woe-worn  cheek  a  smile. 


"  But,"  said  Matilda,  "  ere  thy  name, 

Good  Redmond,  gain  its  destined  fame, 

Say,  wilt  thou  kindly  deign  to  call 

Thy  brother-minstrel  to  the  hall? 

Bid  all  the  household,  too,  attend. 

Each  in  his  rank  a  humble  friend; 

I  knovv  their  faithful  hearts  will  grieve. 

When  their  poor  Mistress  takes  her  leave, 

So  let  the  horn  and  beaker  flow 

To  mitigate  their  parting  woe." 

The  harper  came;  —  in  youth's  first  prime 

Himself;  in  mode  of  olden  time 

His  garb  was  fashion'd,  to  express 

The  ancient  English  minstrel's  dress, 

A  seemly  gown  of  Kendal  green. 

With  gorget  closed  of  silver  sheen; 

His  harp  in  silken  scarf  was  slung. 

And  by  his  side  an  anlace  hung. 

It  seem'd  some  masquer's  quaint  array, 

For  revel  or  for  holiday. 


He  made  obeisance  with  a  free 
Vet  studied  air  of  courtesy. 
Each  look  and  accent,  framed  to  please, 
Seem'd  to  affect  a  playful  ease; 
His  face  was  of  that  doubtful  kind. 
That  wins  the  eye,  but  not  the  mind; 
Yet  harsh  it  seem'd  to  deem  amiss 
Of  brow  so  young  and  smooth  as  this. 


Canto  V. 


ROJCEBY. 


241 


His  was  the  subtle  look  and  sly, 
rhat,  spying  all,  seemed  naught  to  spy; 
Round  all  the  group  his  glances  stole, 
Unmark'd  themselves,  to  mark  the  whole. 
Yet  sunk  beneath  Matilda's  look. 
Nor  could  the  eye  of  Redmond  brook. 
To  the  suspicious,  or  the  old. 
Subtile  and  dangerous  and  bold 
Had  seem'd  this  self-invited  guest; 
But  young  our  lovers,  —  and  the  rest. 
Wrapt  in  their  sorrow  and  their  fear 
At  parting  of  their  Mistress  dear, 
Tear-blinded  to  the  Castle-hall 
Came  as  to  bear  her  funeral  pall. 


All  that  expression  base  was  gone. 
When  waked  the  guest  his  minstrel  tone; 
It  fled  at  inspiration's  call. 
As  erst  the  demon  fled  from  Saul. 
More  noble  glance  he  cast  around, 
More    free-drawn    breath    inspired    the 

sound. 
His  pulse  beat  bolder  and  more  high. 
In  all  the  pride  of  minstrelsy ! 
Alas !  too  soon  that  pride  was  o'er, 
.Sunk  with  the  lay  that  bade  it  soar ! 
His  soul  resumed,  with  habit's  chain. 
Its  vices  wild  and  follies  vain. 
And  gave  the  talent,  with  him  born. 
To  be  a  common  curse  and  scorn. 
Such  was  the  youth  whom  Rokeby's  Maid, 
With  condescending  kindness,  pray'd 
Here  to  renew  the  strains  she  loved. 
At  distance  heard  and  well  approved. 

XVIII. 

SONG. 
The  Harp. 
[  was  a  wild  and  wayward  boy, 
My  childhood  scorn'd  each  childish  toy. 
Retired  from  all,  reserved  and  coy, 

To  musing  prone, 
I  woo'd  my  solitary  joy. 
My  Harp  alone. 

My  youth,  with  bold  Ambition's  mood. 
Despised  the  humble  stream  and  wood. 
Where  my  poor  father's  cottage  stood. 

To  fame  unknown;  — 
What   should    my   soaring  views   make 
good? 

My  Harp  alone ! 


Love  came  with  all  his  frantic  fire, 
And  wild  romance  of  vain  desire : 
The  baron's  daughter  heard  my  lyre. 

And  praised  the  tone;  — 
What  could  presumptuous  hope  inspire? 

My  Harp  alone ! 

At  manhood's  touch  the  bubble  burst. 
And  manhood's  pride  the  vision  curst. 
And  all  that  had  my  folly  nursed 

Love's  sway  to  own; 
Yet  spared  the  spell  that  luH'd  me  first. 

My  Harp  alone ! 

Woe  came  witli  war,  and  want  with  woe; 
J  And  it  was  mine  to  undergo 
Each  outrage  of  the  rebel  foe :  — 

Can  aught  atone 
My  fields  laid  waste,  my  cot  laid  low? 

My  Harp  alone ! 

Ambition's  dreams  I've  seen  depart. 
Have  rued  of  penury  the  smart. 
Have  felt  of  love  the  venom 'd  dart. 

When  hope  was  flown; 
Yet  rests  one  solace  to  my  heart,  — 

My  Harp  alone ! 

Then  over  moimtain,  moor,  and  hill, 
My  faithful  Harp,  I'll  bear  thee  still; 
And  when  this  life  of  want  and  ill 

Is  wellnigh  gone. 
Thy  strings  mine  elegy  shall  thrill, 

My  Harp  alone ! 


"  A  pleasing  lay  !  "  Matilda  said; 
But  Harpool  shook  his  old  gray  head. 
And  took  his  baton  and  his  torch, 
To  seek  his  guard-room  in  the  porch. 
Edmund  observed,  with  sudden  change, 
Among  the  strings  his  fingers  range. 
Until  they  waked  a  bolder  glee 
Of  military  melody; 
Then  paused  amid  the  martial  sound. 
And      look'd     with     well-feign'd     fear 

around; — 
"  None  to  this  noble  house  belong," 
He  said,  "  that  would  a  Minstrel  wrong, 
Whose  fate  has  been,  through  good  and  ill. 
To  love  his  Royal  Master  still; 
And  with  your  honor'd  leave,  would  fain 
Rejoice  you  with  a  loyal  strain." 


242 


ROKEBY. 


Canto  V. 


Then,  as  assured  by  sign  and  look, 

The  warlike  tone  again  he  took; 

And    Harpool    stopp'd,    and    turn'd    to 

hear 
A  ditty  of  the  Cavalier. 

XX. 

SONG. 

The  Cavalier. 
While  the  dawn   on   the    mountain  was 

misty  and  gray, 
My  true  love  has  mounted  his  steed  and 

away 
Over  hill,  over  valley,  o'er  dale,  and  o'er 

down: 
Heaven  shield    the    brave    Gallant    that 

fights  for  the  Crown  ! 

lie  has  doff'd  the  silk  doublet  the  breast- 
plate to  bear, 

He  has  placed  the  steel-cap  o'er  his  long 
flowing  hair. 

From  his  belt  to  his  stirrup  his  broad- 
sword hangs  down,  — 

Heaven  shield  the  brave  Gallant  that 
fights  for  the  Crown ! 

For  the  rights  of  fair  England  that  broad- 
sword he  draws. 

Her  King  is  his  leader,  her  Church  is  his 
cause ; 

His  watchword  is  honor,  his  pay  is  re- 
nown, — 

God  strike  with  the  Gallant  that  strikes 
for  the  Crown  ! 

They  may  boast  of  their  Fairfax,  their 
Waller,  and  all 

The  round-headed  rebels  of  Westminster 
Hall; 

But  tell  these  bold  traitors  of  London's 
proud  town. 

That  the  spears  of  the  North  have  en- 
circled the  Crown. 

There's  Derby  and  Cavendish,  dread  of 
their  foes; 

There's  Erin's  High  Ormond,  and  Scot- 
land's Montrose ! 

Would  you  match  the  base  Skippon,  and 
Massey,  and  Brown, 

With  the  Barons  of  England,  that  fight 
for  the  Crown? 


Now  joy  to  the  crest  of  the  brave  Cav- 
alier ! 

Be  his  banner  unconquer'd,  resistless  his 
spear. 

Till  in  peace  and  in  triumph  his  toils  he 
may  drown. 

In  a  pledge  to  fair  England,  her  Church, 
and  her  Crown. 


"  Alas  !  "  Matilda  said,  "  that  strain. 
Good  harper,  now  is  heard  in  vain  ! 
The  time  has  been,  at  such  a  sound. 
When  Rokeby's  vassals  gather'd  round, 
A  hundred  manly  hearts  would  bound; 
But  now  the  stirring  verse  we  hear, 
Like  trump  in  dying  soldier's  ear ! 
Listless  and  sad  the  notes  we  own. 
The  power  to  answer  them  is  flown. 
Yet  not  without  his  meet  applause, 
Be  he  that  sings  the  rightful  cause. 
Even  when  the  crisis  of  its  fate 
To  human  eye  seems  desperate. 
While  Rokeby's  Heir  such  power  retains. 
Let  this  slight  guerdon  pay  thy  pains:  — 
And,  lend  thy  harp;    I  fain  would  try. 
If  my  poor  skill  can  aught  supply. 
Ere  yet  I  leave  my  father's  hall. 
To  mourn  the  cause  in  which  we  fall." 


The  harper,  with  a  downcast  look. 
And  trembling  hand,  her  bounty  took,  - 
As  yet,  the  conscious  pride  of  art 
Had  steel 'd  him  in  his  treacherous  part; 
A  powerful  spring  of  force  unguess'd. 
That  hath  each  gentler  mood  suppress 'd 
And  reign'd  in  many  a  human  breast; 
From  his  that  plans  the  red  campaign, 
To  his  that  wastes  the  woodland  reign. 
The  failing  wing,  the  blood-shot  eye,  — 
The  sportsman  marks  with  apathy, 
Each  feeling  of  his  victim's  ill 
Drown'd  in  his  own  successful  skill. 
The  veteran,  too,  who  now  no  more 
Aspires  to  head  the  battle's  roar. 
Loves  still  the  triumph  of  his  art. 
And  traces  on  the  pencill'd  chart. 
Some  stern  invader's  destined  way. 
Through  blood  and  ruin,  to  his  prey; 
Patriots  to  death,  and  towns  to  flame. 
He  dooms  to  raise  another's  name, 
And  shares  the  guilt,  though  not  the  fame. 


Canio  V. 


MOKEB  Y. 


243 


What  pays  him  for  his  span  of  time 
Spent  in  premeditating  crime? 
What  against  pity  arms  his  heart?  — 
It  is  the  conscious  pride  of  art. 


But  principles  in  Edmund's  mind 
Were  l)a,seless,  vague,  and  undefined, 
His  soul,  like  bark  with  rudder  lost, 
On  Passion's  changeful  tide  was  tost, 
Nor  Vice  nor  Virtue  had  the  power 
Beyond  the  impression  of  the  hour; 
And,    O !    when    Passion    rules,    how 

rare 
The  hours  that  fall  to  Virtue's  share ! 
Yet  now  she  roused  her  —  for  the  pride 
That  lack  of  sterner  guilt  supplied, 
Could  scarce  support  him  when  arose 
The  lay  that  mourned  Matilda's  woes. 

SONG. 
T/ie  Farewell. 
The  sound  of  Rokeliy's  woods  I  hear, 

They  mingle  with  the  song : 
Dark  Greta's  voice  is  in  mine  ear, 

I  must  not  hear  them  long. 
From  every  loved  and  native  haunt 

The  native  Heir  must  stray. 
And,  like  a  ghost  whom  sunbeams    aunt. 

Must  part  before  the  day. 

Soon  from  the  halls  my  fathers  rear'd 

Their  scutcheons  may  descend. 
A  line  so  long  beloved  and  fear'd 

May  soon  ol)scurely  end. 
No  longer  here  Matilda's  tone 

Shall  bid  those  echoes  swell; 
Yet  shall  they  hear  her  proudly  own 

The  cause  in  which  we  fell. 

The  Lady  paused,  and  then  again 
Resumed  the  lay  in  loftier  strain. 

XXIV. 
Let  our  halls  and  towers  decay. 

Be  our  name  and  line  forgot, 
Lands  and  manors  pass  away,  — 

We  but  share  our  Monarch's  lot. 
If  no  more  our  annals  show 

Battles  won  and  banners  taken. 
Still  in  death,  defeat,  and  woe. 

Ours  be  loyalty  unshaken ! 


Constant  still  in  danger's  hour, 

Princes  own'd  our  fathers'  aid; 
Lands  and  honors,  wealth  and  power, 

Well  their  loyalty  repaid. 
Perish  wealth  and  power  and  pride ! 

Mortal  boons  by  mortals  given; 
But  let  constancy  abide,  — 

Constancy's  the  gift  of  Heaven. 


While  thus  Matilda's  lay  was  heard, 

A  thousand  thoughts  in  Edmund  stirr'd. 

In  peasant  life  he  might  have  known 

As  fair  a  face,  as  sweet  a  tone; 

But  village  notes  could  ne'er  supply 

That  rich  and  varied  melody; 

And  ne'er  in  cottage-maid  was  seen 

The  easy  dignity  of  mien, 

Claiming  respect,  yet  waiving  state, 

That  marks  the  daughters  of  the  great. 

Yet  not,  perchance,  had  these  alone 

His  scheme  of  purposed  guilt  o'erthrown; 

But  while  her  energy  of  mind 

Superior  rose  to  griefs  combined. 

Lending  its  kindling  to  her  eye. 

Giving  her  form  new  majesty,  — 

To  Edmund's  thought  Matilda  seem'd 

The  very  object  he  had  dream 'd; 

When,  long  ere  guilt  his  soul  had  known. 

In  Winston  bowers  he  mused  alone, 

Taxing  his  fancy  to  combine 

'ITie  face,  the  air,  the  voice  divine, 

Of  princess  fair,  by  cruel  fate 

Reft  of  her  honors,  power,  and  state, 

Till  to  her  rightful  realm  restored 

By  destined  hero's  conquering  sword. 


XXVI. 

my     vision ! 


Edmund 


"  Such     was 
thought, 

"  And  have  I,  then,  the  ruin  wrought 
Of  such  a  maid,  that  fancy  ne'er 
In  fairest  vision  form'd  her  peer? 
Was  it  my  hand  that  could  unclose 
The  postern  to  her  ruthless  foes? 
Foes,  lost  to  honor,  law,  and  faith. 
Their  kindest  mercy  sudden  death  ! 
Have  I  done  this?  I !  who  have  swore, 
That  if  the  globe  such  angel  bore, 
I  would  have  traced  its  circle  broad. 
To  kiss  the  ground  on  which  she  trode  !  — 
And  now — O  !  would  that  earth  would  rive 
And  close  upon  me  while  alive  !  — 


244 


ROKEBY. 


Canto  V. 


Is  there  no  hope?     Is  all  then  lost?  — 

Bertram's  already  on  his  post ! 

Even    now,    beside    the    Hall's    arch'd 

door, 
I  saw  his  shadow  cross  the  floor ! 
He  was  to  wait  my  signal  strain  — 
A  little  respite  thus  we  gain : 
By  what  I  heard  the  menials  say, 
Young    Wyclifte's    troop    are    on    their 

way.  — 
Alarm  precipitates  the  crime  ! 
My  harp  must  wear  away  the  time."  — 
And  then,  in  accents  faint  and  low, 
He  falter'd  forth  a  tale  of  woe. 

XXVII. 
BALLAD. 

"And    whither    would    you    lead     me 
then?" 

Quoth  the  P"riar  of  orders  gray; 
And  the  Kufifians  twain  replied  again, 

"By  a  dying  woman  to  pray." 

"  I  see,"  he  said,  "  a  lovely  sight, 

A  sight  lx)des  little  harm, 
A  lady  as  a  lily  bright. 

With  an  infant  on  her  arm." 

"  Then  do  thine  office,  Friar  gray, 
And  see  thou  shrive  her  free? 

Else  shall  the  sprite,  that  parts  to-night. 
Fling  all  its  guilt  on  thee. 

"  Let  mass  be  said,  and  trentals  read, 
When  thou'rt  to  convent  gone. 

And  bid  the  bell  of  St.  Benedict 
Toll  out  its  deepest  tone." 

rhe  shrift  is  done,  the  Friar  has  gone. 

Blindfolded  as  he  came  — 
M^ext  morning,  all  in  Littlecot  Hall  ^ 

Were  weeping  for  their  dame. 

Wild  Darrel  is  an  alter'd  man, 

The  village  crones  can  tell; 
He  looks  pale    as    clay,    and    strives  to 
pray. 

If  he  hears  the  convent  bell. 

[f  prince  or  peer  cross  Darrel's  way. 
He'll  beard  him  in  his  pride  — 

[f  he  meet  a  Friar  of  orders  gray, 
He  droops  and  turns  aside.  j 


XXVIII. 
"  Harper!  methinks  thy  magic  lays," 
Matilda  said,  "  can  goblins  raise  ! 
Well  nigh  my  fancy  can  discern. 
Near  the  dark  porch,  a  visage  stern; 
E'en  now,  in  yonder  shadowy  nook, 
I  see  it !  — Redmond,  Wilfrid,  look  !  — 
A  human  form  distinct  and  clear  — 
God  for  thy  mercy  !  —  It  draws  near  !  ' ' 
She  saw  too  true.     Stride  after  stride. 
The  centre  of  that  chamber  wide 
Fierce    Bertram    gain'd;     then    made    a 

stand. 
And,  proudly  waving  his  hand, 
Thunder'd: —  "  Be  still,  upon  your  lives  ! 
He    bleeds    who    speaks,    he    dies    who 

strives." 
Behind  their  chief,  the  robber  crew 
Forth  from  the  darken'd  portal  drew 
In  silence  —  save  that  echo  dread 
Return'd  their  heavy  measured  tread. 
The  lamp's  uncertain  lustre  gave 
Their    arms   to    gleam,    their    plumes  to 

wave; 
File  after  file  in  order  pass. 
Like  forms  on  Banquo's  mj'stic  glass. 
Then,  halting  at  their  leader's  sign, 
At  once  they  form'd  and  curved  their  line, 
Hemming  within  its  crescent  drear 
Their  victims  like  a  herd  of  deer. 
Another  sign,  and  to  the  aim 
Levell'd  at  once  their  muskets  came. 
As  waiting  but  their  chieftain's  word, 
To  make  their  fatal  volley  heard. 


Back  in  a  heap  the  menials  drew; 
Yet,  even  in  mortal  terror,  true, 
Their  pale  and  startled  group  oppose 
Between  Matilda  and  the  foes. 
"  O,    haste    thee,  Wilfrid!"    Redmond 

cried; 
"  Undo  that  wicket  by  thy  side  ! 
Bear  hence  Matilda  —  gain  the  wood  — 
The  pass  may  be  a  while  made  good  — 
Thy  band,  ere  this,  must  sure  be  nigh  — 
O  speak  not  —  dally  not  —  but  fly  !  " 
While  yet  the  crowd  their  motions  hide. 
Through  the  low  wicket  door  they  glide. 
Through  vaulted  passages  they  wind. 
In  Gothic  intricacy  twined; 
Wilfrid  half  led,  and  half  he  bore, 
Matilda  to  the  postern-door. 


Canto  V. 


kOlCEHV. 


145 


And  safe  beneath  the  forest  tree, 
The  Lady  stands  at  liberty. 
The  moonbeams,  the  fresh  gale's  caress, 
Uenew'd  suspended  consciousness:  — 
"  Where's  Redmond?  "  eagerly  she  cries; 
"  Thou  answer'st  not  —  he  dies  !  he  dies  ! 
And  thou  hast  left  him,  all  bereft 
Of  mortal  aid  —  with  murderers  left! 
I  know  it  well  — he  would  not  yield 
His  sword  to  man  —  his  doom  is  seal'd  ! 
For    my   scorn'd    life,  which    thou    hast 

bought 
At  price  of  his,  I  thank  thee  not." 

XXX. 

The  unjust  reproach,  the  angry  look. 
The  heart  of  Wilfrid  could  not  brook. 
"  Lady,"  he  said,  "  my  band  is  near. 
In  safety  thou  mayest  rest  thee  here. 
For    Redmond's    death    thou    shalt    not 

mourn, 
If  mine  can  buy  his  safe  return." 
He    turn'd   away  —  his   heart    throbb'd 

high. 
The  tear  was  bursting  from  his  eye; 
The  sense  of  her  injustice  press'd 
Upon  the  Maid's  distracted  breast:  — 
*'  Stay,  Wilfrid,  stay  !  all  aid  is  vain  !  " 
He  heard,  but  turn'd  him  not  again; 
He  reaches  now  the  postern-door, 
Now  enters —  and  is  seen  no  more. 


With  all  the  agony  that  e'er 
Was  gender'd  'twixt  suspense  and  fear, 
.She  walch'd  the  line  of  windows  tall, 
Whose  Gothic  lattice  lights  the  Hall, 
Distinguish'd  by  the  paly  red 
The  lamps  in  dim  reflection  shed. 
While  all  beside  in  wan  moonlight 
Each  grated  casement  glimmer'd  white, 
No  sight  of  harm,  no  sound  of  ill. 
It  is  a  deep  and  midnight  still. 
Who  look'd  upon  the  scene  had  guess'd 
All  in  the  Castle  were  at  rest; 
When  sudden  on  the  window  shone 
A  lightning  flash,  just  seen  and  gone  ! 
A  shot  is  heard.  — Again  the  flame 
Flash'd  thick  and  fast  —  a  volley  came  ! 
Then  echo'd  wildly,  from  within, 
Of  shout  and  scream  the  mingled  din, 
And  weapon-clash  and  maddening  cry, 
Of  those  who  kill,  and  those  who  die  !  — 


As  fill'd  the  Hall  with  sulphurous  smoke. 
More    red,   more    dark,    the    death-flash 

broke : 
And  forms  were  on  the  lattice  cast, 
That  struck,  or  struggled,  as  they  past. 

XXXII. 

What  sounds  upon  the  midnight  wind 
Approach  so  rapidly  behind? 
It  is,  it  is,  the  tramp  of  steeds, 
Matilda  hears  the  sound,  she  speeds, 
Seizes  upon  the  leader's  rein:  — 
"  O,  haste  to  aid,  ere  aid  Ix?  vain  ! 
Fly  to  the  postern  — gain  the  Hall !  " 
From  saddle  spring  the  troopers  all; 
Their  gallant  steeds,  at  liljerty, 
Run  wild  along  the  moonlight  lea. 
But,  ere  they  burst  upon  the  scene. 
Full  stubborn  had  the  conflict  been. 
When  Bertram  mark'd  Matilda's  flight, 
It  gave  the  signal  for  the  fight; 
And  Rokeby's  veterans,  seam'd  with  scars 
Of  Scotland's  and  of  Erin's  wars. 
Their  momentary  panic  o'er, 
Stood  to  the  arms  which  then  they  bore. 
(For  they  were  weapon'd,  and  prepared 
Their  mistress  on  her  way  to  guard.) 
Then  cheer'd  them  to  the  fight  O'Neale, 
Then  peal'd   the   shot,  and  clash'd   the 

steel ; 
The  war-smoke  soon  with  sable  breath 
Darken'd  the  scene  of  blood  and  death, 
While  on  the  few  defenders  close 
The  Bandits,  with  redoubled  blows. 
And,  twice  driven  back,  yet  fierce  and  fell 
Renew  the  charge  with  frantic  yell. 


Wilfrid  has  fall'n  — but  o'er  him  stood 
Young  Redmond,  soil'd  with  smoke  and 

blood. 
Cheering  his  mates  with  heart  and  hand 
Still  to  make  good  their  desperate  stand. 
"  Up,  comrades,  up  !   In  Rokeby  halls 
Ne'er  be  it  said  our  courage  fails. 
What !   faint  ye  for  their  savage  cry. 
Or  do  the  smoke-wreaths  daunt  your  eye? 
These  rafters  have  return'd  a  shout 
As  loud  at  Rokeby's  wassail  rout. 
As  thick  a  smoke  these  hearths  have  given 
At  Hallow-tide  or  Christmns-even.** 
Stand  to  it  yet !  renew  the  fight. 
For  Rokeby's  and  Matilda's  right ! 


246 


ROKEBY. 


Canto  V^ 


These  slaves  !  they  dare  not,  hand  to  hand, 
Bide  buffet  from  a  true  man's  brand." 
Impetuous,  active,  fierce,  and  young, 
Upon  the  advancing  foes  he  sprung. 
Woe  to  the  wretch  at  whom  is  bent 
His  brandish'd  falchion's  sheer  descent ! 
Backward  they  scatter'd  as  he  came, 
Like  wolves  before  the  levin  flame. 
When,  mid  their  howling  conclave  driven, 
Hath  glanced  the  thunderbolt  of  heaven. 
Bertram  rush'd  on  — but  Harpool  clasp'd 
His  knees,  although  in  death  he  gasp'd. 
His  falling  corpse  before  him  flung, 
And  round  the  trammell'd  ruffian  clung. 
Just  then,  the  soldiers  filled  the  dome. 
And,  shouting,  charged  the  felons  home 
So  fiercely,  that,  in  panic  dread, 
They  broke,  they  yielded,  fell,  or  fled. 
Bertram's  stern  voice  they  heed  no  more. 
Though  heard  abtive  the  battle's  roar; 
While,  trampling  down  the  dying  man. 
He  strove,  with  voUey'd  threat  and  ban, 
In  scorn  of  odds,  in  fate's  despite. 
To  rally  up  the  desperate  fight. 


Soon  murkier  clouds  the  Hall  enfold 
Than  e'er  from  battle-thuntlers  roll'd. 
So  dense,  the  combatants  scarce  know 
To  aim  or  to  avoid  the  blow. 
Smothering    and     blindfold    grows    the 

fight  — 
But  soon  shall  dawn  a  dismal  light ! 
Mid  cries,  and  clashing  arms,  there  came 
The  hollow  sound  of  rushing  flame; 
New  horrors  on  the  tumult  dire 
Arise  —  the  Castle  is  on  fire  ! 
Doubtful,  if  chance  had  cast  the  brand. 
Or  frantic  Bertram's  desperate  hand. 
Matilda  saw  —  for  frequent  broke 
From  the  dim  casements  gusts  of  smoke. 
Yon  tower,  which  late  so  clear  defined 
On  the  fair  hemisphere  reclined, 
That,  pencill'd  on  its  azure  pure, 
The  eye  could  count  each  cmbrazure, 
Now,  swathed  within  the  sweeping  cloud. 
Seems  giant-spectre  in  his  shroud; 
Till,  from  each  loop-hole  flashing  light, 
A  spout  of  fire  shines  ruddy  bright. 
And,  gathering  to  united  glare, 
Streams  high  into  the  midnight  air; 
A  dismal  beacon,  far  and  wide 
That  waken'd  Greta's  slumbering  side. 


Soon  all  beneath,  through  gallery  long, 
And  pendant  arch,  the  fire  flash'd  strong, 
Snatching  whatever  could  maintain. 
Raise,  or  extend,  its  furious  reign; 
Startling,  with  closer  cause  of  dread. 
The  females  who  the  conflict  fled. 
And  now  rush'd  forth  upon  the  plain, 
Filling  the  air  with  clamors  vain. 


But  ceased  not  yet,  the  Hall  within. 

The  shriek,  the  shout,  the  carnage-din. 

Till  bursting  lattices  give  proof 

The  flames  have  caught  the  rafter'd  roof. 

What !  wait  they  till  its  beams  amain 

Crash  on  the  slayers  and  the  slain? 

The  alarm  is  caught — the  drawbridge  falls. 

The  warriors  hurry  from  the  walls. 

But,  by  the  conflagration's  light. 

Upon  the  lawn  renew  the  fight. 

Each  struggling  felon  down  was  hewM, 

Not  one  could  gain  the  sheltering  wood; 

But  forth  the  affrighted  harper  sprung. 

And  to  Matilda's  robe  he  clung. 

Her  shriek,  entreaty,  and  command, 

Stopp'd  the  pursuer's  lifted  hand. 

Denzil  and  he  alive  were  ta'en; 

The  rest,  save  Bertram,  all  are  slain. 

XXXVI. 

And  where  is  Bertram  ?  —  Soaring  high. 
The  general  flame  ascends  the  sky; 
In  gather'd  group  the  soldiers  gaze 
Upon  the  broad  and  roaring  blaze. 
When,  like  infernal  demon  sent. 
Red  from  his  penal  element, 
To  plague  and  to  pollute  the  air,  — 
His  face  all  gore,  on  fire  his  hair. 
Forth  from  the  central  mass  of  smoke 
The  giant  form  of  Bertram  broke ! 
His  brandish'd  sword  on  high  he  rears, 
Then  plunged  among  opposing  spears; 
Round  his  left  arm  his  mantle  truss'd, 
Received  and  foil'd  three  lances'  thrust; 
Nor  these  his  headlong  course  withstood. 
Like   reeds   he  snapp'd   the   tough   ash- 
wood. 
In  vain  his  foes  around  him  clung; 
With  matchless  force  aside  he  flung 
Their  boldest,  —  as  the  l")ull,  at  bay. 
Tosses  the  ban-dogs  from  his  way. 
Through  forty  foes  his  path  he  made, 
And  safely  gain'd  the  forest  glade. 


Canto  VI. 


ROKEBY. 


247 


Scarce  was  this  final  conflict  o'er, 
When  from  the  postern  Redmond  bore 
Wilfrid,  who,  as  of  life  bereft, 
Had  in  the  fatal  hall  been  left, 
Deserted  there  by  all  his  train: 
But  Redmond  saw,  and  turn'd  again.  — 
Beneath  an  oak  he  laid  him  down, 
That  in  the  blaze  gleam'd  ruddy  brown. 
And  then  his  mantle's  clasp  undid; 
Matilda  held  his  drooping  head, 
rill,  given  to  breathe  the  freer  air. 
Returning  life  repaid  their  care. 
He  gazed  on  them  with  heavy  sigh: —  . 
"  I  could  have  wish'd  even  thus  to  die  !  " 
No  more  he  said  —  for  now  with  speed 
Each  trooper  had  regain'd  his  steed: 
The  ready  palfreys  stood  array'd. 
For  Redmond  and  for  Rokeby's  Maid; 
Two  Wilfred  on  his  horse  sustain, 
One  leatls  his  charger  by  the  rein. 
But  oft  Matilda  look'd  behind. 
As  up  the  Vale  of  Tees  they  wind. 
Where  far  the  mansion  of  her  sires 
Beacon'd  the  dale  with  midnight  fires. 
In  gloomy  arch  above  them  spread, 
The  clouded  heaven  lower'd  bloody  red; 
Beneath,  in  sombre  light,  the  flood 
Appear'd  to  roll  in  waves  of  blood. 
Then,  one  by  one,  was  heard  to  fall 
The  Tower,  the  donjon-keep,  the  hall. 
Each  rushing  down  with  thunder  sound, 
A  space  the  conflagration  drown'd; 
Till,  gathering  strength,  again  it  rose. 
Announced  its  triumph  in  its  close, 
Shook  wide  its  light  the  landscape  o'er, 
Then  sunk,  —  and  Rokeby  was  no  more  ! 


CANTO   SIXTH. 
I. 

The  summer  sun  whose  early  power 

Was  wont  to  gild  Matilda's  bower. 

And  rouse  her  with  his  matin  ray 

Her  duteous  orisons  to  pay. 

That  morning  sun  had  three  times  seen 

The  flowers  unfold  on  Rokeby  green. 

But  sees  no  more  the  slumbers  fly 

From  fair  Matilda's  hazel  eye; 

That  morning  sun  has  three  times  broke 

On  Rokeby's  glades  of  elm  and  oak. 


But,  rising  from  their  sylvan  screen, 
Marks  no  gray  turrets  glance  between. 
A  shapeless  mass  lie  keep  and  tower. 
That,  hissing  to  the  morning  shower, 
Can  but  with  smouldering  vapor  pay 
The  early  smile  of  summer  day. 
The  peasant,  to  his  labor  bound. 
Pauses  to  view  the  blackcn'd  mound. 
Striving,  amid  the  ruin'd  space, 
Each  well-remember 'd  spot  to  trace. 
That  length  of  frail  and  fire-scorch'd  wall 
Once  screen'd  the  hospitable  hall; 
When  yonder  broken  arch  was  wliole, 
'Twas  there  was  dealt  the  weekly  dole; 
And  where  yon  tottering  columns  nod, 
The  chapel  sent  the  hymn  to  God.  — 
So  flits  the  world's  uncertain  span ! 
Nor  zeal  for  God,  nor  love  for  man, 
Gives  mortal  monuments  a  date 
Beyond  the  power  of  Time  and  Fate. 
The    towers    must    share    the    builder's 

doom; 
Ruin  is  theirs,  and  his  a  tomb: 
But  better  boon  benignant  Heaven 
To  Faith  and  Charity  has  given. 
And  bids  the  Christian  hope  sublime 
Transcend  the  bounds  of  Fate  and  Time. 


Now  the  third  night  of  summer  came. 
Since    that    which    witness'd    Rokeby's 

flame. 
On  Brignall  cliffs  and  Scargill  brake 
The  owlet's  homilies  awake. 
The  bittern  scream 'd  from  rush  and  flag. 
The  raven  slumber'd  on  his  crag. 
Forth  from  his  den  the  otter  drew,  — 
Grayling  and  trout  their  tyrant  knew, 
As  between  reed  and  sedge  he  peers. 
With  fierce  round  snout  and  sharpen'd 

ears. 
Or  prowling  by  the  moonbeam  cool. 
Watches  the  stream  or  swims  the  pool;  — 
Perch'd  on  his  wonted  eyrie  high, 
Sleep  scal'd  the  tercelet's  wearied  eye, 
That  all  the  day  had  watch'd  so  well 
The  cushat  dart  across  the  dell. 
In  dubious  beam  reflected  shone 
That  lofty  cliff  of  pale  gray  stone. 
Beside  whose  base  the  secret  cave 
To  rapine  late  a  refuge  gave. 
The  crag's  wild  crest  of  copse  and  yew 
On  Greta's  breast  dark  shadows  threw; 


248 


ROKEBY. 


Canto  VI. 


Shadows  that  met  or  shunn'd  the  sight, 

With  every  change  of  fitful  light; 

As  hope  and  fear  alternate  chase 

Our  course  through  life's  uncertain  race. 


Gliding  by  crag  and  copsewood  green, 
A  solitary  form  was  seen 
To  trace  with  stealthy  pace  the  wold. 
Like  fox  that  seeks  the  midnight  fold, 
And  pauses  oft,  and  cowers  dismay'd. 
At  every  breath  that  stirs  the  shade. 
He  passes  now  the  ivy  bush,  — 
The  owl  has  seen  him,  and  is  hush; 
He  passes  now  the  dodder'd  oak,  — 
Ye  heard  the  startled  raven  croak; 
Lower  and  lower  he  descends, 
Rustle  the  leaves,  the  brushwood  bends; 
The  otter  hears  him  tread  the  shore, 
And  dives,  and  is  beheld  no  more; 
And  by  the  cliff  of  pale  gray  stone 
The  midnight  wanderer  stands  alone. 
Methinks  that  by  the  moon  we  trace 
A  well-remember'd  form  and  face  ! 
That    stripling    shape,    that    cheek    so 

pale. 
Combine  to  tell  a  rueful  tale, 
Of  powers  misused,  of  passion's  force. 
Of  guilt,  of  grief,  and  of  remorse ! 
'Tis  Edmund's  eye,  at  every  sound 
That  flings  that  guilty  glance  around; 
'Tis  Edmund's  trembling  haste  divides 
The  brushwood  that  the  cavern  hides; 
And,  when  its  narrow  porch  lies  bare, 
'Tis  Edmund's  form  that  enters  there. 


His  flint  and  steel  have  sparkled  bright, 
A  lamp  hath  lent  the  cavern  light. 
Fearful  and  quick  his  eye  surveys 
Each  angle  of  the  gloomy  maze. 
Since  last  he  left  that  stern  abode, 
It  seem'd  as  none  its  floor  had  trode; 
Untouch'd  appear'd  the  various  spoil. 
The  purchase  of  his  comrades'  toil; 
Masks  and  disguises  grim'd  with  mud, 
Arms  Vjroken  and  defiled  with  blood. 
And  all  the  nameless  tools  that  aid 
Night- felons  in  their  lawless  trade, 
Upon  the  gloomy  walls  were  hung, 
Or  lay  in  nooks  obscurely  flung. 
Still  on  the  sordid  board  appear 
The  relics  of  the  noontide  cheer; 


Flagons  and  emptied  flasks  were  there. 
And    bench    o'erthrown,    and    shatter'd 

chair ; 
And  all  around  the  semblance  show'd, 
As  when  the  final  revel  glow'd. 
When  the  red  sun  was  setting  fast. 
And  parting  pledge  Guy  Denzil  past. 
"To     Rokeby    treasure-vaults!"     they 

quaff'd. 
And  shouted  loud  and  wildly  laugh'd, 
I'our'd  maddening  from  the  rocky  door. 
And  parted  —  to  return  no  more  ! 
They  found  in  Rokeby  vaults  their  doom, 
A  bloody  death,  a  burning  tomb  ! 


There  his  own  peasant  dress  he  spies, 

Doff'd  to  assume  that  quaint  disguise; 

And,  shuddering,  thought  upon  his  glee, 

When  prank'd  in  garb  of  minstrelsy. 

"  O,  be  the  fatal  art  accurst," 

He  cried,  "  that  moved  my  folly  first; 

Till,  bribed  by  bandits'  base  applause, 

I  hurst  through  God's  and  Nature's  laws  ! 

Three  summer  days  are  scantly  past 

Since  I  have  trod  this  cavern  last, 

A  thoughtless  wretch,  and  prompt  to  err-  — 

But,  O,  as  yet  no  murderer  ! 

Even  now  I  list  my  comrades'  cheer. 

That  general  laugh  is  in  mine  ear, 

Which  raised  my  pulse  and  steel 'd  my 

heart. 
As  I  rehearsed  my  treacherous  part  — 
And  would  that  all  since  then  could  seem 
The  phantom  of  a  fever's  dream  ! 
But  fatal  Memory  notes  too  well 
The  horrors  of  the  dying  yell 
From  my  despairing  mates  that  broke, 
When    flash'd   the  fire   and    roll'd    the 

smoke ; 
When  the  avengers  shouting  came. 
And  hemm'd  us    'twixt   the  sword  and 

flame ! 
My  frantic  flight,  —  the  lifted  brand, — 

That  angel's  interposing  hand  ! 

If,  for  my  life  from  slaughter  freed, 
I  yet  could  pay  some  grateful  meed  ! 
Perchance  this  object  of  my  quest 
May  aid  "  —  he  turn'd, nor  spoke  the  rest. 


Due  northward  from  the  rugged  hearth. 
With  paces  five  he  metes  the  earth, 


Canto  VI. 


ROKEBY. 


249 


Then  toil'd  with  mattock  to  explore 
The  entrails  of  the  cabin  floor, 
Nor  paused  till,  deep  beneath  the  ground, 
His  search  a  small  steel  casket  found. 
Just  as  he  stoop'd  to  loose  its  hasp. 
His  shoulder  felt  a  giant  grasp; 
He  started,  and  look'd  up  aghast. 
Then  shriek'd  !  —  'Twas    Bertram    held 

hini  fast. 
"  Fear  not !  "  he  said;  but  who  could  hear 
That  deep  stern  voice,  and  cease  to  fear. 
"  Fear  not !  —  By  Heaven,  he  shakes  as 

much 
As  partridge  in  the  falcon's  clutch:"  — 
He  raised  him,  and  unloosed  his  hold, 
While  from  the  opening  casket  roU'd 
A  chain  and  reliquaire  of  gold. 
Bertram  beheld  it  with  surprise. 
Gazed  on  its  fashion  and  device. 
Then,  cheering  Edmund  as  he  could, 
Somewhat  he  smooth 'd  his  rugged  mood : 
For  still  the  youth's  half-lifted  eye 
Quiver'd  with  terror's  agony, 
And  sidelong  glanced,  as  to  explore. 
In  meditated  flight,  the  do<ir. 
".Sit,"  Bertram  said,"  from  danger  free: 
Thou  canst  not,  and  thou  shalt  not,  flee. 
Chance  brings  me  hither;   hill  and  plain 
I've  sought  for  refuge-place  in  vain. 
And  tell  me  now,  thou  aguish  boy. 
What   makest   thou   here?    what    means 

this  toy? 
Denzil  and  thou,  I  mark'd,  were  ta'en; 
What  lucky  chance  unlx)und  your  chain? 
I  deem'd,  long  since  on  Baliol's  tower. 
Your  heads  were   warp'd  with  sun  and 

shower. 
Tell  me  the  whole  —  and,  mark  !  naught 

e'er 
Chafes  me  like  falsehood,  or  like  fear." 
Gathering  his  courage  to  his  aid, 
But  trembling  still,  the  youth  obey'd:  — 


"  Denzil  and  I  two  nights  pass'd  o'er 
In  fetters  on  the  dungeon  floor. 
A  guest  the,  third  sad  morrow  brought : 
Our  hold  dark  Oswald  Wycliffe  sought, 
And  eyed  my  comrade  long  askance, 
With  fix'd  and  penetrating  glance. 
'Guy  Denzil  art   thou   call'd?'  —  'The 

same.'  — 
'  At  Court  who  served  wild  Buckinghame ; 


Thence  banish'd,  won  a  keeper's  place, 
So  Villiers  will'd,  in  Marwood-chase; 
That  lost  —  I  need  not  tell  thee  why  — 
Thou  madest  thy  wit  thy  wants  supply, 
Then    fought    for     Rokeby :  —  Have    I 

guess 'd 
My  prisoner  right  ? '  —  'At  thy  behest.'  — 
He  paused  a  while,  and  then  went  on 
With  low  and  confidential  tone;  — 
Me,  as  I  judge,  not  then  he  saw, 
Close  nestled  in  my  couch  of  straw  — 
'  List  to  me,   Guy.     Thou  know'st  the 

great 
Have  frequent  need  of  what  they  hate; 
Hence,  in  their  favor  oft  we  see 
Unscrupled,  useful  men  like  thee. 
Were  I  disposed  to  bid  thee  live, 
What  pledge  of  faith  hast  thou  to  give?' 

VIII. 
"The  ready  Fiend,  who  never  yet 
Hath  failed  to  sharpen  Denzil's  wit. 
Prompted  his  lie  —  '  His  only  child 
Should    rest    his    pledge.' ^ — The    Baron 

smiled. 
And  turn'd  to  me  —  '  Thou  art  his  son  ?  ' 
I  bow'd  —  our  fetters  were  undone, 
And  we  were  led  to  hear  apart 
A  dreadful  lesson  of  his  art. 
Wilfrid,  he  said,  his  heir  and  son, 
Had  fair  Matilda's  favor  won; 
And  long  since  had  their  union  been. 
But  for  her  father's  bigot  spleen, 
Whose  brute  and  blindfold  party-rage 
Would,  force  per  force,  her  hand  engage 
To  a  base  kern  of  Irish  earth. 
Unknown  his  lineage  and  his  birth. 
Save  that  a  dying  ruffian  bore 
The  infant  brat  to  Rokeby  door. 
Gentle  restraint,  he  said,  would  lead 
Old  Rokeby  to  enlarge  his  creed; 
But  fair  occasion  he  must  find 
For  such  restraint  well-meant  and  kind, 
The  Knight  being  render'd  to  his  charge 
But  as  a  prisoner  at  large. 


"  He  school'd  us  in  a  well-forged  tale. 
Of  scheme  the  Castle  walls  to  scale. 
To  which  was  leagued  each  Cavalier 
That  dwells  upon  the  Tyne  and  AVear; 
That  Rokeby,  his  parole  forgot, 
Had  dealt  with  us  to  aid  the  plot. 


250 


ROKEBY, 


Canto  VI. 


Such  was  the  charge,  which  Denzil's  zeal 

Of  hate  to  Rokeby  and  O'Neale 

Proffer'd  as  witness,  to  make  good, 

Even  though  the  forfeit  were  their  blood. 

I  scrupled,  until  o'er  and  o'er 

His  prisoner's  safety  Wycliffe  swore; 

And  then  —  alas  !  what  needs  there  more  ? 

I  knew  I  should  not  live  to  say 

The  proffer  I  refused  that  day; 

Ashamed  to  live,  yet  loth  to  die, 

I  soil'd  me  with  their  infamy !  " 

"  Poor  youth,"  said  Bertram,  "  wavering 

still. 
Unfit  alike  for  good  or  ill ! 
But  what  fell  next?  "  —  "Soon  as  at  large 
Was  scroll'd  and  sign'd  our  fatal  charge. 
There  never  yet,  on  tragic  stage. 
Was  seen  so  well  a  painted  rage 
As  Oswald's  show'd  !     With  loud  alarm 
He  call'd  his  garrison  to  arm; 
From    tower    to    tower,    from    post    to 

post. 
He  hurried  as  if  all  were  lost; 
Consign'd  to  dungeon  and  to  chain 
The  good  old  Knight  and  all  his  train; 
Warn'd  each  suspected  Cavalier, 
Within  his  limits,  to  appear 
To-morrow,  at  the  hour  of  noon, 
In  the  high  church  at  Egliston."  — 


"  Of  Egliston  !  —  Even  now  I  pass'd," 
Said  Bertram,  "  as  the  night  closed  fast; 
Torches  and  cressets  gleam'd  around, 
I  heard  the  saw  and  hammer  sound. 
And  I  could  mark  they  toil'd  to  raise 
A  scaffold,  hung  with  sable  baize. 
Which  the  grim  headsman's  scene  dis- 

play'd. 
Block,  axe,  and  sawdust  ready  laid. 
Some  evil  deed  will  there  he  done. 
Unless  Matilda  wed  his  son;  — 
She  loves  him  not  — •  'tis  shrewdly  guess'd 
That  Redmond  rules  the  damsel's  breast. 
This  is  a  turn  of  Oswald's  skill; 
But  I  may  meet,  and  foil  him  still;  — 
How  camest  thou  to  thy  freedom?  "  — 

"There 
Lies  mystery  more  dark  and  rare. 
In  midst  of  Wycliffe's  well-feign'd  rage, 
A  scroll  was  offer 'd  by  a  page. 
Who  told,  a  muffled  horseman  late 
Had  left  it  at  the  Castle-gate. 


He  broke  the  seal — his  cheek  show'd 

change. 
Sudden,  portentous,  wild  and  strange; 
The  mimic  passion  of  his  eye 
Was  turn'd  to  actual  agony; 
His  hand  like  summer  sapling  shook. 
Terror  and  guilt  were  in  his  look. 
Denzil  he  judged,  in  time  of  need. 
Fit  counsellor  for  evil  deed; 
And  thus  apart  his  counsel  broke, 
While  with  a  ghastly  smile  he  spoke : 


"  '  As  in  the  pageants  of  the  stage. 
The  dead  awake  in  this  wild  age, 
Mortham — whom  all  men  deem'd  decreed 
In  his  own  deadly  snare  to  lileed. 
Slain  by  a  bravo,  whom,  o'er  sea. 
He  train'd  to  aid  in  murdering  me,  — 
Mortham  has  'scaped  !    The  coward  shot 
The  steed,  but  harm'd  the  rider  not.'  " 
Here,  with  an  execration  fell, 
Bertram  leap'd  up,  and  paced  the  cell : 
"  Thine  own  gray  head,  or  bosom  dark," 
He  utter'd,  "may  be  surer  mark!  " 
Then  sat,  and  sign'd  to  Edmund,  pale 
With  terror,  to  resume  his  tale. 
"  Wycliffe  went  on:  —  '  Mark  with  what 

flights 
Of  wilder'd  reverie  he  writes :  — 

THE    LETTER. 

"  '  Ruler  of  Mortham's  destiny! 
Though  dead,  thy  victim  lives  to  thee. 
Once  had  he  all  that  binds  to  life, 
A  lovely  child,  a  lovelier  wife; 
Wealth,  fame,  and  friendship,  were  his 

own  — 
Thou  gavcst  the  word,  and  they  are  flown. 
Mark  how  he  pays  thee  :  —  To  thy  hand 
He  yields  his  honors  and  his  land. 
One  boon  premised;  - —  Restore  his  child  ! 
And,  from  his  native  land  exiled, 
Mortham  no  more  returns  to  claim 
His  lands,  his  honors,  or  his  name; 
Refuse  him  this,  and  from  the  slain 
Thou  shalt  see  Mortham  rise  again."  — 


"This  billet  while  the  Baron  read. 
His  faltering  accents  show'd  his  dread; 
He  press'd  his  forehead  with  his  palm. 
Then  took  a  scornful  tone  and  calm : 


Canto  VI. 


ROKEBY. 


251 


'  Wild  as  the  winds,  as  billows  wild ! 
What  wot  I  of  his  spouse  or  child? 
Hither  he  brought  a  joyous  dame, 
Unknown  her  lineage  or  her  name: 
Her,  in  some  frantic  fit,  he  slew; 
The  nurse  and  child  in  fear  withdrew. 
I  leaven  be  my  witness  !  wist  I  where 
To  find  this  youth,  my  kinsman's  heir,  — 
Unguerdon'd  I  would  give  with  joy 
The  father's  arms  to  fold  his  boy, 
And  Mortham's  lands  and  towers  resign 
To  the  just  heirs  of  Mortham's  line.'  — 
Thou  know'st  that  scarcely  e'en  his  fear 
Suppresses  Denzil's  cynic  sneer :  — 
'  Then  happy  is  thy  vassal's  part,' 
He  said,  '  to  ease  his  patron's  heart ! 
In  thine  own  jailer's  watchful  care 
Lies  Mortham's  just  and  rightful  heir; 
Thy  generous  wish  is  fully  won, — 
Redmond  O'Neale  is  Mortham's  son.'  — 


"  Up  starting  with  a  frenzied  look. 
His  clenched  hand  the  Baron  shook : 
'  Is  Hell  at  work?  or  dost  thou  rave. 
Or  darest  thou  palter  with  me,  slave  ? 
Perchance    thou    wot'st    not,    Barnard's 

towers 
Have    racks,    of    strange    and    ghastly 

powers.' 
Denzil,  who  well  his  safety  knew. 
Firmly  rejoin'd,  '  I  tell  thee  true. 
Thy  racks  could  give  thee  but  to  know 
The  proofs,  which  I,  untortured,  show.  — 
It  chanced  upon  a  winter  night. 
When  early  snow  made  Stanmore  white, 
That  very  night,  when  first  of  all 
Redmond  O'Neale  saw  Rokeby  hall. 
It  was  my  goodly  lot  to  gain 
A  reliquary  and  a  chain, 
Twisted  and  chased  of  massive  gold. 
—  Demand  not  how  the  prize  I  hold  ! 
It  was  not  given,  nor  lent,  nor  sold.  — 
Gilt  tablets  to  the  chain  were  hung. 
With  letters  in  the  Irish  tongue. 
I  hid  my  spoil,  for  there  was  need 
That  I  should  leave  the  land  with  speed; 
Nor  then  I  deem'd  it  safe  to  bear 
On  mine  own  person  gems  so  rare. 
Small  heed  I  of  the  tablets  took, 
But  since  have  spell'd  them  by  the  book, 
When  some  sojourn  in  Erin's  land 
Of  their  wild  speech  had  given  command. 


But  darkling  was  the  sense;  the  phrase 

And  language  those  of  other  days. 

Involved  of  purpose,  as  to  foil 

An  interloper's  prying  toil. 

The  words,  but  not  the  sense,  I  knew, 

Till  fortune  gave  the  guiding  clue. 


"  '  Three  days  since,  was  that  clue   re- 

veal'd 
In  Thorsgill  as  I  lay  conceal'd, 
And  heard  at  full  when  Rokeby's  Maid 
Her  uncle's  history  display 'd; 
And  now  I  can  interpret  well 
Each  syllable  the  tablets  tell. 
Mark,  then :  Fair  Edith  was  the  joy 
Of  old  O'Neale  of  Clandeboy; 
But  from  her  sire  and  country  fled. 
In  secret  Mortham's  Lord  to  wed. 
O'Neale,  his  first  resentment  o'er. 
Despatched  his  son  to  Greta's  shore, 
Enjoining  he  should  make  him  known 
(Until  his  farther  will  were  shown) 
To  Edith,  but  to  her  alone. 
What  of  their  ill-starr'd  meeting  fell, 
Lord  Wycliffe  knows,  and  none  so  wells 


"  '  O'Neale  it  was,  who,  in  despair, 
Robb'd  Mortham  of  his  infant  heir; 
He  bred  him  in  their  nurture  wild. 
And  call'd  him  murder'd  Connel's  child. 
Soon  died  the  nurse;  the  Clan  believed 
What  from  their  Chieftain  they  received. 
His  purpose  was,  that  ne'er  again 
The  boy  should  cross  the  Irish  main; 
But,  like  his  mountain  sires,  enjoy 
The  woods  and  wastes  of  Clandeboy. 
Then  on  the  land  wild  troubles  came, 
And  stronger  Chieftains  urged  a  claim. 
And  wrested  from  the  old  man's  hands 
His  native  towers,  his  father's  lands. 
Unable  then,  amid  the  strife. 
To  guard  young  Redmond's  rights  or  life, 
Late  and  reluctant  he  restores 
The  infant  to  his  native  shores. 
With  goodly  gifts  and  letters  stored, 
With  many  a  deep  conjuring  word. 
To  Mortham  and  to  Rokeby's  Lord. 
Naught  knew  the  clod  of  Irish  earth, 
Who  was  the  guide,  of  Redmond's  birth : 
But  deem'd  his  Chief'scommands  were  laid 
On  both,  by  both  to  be  obey'd. 


252 


ROKEBY. 


Canto  VI. 


How  he  was  wounded  by  the  way, 
I  need  not,  and  I  list  not  say.'  — 


"  '  A  wondrous  tale  !  and,  grant  it  true, 
What,'  Wycliffe  answor'd,  '  might  I  do? 
Heaven  knows,  as  willingly  as  now 
I  raise  the  bonnet  from  my  brow. 
Would  I  my  kinsman's  manors  fair 
Restore  to  Mortham,  or  his  heir; 
Hut  Mortham  is  distraught  —  O'Neale 
Has  drawn  for  tyranny  his  steel, 
Malignant  to  our  rightful  cause, 
And  train'd  in  Rome's  delusive  laws. 
Hark  thee  apart !' — They  whisper'd  long. 
Till     Denzil's     voice     grew    bold     and 

strong;  — 
'  My  proofs!   I  never  will,'  he  said, 
'  Show  mortal  man  where  they  are  laid. 
Nor  hope  discovery  to  foreclose, 
By  giving  me  to  feed  the  crows; 
For  I  have  mates  at  large,  who  know 
Where  I  am  wont  such  toys  to  stow. 
Free  me  from  peril  and  from  band. 
These  tablets  are  at  thy  command : 
Nor  were  it  hard  to  form  some  train. 
To  wile  old  Mortham  o'er  the  main. 
Then,  lunatic's  nor  papist's  hand 
Should  wrest  fromthine  the  goodly  land.' 
—  '  I  like  thy  wit,'  said  Wycliffe,  '  well; 
But  here  in  hostage  shalt  thou  dwell. 
Thy  son,  unless  my  purpose  err. 
May  prove  the  trustier  messenger. 
A  scroll  to  Mortham  shall  he  bear 
From  me,  and  fetch  these  tokens  rare. 
Gold  shalt  thou  have,  and  that  good  store, 
And  freedom,  his  commission  o'er; 
But  if  his  faith  should  chance  to  fail, 
The  gibl)et  frees  thee  from  the  jail.'  — 


"  Mesh'd  in  the  net  himself  had  twined, 
What  subterfuge  could  Denzil  find? 
He  told  me,  with  reluctant  sigh. 
That  hidden  here  the  tokens  lie; 
Conjured  my  swift  return  and  aid, 
By  all  he  scoff'd  and  disobey'd, 
And  look'd  as  if  the  noose  were  tied. 
And  I  the  priest  who  left  his  side. 
This  scroll  for  Mortham  Wycliffe  gave, 
Whom  I  must  seek  by  Greta's  wave; 
Or  in  the  hut  where  chief  he  hides. 
Where  Thorsgill's  forester  resides. 


(Then  chanced  it  wandering  in  the  glade, 
That  he  descried  our  ambuscade.) 
I  was  dismiss'd  as  evening  fell. 
And  reach'd  but  now  this  rocky  cell.  "  — 
"Give      Oswald's      letter." — Bertram 

read. 
And  tore  it  fiercely  shred  by  shred : — 
"  All  lies  and  villany  !  to  blind 
His  noble  kinsman's  generous  mind. 
And  train  him  on  from  day  to  day. 
Till  he  can  take  his  life  away.  • — 
And  now  declare  thy  purpose,  youth. 
Nor  dare  to  answer,  save  the  truth; 
If  aught  I  mark  of  Denzil's  art, 
I'll  tear  the  secret  from  thy  heart !  "  — 

XVIII. 

"  It  needs  not.     I  renounce,"  he  said, 

"  My  tutor  and  his  deadly  trade. 

Fix'd  was  my  purpose  to  declare 

To  Mortham,  Redmond  is  his  heir; 

To  tell  him  in  what  risk  he  stands, 

And  yield  these  tokens  to  his  hands. 

Fix'd  was  my  purpose  to  atone, 

Far  as  I  may,  the  evil  done; 

And  fix'd  it  rests  —  if  I  survive 

This  night,  and  leave  this  cave  alive." 

"  And  Denzil?  " —  "  Let  them  ply  the 

rack 
Even  till  his  joints  and  sinews  crack  ! 
If  Oswald  tear  him  limb  from  limb. 
What  ruth  can  Denzil  claim  from  him. 
Whose  thoughtless  ycjuth  he  led  astray, 
And  damn'd  to  this  unhallow'd  way? 
He  school'd  me  faith  and  vows  were  vain ; 
Now  let  my  master  reap  his  gain."  — 
"True,"    answer'd    Bertram,  "'tis   his 

meed ; 
There's  retribution  in  the  deed. 
But  thou —  thou  art  not  for  our  course, 
Hast  fear,  hast  pity,  hast  remorse: 
And  he  with  us  the  gale  who  braves, 
Must  heave  such  cargo  to  the  waves. 
Or  lag  with  overloaded  prore. 
While  barks  unburden'd  reach  the  shore." 


He  paused,  and,  stretching  him  at  length, 
Seem'd  to  repose  his  bulky  strength. 
Communing  with  his  secret  mind,  J 

As  half  he  sat,  and  half  reclined,  \ 

One  ample  hand  his  forehead  press'd, 
And  one  was  dropp'd  across  his  breast. 


i 


Canto  VI. 


ROKEBY. 


253 


The  shaggy  eyebrows  deeper  came 
Atxjve  liis  eyes  of  swarthy  flame; 
His  lip  of  pride  a  while  forbcjre 
The  haughty  curve  till  then  it  wore; 
The  unalter'd  fierceness  of  his  look 
A  shade  of  darken'd  sadness  took,^ — 
For  dark  and  sad  a  presage  press'd, 
Resistlessly  on  Bertram's  breast, — 
And  when  he  spoke,  his  wonted  tone, 
So  fierce,  abrupt,  and  brief,  was  gone. 
His  voice  was  steady,  low,  and  deep. 
Like  distant  waves,  when  breezes  sleep; 
And  sorrow  mix'd  with  Edmund's  fear, 
Its  low  unbroken  depth  to  hear. 


"  Edmund,  in  thy  sad  tale  I  find 
The  woe  that  warp'd  my  patron's  mind; 
'Twould  wake  the  fountains  of  the  eye 
In  other  men,  but  mine  are  dry. 
Mortham  must  never  see  the  fool. 
That  sold  himself  base  Wycliffe's  tool; 
Yet  less  from  thirst  of  sordid  gain. 
Than  to  avenge  supposed  disdain. 
Say,  Bertram  rues  his  fault;  — a  word, 
Till  n(jw,  from  Bertram  never  heard: 
Say,    too,    that     Mortham's     Lord     he 

prays 
To  think  but  on  their  former  days; 
On  Quariana's  beach  and  rock. 
On  Cayo's  bursting  battle-shock, 
On  Darien's  sands  and  deadly  dew, 
And  on  the  dart  Tlatzeca  threw;  — 
Perchance  my  patron  yet  may  hear 
More  that  may  grace  his  comrade's  bier. 
My  soul  hath  felt  a  secret  weight, 
A  warning  of  approaching  fate; 
As  priest  had  said,  '  Return,  repent!  ' 
As  well  to  bid  that  rock  be  rent. 
Firm  as  that  flint  I  face  mine  end; 
My  heart  may  burst,  but  cannot  bend. 


"The  dawning  of  my  youth,  with  awe 
And  prophecy,  the  Dalesmen  saw; 
For  over  Redesdale  it  came, 
As  bodeful  as  their  beacon-flame. 
Edmund,  thy  years  were  scarcely  mine, 
When,  challenging  the  Clans  of  Tyne, 
To  bring  their  best  my  brand  to  prove, 
O'er  Hexham's  altar  hung  my  glove;  ^ 
But  Tynedale,  nor  in  tower  nor  town, 
Held  champion  meet  to  take  it  down. 


My  noontide,  India  may  declare; 
Like  her  fierce  sun,  I  fired  the  air ! 
Like  him,  to  wood  and  cave  bade  fly 
Her  natives,  from  mine  angry  eye. 
Panama's  maids  shall  long  look  pale 
When  Risingham  inspires  the  tale; 
Chili's  dark  matrons  long  shall  tame 
The  froward  child  with  Bertram's  name. 
And  now,  my  race  of  terror  run, 
Mine  l>e  the  eve  of  tropic  sun  ! 
No  pale  gradations  quench  his  ray. 
No  twilight  dews  his  wrath  allay; 
With  disk  like  battle-target  red. 
He  rushes  to  his  burning  bed, 
Dyes  the  wide  wave  with  bloody  light, 
Then  sinks  at  once  —  and  all  is  night.  — 


"Now  to  thy  mission,  Edmund.     Fly, 
Seek  Mortham  out,  and  bid  him  hie 
To  Richmond,  where  his  troops  are  laid, 
And  lead  his  force  to  Redmond's  aid. 
Say,  till  he  reaches  Egliston, 
A  friend  will  watch  to  guard  his  son. 
Now,  farc-thee-well !   for  night  draws  on, 
And  I  would  rest  me  here  alone." 
Despite  his  ill-dissembled  fear, 
There  swam  in  Edmund's  eye  a  tear; 
A  tribute  to  the  courage  high, 
That  stoop'd  not  in  extremity, 
But  strove,  irregularly  great, 
To  triumph  o'er  approaching  fate  ! 
Bertram  beheld  the  dewdrop  start, 
It  almost  touch'd  his  iron  heart :  — 
"  I  did  not  think  there  lived,"  he  said, 
"One,     who    would    tear    for    Bertram 

shed." 
He  loosen'd  then  his  baldric's  hold, 
A  buckle  broad  of  massive  gold;  — 
"  Of  all  the  spoil  that  paid  his  pains. 
But  this  with  Risingham  remains; 
And  this,  dear  Edmund,  thou  shalt  take, 
And  wear  it  long  for  Bertram's  sake. 
Once  more  —  to  Mortham  speed  amain; 
Farewell !  and  turn  thee  not  again." 

XXIII. 
The  night  has  yielded  to  the  morn, 
And  far  the  hours  of  prime  are  worn. 
Oswald,  who,  since  the  dawn  of  day, 
Had  cursed  his  messenger's  delay. 
Impatient  question'd  now  his  train, 
"  Was  Denzil's  son  retum'd  again?  " 


254 


ROKEBY. 


Canto  VI. 


It  chanced  there  answer'd  of  the  crew, 
A  menial,  whom  young  Edmund  knew: 
"  No  son  of  Denzil  this,"  — he  said; 
"  A  peasant  boy  from  Winston  glade. 
For  song  and  ministrelsy  renown'd, 
And  knavish  pranks,  the  hamlets  round." 
"Not   Denzil's   son! — From    Winston 

vale  !  — 
Then  it  was  false,  that  specious  tale : 
Or,  worse  —  he  hath  despatch'd  the  youth 
To  show  to  Mortham's  Lord  its  truth. 
Fool  that  I  was  !  —   but  'tis  too  late :  — 
This  is  the  very  turn  of  fate  !  — 
The  tale,  or  true  or  false,  relies 
On  Denzil's  evidence  !  —  He  dies ! 
Ho  !   Provost  Marshal !   instantly 
Lead  Denzil  to  the  gallows-tree ! 
Allow  him  not  a  parting  word : 
Short  be  the  shrift,  and  sure  the  cord  ! 
Then  let  his  gory  head  appal 
Marauders  from  the  Castle-wall. 
Lead  forth  thy  guard,  that  duty  done. 
With  best  despatch  to  Egliston.  — 
—  Basil,  tell  Wilfrid  he  must  straight 
Attend  me  at  the  Castle-gate." 


"  Alas  !  "  the  old  domestic  said, 

And  shook  his  venerable  head, 

"  Alas,  my  lord !   full  ill  to-day 

May  my  young  master  brook  the  way  ! 

The  leech  has  spoke  with  grave  alarm. 

Of  unseen  hurt,  of  secret  harm. 

Of  sorrow  lurking  at  the  heart, 

That  mars  and  lets  his  healing  art."  — 

"  Tush,  tell  not  me  !  —  Romantic  boys 

Pine  themselves  sick  for  airy  toys, 

I  will  find  cure  for  Wilfrid  soon; 

Bid  him  for  Egliston  be  boune. 

And  quick  !  —  I  hear  the  dull  death-drum 

Tell  Denzil's  hour  of  fate  is  come." 

He  paused  with  scornful  smile,  and  then 

Resumed  his  train  of  thought  agen. 

"  Now  comes  my  fortune's  crisis  near  ! 

Entreaty  boots  not  —  instant  fear. 

Naught  else,  can  bend  Matilda's  pride, 

Or  win  her  to  be  Wilfrid's  bride. 

But  when  she  sees  the  scaffold  placed. 

With  axe  and  block  and  headsman  graced, 

And  when  she  deems,  that  to  deny 

Dooms  Redmond  and  her  sire  to  die. 

She  must  give  way. — -Then,  were  the  line 

Of  Rokeby  once  combined  with  mine. 


I  gain  the  weather-gage  of  tate ! 

If  Mortham  come,  he  comes  too  late. 

While  I,  aUied  thus  and  prepared, 

Bid  him  defiance  to  his  beard.  — 

—  If  she  prove  stubborn,  shall  I  dare 

To    drop   the    axe  !  —  Soft !    pause    we 

there. 
Mortham  still  lives  —  yon  youth  may  tell 
His  tale  —  and  Fairfax  loves  him  well;  — 
Else,  wherefore  should  I  now  delay 
To  sweep  this  Redmond  from  my  way? 
But  she  to  piety  perforce 
Must  yield.  —  Without  there  !    Sound  to 

horse." 


'Twas  bustle  in  the  court  below,  — 

"  Mount,  and  march  forward  !  "  —  Forth 

they  go; 
Steeds  neigh  and  trample  all  around. 
Steel    rings,    spears    glimmer,    trumpets 

sound. — 
Just  then  was  sung  his  parting  hymn; 
And  Denzil  turn'd  his  eyeballs  dim, 
And,  scarcely  conscious  what  he  sees, 
Follows  the  horsemen  down  the  Tees; 
And,  scarcely  conscious  what  he  hears. 
The  trumpets  tingle  in  his  ears. 
O'er  the  long   bridge  they're    sweeping 

now. 
The  van  is  hid  by  greenwood  bough; 
But  ere  the  rearward  had  passed  o'er, 
Guy  Denzil  heard  and  saw  no  more ! 
One  stroke,  upon  the  Castle  bell, 
To  Oswald  rung  his  dying  knell. 

XXVI. 

O,  for  that  pencil,  erst  profuse 
Of  chivalry's  emblazon'd  hues. 
That  traced  of  old,  in  Woodstock  bower, 
The  pageant  of  the  Leaf  and  Flower, 
And  bodied  forth  the  tourney  high, 
Held  for  the  hand  of  Emily  ! 
Then  might  I  paint  the  tumult  broad, 
That  to  the  crowded  abbey  flow'd. 
And  pour'd,  as  with  an  ocean's  sound. 
Into  the  church's  ample  bound  ! 
Then  might  I  show  each  varying  mien, 
Exulting,  woeful,  or  serene; 
Indifference,  with  his  idiot  stare. 
And  Sympathy,  with  anxious  air; 
Paint  the  dejected  Cavalier, 
doubtful,  disarm'd,  and  sad  of  cheer; 


Canto  VI. 


ROKEBY. 


255 


And  his  proud  foe,  whose  formal  eye 
Claim'd  conquest  now  and  mastery; 
And  the  brute  crowd,  whose  envious  zeal 
Huzzas  each  turn  of  Fortune's  wheel, 
And  loudest  shouts  when  lowest  lie 
Exalted  worth  and  station  high. 
Yet  what  may  such  a  wish  avail  ? 
'Tis  mine  to  tell  an  onward  tale. 
Hurrying,  as  best  I  can,  along, 
The  hearers  and  the  hasty  song;  — 
Like  traveller  when  approaching  home, 
Who  sees  the  shades  of  evening  come, 
And  must  not  now  his  course  delay, 
Or  choose  the  fair,  but  winding  way; 
Nay,  scarcely  may  his  pace  suspend, 
where  o'er  his  head  the  wildings  bend. 
To  bless  the  breeze  that  cools  his  brow. 
Or  snatch  a  blossom  from  the  bough. 

XXVII. 

The  reverend  pile  lay  wild  and  waste. 
Profaned,  dishonor'd,  and  defaced. 
Through  storied  lattices  no  more 
In  soften'd  light  the  sunbeams  pour. 
Gilding  the  Gothic  sculpture  rich 
Of  shrine,  and  monument,  and  niche. 
The  Civil  fury  of  the  time 
Made  sport  of  sacrilegious  crime; 
For  dark  Fanaticism  rent 
Altar  and  screen  and  ornament, 
And  peasant  hands  the  tombs  o'erthrew 
Of  Bowes,  of  Rokeby,  and  Fitz-Hugh. 
And  now  was  seen,  unwonted  sight, 
In  holy  walls  a  scaffold  dight; 
Where  once  the  priest,  of  grace  divine. 
Dealt  to  his  flock  the  mystic  sign. 
There  stood  the  block  display'd,  and  there 
The  headsman  grim  his  hatchet  bare; 
And  for  the  word  of  Hope  and  Faith, 
Resounded  loud  a  doom  of  death. 
Thrice  the  fierce   trumpet's  breath   was 

heard. 
And  echo'd  thrice  the  herald's  word. 
Dooming,  for  breach  of  martial  laws. 
And  treason  to  the  Commons'  cause. 
The  Knight  of  Rokeby  and  O'Neale 
To  stoop  their  heads  to  block  and  steel. 
The  trumpets  flourish'd  high  and  shrill, 
Then  was  a  silence  dead  and  still; 
And  silent  prayers  to  heaven  were  cast. 
And  stifled  sobs  were  bursting  f.ist. 
Till  from  the  crowd  l)egun  to  rise 
Murmurs  of  sorrow  or  surprise, 


And  from  the  distant  aisles  there  came 
Deep-mutter'd   threats,    with   Wyclifie's 
name. 

XXVIII. 

But  Oswald,  guarded  by  his  band. 
Powerful  in  evil,  waved  his  hand. 
And  bade  Sedition's  voice  be  dead. 
On  peril  of  the  murmurer's  head. 
Then  first  his  glance   sought    Rokeby's 

Knight; 
Who  gazed  on  the  tremendous  sight, 
As  calm  as  if  he  came  a  guest 
To  kindred  Baron's  feudal  feast. 
As  calm  as  if  that  trumpet-call 
Were  summons  to  the  banner'd  hall; 
Firm  in  his  loyalty  he  stood, 
And  prompt  to  seal  it  with  his  blood. 
With  downcast  look  drew  Oswald  nigh, — 
He  durst  not  cope  with  Rokeby's  eye ! 
And  said,  with  low  and  faltering  breath, 
"Thou  know'st  the   terms  of   life  and 

death." 
The    Knight    then    turn'd,    and    sternly 

smiled:  — 
'  The  maiden  is  mine  only  child. 
Vet  shall  my  blessings  leave  her  head. 
If  with  a  traitor's  son  she  wed." 
1  hen  Redmond  spoke :  — "The  life  of  one 
Might  thy  malignity  atone. 
On  me  be  flung  a  double  guilt ! 
Spare  Rokeby's  blood,  let  mine  be  spilt !  " 
Wycliffe  had  listen'd  to  his  suit. 
But  dread  prevail'd,  and  he  was  mute. 

XXIX. 

And  now  he  pours  his  choice  of  fear 

In  secret  on  Matilda's  ear; 

"  An  union  form'd  with  me  and  mine, 

Ensures  the  faith  of  Rokeby's  line. 

Consent,  and  all  this  dread  array. 

Like  morning  dream  shall  pass  away; 

Refuse,  and,  by  my  duty  press'd, 

I  give  the  word  —  thou  know'st  the  rest." 

>Ialilda,  still  and  motionless. 

With  terror  heard  the  dread  address, 

Pale  as  the  sheeted  maid  who  dies 

To  hopeless  love  a  sacrifice; 

Then  wrung  her  hands  in  agony. 

And  round  her  cast  liewilder'd  eye. 

Now  on  the  scafff)ld  glanced,  and  now 

On  Wycliffe's  unrelenting  brow. 

She  veil'd  her  face,  and,  with  a  voice 

Scarce  audible :  —  "I  make  my  choice  ! 


256 


HOKE  BY. 


Canto  VI, 


Spare  but  their  lives  ! — for,  aught  beside, 
Let  Wilfrid's  doom  my  fate  decide. 
He  once  was  generous  !  "  —  as  she  spoke, 
Dark  Wycliffe's  joy  in  triumph  broke :  — 
"Wilfrid,  where  loiter'd  ye  so  late? 
Why  upon  Basil  rest  thy  weight?  — 
Art  spell-bound  by  enchanter's  wand?  — 
Kneel,  kneel,  and  take  her  yielded  hand; 
Thank  her  with  raptures,  simple  boy ! 
Should  tears  and   trembling  speak  thy 

joy?".— 
"  O'hush,  my  sire !      To  prayer  and  tear 
Of  mine  thou  hast  refused  thine  ear; 
But  now  the  awful  hour  draws  on. 
When  truth  must  speak  in  loftier  tone." 


He  took  Matilda's  hand: — "  Dear  maid, 
Couldst  tliou  so  injure  me,"  he  said, 
"  Of  thy  poor  friend  so  basely  deem, 
As  blend  with  him  this  barbarous  scheme? 
Alas  !   my  efforts,  made  in  vain, 
Might  well  have  saved  this  added  pain. 
But  now,  bear  witness  earth  and  heaven. 
That  ne'er  was  hope  to  mortal  given. 
So  twisted  with  the  strings  of  life. 
As  this — -to  call  Matilda  wife! 
I  bid  it  now  for  ever  part, 
And  with  the  effort  bursts  my  heart !  " 
His  feeble  frame  was  worn  so  low. 
With  wounds,  with  watching,  and  with 

woe. 
That  nature  could  no  more  sustain 
The  agony  of  mental  pain. 
He    kneel'd  —  his    lip    her    hand    had 

press'd,  — 
Just  then  he  felt  the  stern  arrest. 
Lower  and  lower  sunk  his  head.  — 
They  raised  him, — liut  the  life  was  fled! 
Then,  first  alarm'd,  his  sire  and  train 
Tried  every  aid,  but  tried  in  vain. 
The  soul,  too  soft  its  ills  to  bear. 
Had  left  our  mortal  hemisphere. 
And  sought  in  better  world  the  meed. 
To  Ijlameless  life  by  Heaven  decreed. 

XXXI. 

The  wretched  sire  beheld,  aghast. 
With  Wilfrid  all  his  projects  past. 
All  turn'd  and  centred  on  his  son. 
On  Wilfrid  all  —  and  he  was  gone. 
"  And  I  am  childless  now,"  he  said, 
"  Childless,  through  that  relentless  maid ! 


A  lifetime's  arts,  in  vain  essay'd, 
Are  bursting  on  their  artist's  head  ! 
Here  lies  my  Wilfrid  dead  —  and  there 
Comes  hated  Mortham  for  his  heir. 
Eager  to  knit  in  happy  band 
With  Rokeby's  heiress  Redmond's  hand. 
And  shall  their  triumph  soar  o'er  all 
The   schemes    deep-laid    to    work  their 

f.ill? 
No  !  —  deeds,  which  prudence  might  not 

dare, 
Appal  not  vengeance  and  despair. 
The  murderess  weeps  upon  his  bier  — 
I'll  change  to  real  that  feigned  tear! 
Tiieyallshallshare  destruction's  shock;  — 
Ho  !  lead  the  captives  to  the  block  !  " 
But  ill  his  Provost  could  divine 
His  feelings,  and  forbore  the  sign. 
"  Slave  !  to  the  block  !  —  or  I,  or  they. 
Shall  face  the  judgment-seat  this  day  !" 


The  outmost  crowd  have  heard  a  sound. 
Like  horse's  hoof  on  harden'd  ground: 
Nearer  it  came,  and  yet  more  near,  — 
The  very  death's-men  paused  to  hear. 
'Tis  in  the  ehurch-yard  now  — the  tread 
Hath  waked  the  dwelling  of  the  dead  ! 
Fresh  sod,  and  old  sepulchral  stone. 
Return  the  tramp  in  varied  tone. 
All  eyes  upon  the  gateway  hung. 
When    through    the   Gothic   arch    there 

sprung 
A  horseman  arm'd,  at  headlong  speed  — 
Sable  his  cloak,  his  plume,  his  steed. ^'' 
Fire  from  the  flinty  ffoor  was  spurn'd. 
The  vaults  unwonted  clang  return'd  !  — 
One  instant's  glance  around  he  threw. 
From  saddlebow  his  pistol  drew. 
Grimly  determined  was  his  look  ! 
His  charger  with  the  spurs  he  strook  — 
All  scatter'd  backward  as  he  came, 
For  all  knew  Bertram  Risingham  ! 
Three  bounds  that  noble  courser  gave; 
The  first  has  reach'd  the  central  nave, 
The  second  clear'd  the  chancel  wide. 
The  third  —  he  was  at  Wycliffe's  side. 
Full  ievell'd  at  the  Baron's  head, 
Rung  the  report  —  the  bullet  sped  — 
And  to  his  long  account,  and  last, 
Without  a  groan  dark  Oswald  past ! 
All  was  so  quick  that  it  might  seem 
A  flash  of  lightning  or  a  dream. 


Canto  VI. 


ROKEBY. 


257 


XXXIII. 

While  yet  the  smoke  the  deed  conceals, 
Bertram  his  ready  charger  wheels; 
But  flounder'd  on  the  pavement  floor 
The  steed,  and  down  the  rider  bore, 
And,  bursting  in  the  headlong  sway. 
The  faithless  saddle-girths  gave  way. 
'Twas  while  he  toil'd  him  to  be  freed. 
And  with  the  rein  to  raise  the  steed. 
That  from  amazement's  iron  trance 
AH  Wycliffe's  soldiers  waked  at  once. 
Sword,  halbert,  musket-butt,  their  blows 
Ilail'd  upon  Bertram  as  he  rose; 
A  score  of  pikes,  with  each  a  wound, 
Bore  down  and  pinn'd  him  to  the  ground; 
But  still  his  struggling  force  he  rears, 
"Gainst    hacking    brands    and    stabbing 

spears; 
Thrice  from  assailants  shook  him  free. 
Once  gain'd  his  feet,  and  twice  his  knee. 
By  tenfold  odds  oppress'd  at  length. 
Despite  his  struggles  and  his  strength, 
lie  took  a  hundred  mortal  wounds. 
As  mute  as  fox  'mongst  mangling  hounds; 
And  when  he  died,  his  parting  groan 
Had  more  of  laughter  than  of  moan! 
—  They  gazed,  as  when  a  lion  dies, 
And  hunters  scarcely  trust  their  eyes. 
But  Ix-'nd  their  weapons  on  the  slain. 
Lest  the  grim  king  should  rouse  again  ! 
Then  blow  and  insult  some  renew'd. 
And  from  the  trunk,  the  head  had  hew'd. 
But  Basil's  voice  the  deed  forbade; 
A  mantle  o'er  the  corse  he  laid :  — 
"  Fell  as  he  was  in  act  and  mind. 
He  left  no  bolder  heart  behind: 
Then  give  him,  for  a  soldier  meet, 
A  soldier's  cloak  for  winding-sheet." 

XXXIV. 

No  more  of  death  and  dying  pang. 
No  more  of  trump  and  bugle  clang, 
Tho'  thro'  the  sounding  woods  there  come 
Banner  and  Vjugle,  trump  and  drum. 
Arm'd  with  such  powers  as  well  had  freed 
Young  Redmond  at  his  utmost  need, 


And  back'd  with  such  a  band  of  horse. 
As  might  less  ample  powers  enforce; 
Possess'd  of  every  proof  and  sign 
That  gave  an  heir  to  Mortham's  line, 
And  yielded  to  a  father's  arms 
An  image  of  his  Edith's  cftrms,  — 
Mortham  is  come,  to  hear  and  see 
Of  this  strange  morn  the  history. 
What  saw  he?  —  not  the  church's  floor, 
Cumber'd    with    dead    and  .  stain'd    with 

gore; 
What    heard    he?  — not    the    clamorous 

crowd. 
That  shout  their  gratulations  loud : 
Redmond  he  saw  and  heard  alone, 
Clasp'd   him,    and    sobb'd,    "My   son! 

my  son  !  "  — 


This  chanced  upon  a  summer  morn. 
When  yellow  waved  the  heavy  corn : 
But  when  brown  August  o'er  the  land 
Call'd  forth  the  reaper's  busy  band, 
A  gladsome  sight  the  sylvan  road 
From  Egliston  to  Mortham  show'd. 
A  while  the  hardy  rustic  leaves 
The  task  to  bind  and  pile  the  sheaves. 
And  maids  their  sickles  fling  aside. 
To  gaze  on  bridegroom  and  on  bride. 
And  childhood's  wondering  group  draws 

near, 
And  from  the  gleaner's  hands  the  ear 
Drops,  while  she  folds  them  for  a  prayer 
And  blessing  on  the  lovely  pair. 
'Twas  then  the  Maid  of  Rokeby  gave 
Her  plighted  troth  to  Redmond  brave; 
And  Teesdale  can  remember  yet 
How  Fate  to  Virtue  paid  her  debt. 
And,  for  their  troubles,  bade  them  prove 
A  lengthen'd  life  of  peace  and  love. 


Time  and  Tide  had  thus  their  sway. 
Yielding,  like  an  April  day, 
Smiling  noon  for  sullen  morrow. 
Years  of  joy  for  hours  of  sorrow  ! 


THE 

BRIDAL   OF   TRIERMAIN 

OR, 

THE   VALE    OF    ST.    JOHN. 
A    LOVER'S    TALE. 


PREFACE    TO    FIRST    EDITION. 

In  the  Edinburgh  Annual  Register  for  the  year  i8og,  Tliree  Fragments  were  inserted, 
written  in  imitation  of  Living  Poets.  It  must  have  been  apparent,  that  by  these  prolusions, 
nothing  burlesque,  or  disrespectful  to  the  authors,  was  intended,  but  that  tliey  were  offered 
to  the  public  as  serious,  though  certainly  very  imperfect,  imitations  of  that  style  of  compo- 
sition, by  which  each  of  the  writers  is  supposed  to  be  distinguished.  As  these  exercises 
attracted  a  greater  degree  of  attention  than  the  author  anticipated,  he  has  been  induced  to 
complete  one  of  them,  and  present  it  as  a  separate  publication. 

It  is  not  in  this  place  that  an  examination  of  the  works  of  the  master  *  whom  he  has  here 
adopted  as  his  model,  can,  with  propriety,  be  introduced ;  since  his  general  acquiescence  in 
the  favorable  suffrage  of  the  public  nmst  necessarily  be  inferred  from  the  attempt  he  has 
now  made.  He  is  induced,  by  the  nature  of  his  subject,  to  offer  a  few  remarks  tm  what 
has  been  called  romantic  i-oetry  ;  the  popularity  of  which  has  been  revived  in  the  pres- 
ent day,  under  the  auspices,  and  by  the  unparalleled  success,  of  one  individual. 

The  original  purpose  of  poetry  is  either  religious  or  historical,  or,  as  must  frequently 
happen,  a  mixture  of  lx)th.  To  modern  readers,  the  poems  of  Homer  have  many  of  the 
features  of  pure  romance  ;  but  in  the  estimation  of  his  contemporaries,  they  probably  de- 
rived their  chief  value  from  their  supposed  historical  authenticity.  The  same  may  be 
generally  said  of  the  poetry  of  all  early  ages.  The  marvels  and  miracles  which  the  poet 
blends  with  his  song,  do  not  exceed  in  numloer  or  extravagance  the  figments  of  the  histo- 
rians of  the  same  period  of  society  ;  and,  indeed,  the  difference  betwixt  poetry  and  prose, 
as  the  vehicles  of  historical  truth,  is  always  of  late  introduction.  Poets,  under  various 
denominations  of  Bards,  Scalds,  Chroniclers,  and  so  forth,  are  the  first  historians  of  all 
nations.  Their  intention  is  to  relate  the  events  they  have  witnessed,  or  the  traditions 
that  have  reached  them  ;  and  they  clothe  the  relation  in  rhyme,  merely  as  the  means  of 
rendering  it  more  solemn  in  the  narrative  or  more  easily  committed  to  memory.  But  as 
the  poetical  historiaJi  improves  in  the  art  of  conveying  information,  the  authenticity  of  his 
narrative  unavoidably  declines.  He  is  tempted  to  dilate  and  dwell  upon  the  events  that 
are  interesting  to  his  imagination,  and,  conscious  how  indifferent  his  audience  is  to  the 
naked  truth  of  his  poem,  his  history  gradually  becomes  a  romance. 

It  is  in  this  situation  that  those  epics  are  found,  which  have  been  generally  regarded  the 
standards  of  poetry  ;  and  it  has  happened  somewhat  strangely,  that  the  moderns  have 
pointed  out  as  the  characteristics  and  peculiar  excellencies  of  narrative  poetry,  the  very 
circumstances  which   the  authors  themselves  adopted,  only  because  their  art  involved  the 

•  Scott  himself.  The  poem  was  published  anonymously,  the  author  being  desirous  to  entrap 
Jeffrey  and  his  other  critics.  It  was  for  some  time  supposed  to  be  the  work  of  William  Erskine, 
Lord  tCinnedder. 

258 


PREFACE    TO  FIRST  EDITION.  259 

duties  of  the  historian  as  well  as  the  poet.  It  cannot  be  telieved,  for  example,  that  Homer 
selected  the  siege  of  Troy  as  the  most  appropriate  subject  for  poetry  ;  his  purpose  was  to 
write  the  early  history  of  his  country  ;  the  event  he  has  chosen,  though  not  very  fruitful  in 
varied  incident,  nor  perfectly  well  adapted  for  poetry,  was  nevertheless  combined  with  tra- 
ditionary and  genealogical  anecdotes  extremely  interesting  to  those  who  were  to  listen  to 
him;  and  this  he  has  adorned  by  the  exertions  of  a  genius,  which,  if  it  has  been  equalled, 
has  certainly  been  never  surpassed.  It  was  not  till  comparatively  a  Late  period  that  the 
general  accuracy  of  his  narrative,  or  his  purpose  in  composing  it,  was  brought  into  ques- 
tion. AoKci  TrpMTOs  [6  'Ai'tt^ayopas]  (Ko-ff  a.  i/>r)<ri  ^a^opifo?  iv  iravToSaTr^  'IcrTopia)  Trji'  'Ofij^pov 
Troirjtriv  a.iro<(>riva(r9aL   elfai   Trepi   aperqi   (cat  SiKaiocrvvr)':.*      But    whatever  theories   might    be 

framed  by  speculative  men,  his  work  was  of  an  historical,  not  of  an  allegorical  nature. 

Ei'auTiAAtTO  n-exd  tow  MeVrtw  Kai  oirou  «a<TTOTe  d</>iKoi.TO,  irdvTa  to  firi)(iapia  SieptuTaTo  Kal 
icTTopeMV  envvOdveTO-  ciicb?  St  pnv  riv  K<ii  /i.>'r)p.o<ru>'a  navruv  Ypdc/)e<rSat.f  Instead  of  recom- 
mending the  choice  of  a  subject  similar  to  that  of  Homer,  it  was  to  be  expected  that  critics 
should  have  exhorted  the  poets  of  these  latter  days  to  adopt  or  invent  a  narrative  in  itself 
more  susceptible  of  poetical  ornament,  and  to  avail  themselves  of  that  advantage  in  order 
to  compensate,  in  some  degree,  the  inferiority  of  genius.  The  contrary  course  has  teen 
inculcated  by  almost  all  the  writers  upon  the  £/>o/a:ia ;  with  what  success,  the  fate  of 
Homer's  numerous  imitators  may  best  show.  Tlie  ultimuni  siipplicium  of  criticism  was 
indicted  on  the  author  if  he  did  not  choose  a  subject  which  at  once  deprived  him  of  all 
claim  to  originality,  and  placed  him,  if  not  in  actual  contest,  at  least  in  fatal  comparison, 
with  those  giants  in  the  land  whom  it  was  most  his  interest  to  avoid.  The  celebrated 
receipt  for  writing  an  epic  poem,  which  appeared  in  The  Guardian,\  was  the  first  instance 
in  which  common  sense  was  applied  to  this  department  of  poetry  ;  and,  indeed,  if  the  ques- 
tion be  considered  on  its  own  merits,  we  must  be  satisfied  that  narrative  poetry,  if  strictly 
confined  to  the  great  occurrences  of  history,  would  be  deprived  of  the  individual  interest 
which  it  is  so  well  calculated  to  excite. 

Modern  poets  may  therefore  be  pardoned  in  seeking  simpler  subjects  of  verse,  more  in- 
teresting in  proportion  to  tlieir  simplicity.  Two  or  three  figures,  well  grouped,  suit  the 
artist  better  than  a  crowd,  for  whatever  purpose  assembled.  For  the  same  reason,  a  scene 
immediately  presented  to  the  imagination,  and  directly  brought  home  to  the  feelings, 
though  involving  the  fate  of  but  one  or  two  persons,  is  more  favorable  for  poetry  than  the 
political  struggles  and  convulsions  which  influence  the  fate  of  kingdoms.  The  former  are 
within  the  reach  and  comprehension  of  all,  and,  if  depicted  with  vigor,  seldom  fail  to  fix 
attention  :  The  other,  if  more  sublime,  are  more  vague  and  distant,  less  capable  of  teing 
distinctly  understood,  and  infinitely  less  capable  of  exciting  those  sentiments  which  it  is 
the  very  purpose  of  poetry  to  inspire.  To  generalize  is  always  to  destroy  effect.  We 
would,  for  example,  be  more  interested  in  the  fate  of  an  individual  soldier  in  combat,  than 
in  tlie  grand  event  of  a  generaPaction ;  with  the  happiness  of  two  lovers  raised  from  mis- 
ery and  anxiety  to  peace  and  union,  than  with  the  successful  exertions  of  a  whole  nation. 
From  what  causes  this  may  originate,  is  a  separate  and  obviously  an  immaterial  considera- 
tion. Before  ascribing  this  peculiarity  to  causes  decidedly  and  odiously  selfish,  it  is  proper 
to  recollect,  that  while  men  see  only  a  limited  space,  and  while  their  affections  and  conduct 
are  regulated,  not  by  aspiring  to  a  universal  good,  but  by  exerting  their  power  of  making 
themselves  and  otliers  happy  within  the  limited  scale  allotted  to  each  individual,  so  long 
will  individual  history  and  individual  virtue  be  the  readier  and  more  accessible  road  to 
general  interest  and  attention ;  and,  perhaps,  we  may  add,  that  it  is  the  more  useful,  as 
well  as  the  more  accessible,  inasmuch  as  it  affords  an  example  capable  of  being  easily 
imitated. 

According  to  the  author's  idea  of  Romantic  Poetry,  as  distinguished  from  Epic,  the 
former  comprehends  a  fictitious  narrative,  framed  and  combined  at  the  pleasure  of  the 
writer  ;  beginning  and  ending  as  he  may  judge  best ;  which  neither  exacts  nor  refuses 
the  use  of  supernatural  machinery;  which  is  free  from  the  technical  rules  of  the  Efcc ; 
and  is  subject  only  to  those  which  good  sense,  good  taste,  and  good  morals  apply  to  every 
species  of  poetry  without  exception.  The  date  may  te  in  a  remote  age,  or  in  the  present; 
the  story  may  detail  the  adventures  of  a  prince  or  of  a  peasant.  In  a  word,  the  author  is 
absolute  master  of  his  country  and  its  inhabitants,  and  everything  is  permitted  to  him. 

*  Diogenes  Laertius  :  lib.  it.,  Anax.  Segtn.  ii. 

t  Homeri  Vita,  in  Herod,  Henr.  Steph.  1670,  p.  356. 

X  Written  by  Alexander  Pope. 


26o  PREFACE    TO  FIRST  EDITION. 

excepting  to  be  heavy  or  prosaic,  from  which,  free  and  unembarrassed  as  he  is,  he  has  no 
manner  of  apology.  Those,  it  is  probable,  will  be  found  the  peculiarities  of  this  species  of 
composition  ;  and  before  joining  the  outcry  against  the  vitiated  taste  that  fosters  and  en- 
courages it,  the  justice  and  grounds  of  it  ought  to  be  made  [perfectly  apparent.  If  the 
want  of  sieges,  and  battles,  and  great  military  evolutions,  in  our  poetry,  is  complained  of, 
let  us  reflect,  that  the  campaigns  and  heroes  of  our  days  are  perpetuated  in  a  record  that 
neither  requires  nor  admits  of  the  aid  of  fiction  ;  and  if  the  complaint  refers  to  the  infe- 
riority of  our  bards,  let  us  pay  a  just  tribute  to  their  modesty,  limiting  them,  as  it  does, 
to  subjects  which,  however  indifferently  treated,  have  still  the  interest  and  charm  of  nov- 
elty, and  which  thus  prevents  them  from  adding  insipidity  to  their  other  more  insuperable 
defects. 


THE  BRIDAL  OF  TRIERMAIN. 


INTRODUCTION. 


Come,  Lucy  !  while  'tis  morning  hour, 

The  woodland  brook  we   needs  must 
pass; 
So,  ere  the  sun  assume  his  power. 
We  shelter  in  our  poplar  bower. 
Where  the  dew  lies  long  upon  the  flower, 

Though  vanish'd  from  the  velvet  grass. 
Curbing  the  stream,  the  stony  ridge 
May  serve  us  for  a  sylvan  bridge; 

For  here  compell'd  to  disunite, 

Round  petty  isles  the  runnels  glide. 
And  chafing  off  their  puny  spite, 
The  shallow  murmurs  waste  their  might, 

Yielding  to  footstep  free  and  light 
A  dry-shod  pass  from  side  to  side. 


Nay,  why  this  hesitating  pause? 
And,  Lucy,  as  thy  step  withdraws, 
Why  sidelong  eye  the  streamlet's  brim? 

Titania's  foot  without  a  slip. 
Like  thine,  though  timid,  light,  and  slim. 

From  stone  to  stone  might  safely  trip, 

Nor  risk  the  glow-worm  clasp  to  dip 
That  binds  her  slipper's  silken  rim. 
Or  trust  thy  lover's  strength :   nor  fear 

That  this  same  stalwart  arm  of  mine, 
Which  could  yon  oak's   prone  trunk  up- 
rear, 
Shall  shrink  beneath  the  burden  dear 

Of  form  so  slender,  light,  and  fine  — 
So,  —  now,  the  danger  dared  at  last. 
Look  back,  and  smile  at  perils  past ! 


And  now  we  reach  the  favorite  glade. 
Paled  in  by  copse  wood,  cliff,  and  stone, 


Where  never  harsher  sounds  invade. 
To  break  affection's  whispering  tone. 
Than   the   deep    breeze    that   waves  the 
shade. 
Than    the     small     brooklet's    feeble 
moan. 
Come  !  rest  thee  on  thy  wonted  seat; 

Moss'd  is  the  stone,  the  turf  is  green, 
A  place  where  lovers  best  may  meet, 
Who    would    not    that    their    love   be 
seen. 
The  boughs,  that  dim  the  summer  sky. 
Shall  hide  us  from  each  lurking  spy. 
That  fain  would  spread  the  invidious 
tale! 
How  Lucy  of  the  lofty  eye. 
Noble  in  birth,  in  fortunes  high. 
She  for  whom  lords  and  barons  sigh. 
Meets  her  poor  Arthur  in  the  dale. 


How  deep  that  blush  !  —  how  deep  that 

sigh ! 
And  why  does  Lucy  shun  mine  eye? 
Is  it  because  that  crimson  draws 
Its  color  from  some  secret  cause. 
Some  hidden  movement  of  the  breast 
She  would  not  that  her  Arthur  guess'd? 
O  !  quicker  far  is  lover's  ken 
Than  the  dull  glance  of  common  men, 
And,  by  strange  sympathy,  can  spell 
The   thoughts    the   loved   one    will    not 

tell? 
And  mine,  in  Lucy's  blush,  saw  met 
The  hues  of  pleasure  and  regret; 
Pride  mingled  in  the  sigh  her  voice. 
And  shared  with  Love  the  crimson 

glow; 
261 


262 


THE  BRIDAL    OF   TRIERMAIN. 


Well    pleased   that    thou   art   Arthur's 
choice, 
Yet  shamed  thine  own  is  placed  so 
low: 
Thou  turn'st  thy  self-confessing  cheek, 

As  if  to  meet  the  breeze's  cooling; 
Then,  Lucy,  hear  thy  tutor  speak, 
For    Love,    too,    has  his    hours   of 
schooling. 


Too  oft  the  anxious  eye  has  spied 
That  secret  grief  thou  fain  wouldst  hide, 
The  passing  pang  of  huml)]ed  pride; 
Too  oft,    when   through    the   splendid 
hall, 
The  load-star  of  each  heart  and  eye. 
My  fair  one  leads  the  glittering  hall. 
Will  her  stol'n  glance  on  Arthur  fall 
With  such  a  blush  and  such  a  sigh  ! 
Thou  would'st  not  yield,  for  wealth  or 
rank, 
The  heart  thy  worth  and  beauty  won. 
Nor  leave  me  on  this  mossy  bank. 

To  meet  a  rival  on  a  throne : 
Why,  then,  should  vain  repinings  rise, 
That  to  thy  lover  fate  denies 
A  nobler  name,  a  wide  domain, 
A  Baron's  birth,  a  menial  train. 
Since    Heaven    assign'd    him,    for  his 

part, 
A  lyre,  a  falchion,  and  a  heart? 


My  sword  —  its  master  must  be  dumb; 
But,  when  a  soldier  names  my  name, 
Approach,  my  Lucy  !   fearless  come, 

Nor  dread  to  hear  of  Arthur's  shame. 
My  heart — mid  all  yon  courtly  crew. 

Of  lordly  rank  and  lofty  line. 
Is  there  to  love  and  honor  true, 

That  boasts  a  pulse  so  warm  as  mine  ? 
They  praised  thy  diamonds'  lustre  rare  — 
Match'd  with  thine  eyes,  I  thought  it 
faded; 
They  praised  the  pearls  that  bound  thy 
hair  — 
I  only  saw  the  locks  they  braided; 
They  talk  of  wealthy  dower  and  land, 

And  titles  of  high  birth  the  token  — 
I  thought  of  Lucy's  heart  and  hand. 
Nor    knew    the    sense    of    what    was 
spoken. 


And  yet,  if  rank'd  in  Fortune's  roll, 
I  might  have   learn'd   their   choice  un- 
wise. 

Who  rate  the  dower  above  the  soul. 
And  Lucy's  diamonds  o'er  her  eyes. 


My  lyre  —  it  is  an  idle  toy, 

That  borrows  accents  not  its  own, 

Like  warbler   of  Cohmd>ian  sky. 
That  sings  but  in  a  mimic  tone.* 

Ne'er  did  it  sound  o'er  sainted  well. 

Nor  lioasts  it  aught  of  Border  Spell; 
Its  strings  no  feudal  slogan  pour. 
Its  heroes  draw  no  broad  claymore; 
No  shouting  clans  applauses  raise. 
Because  it  sung  their  father's  praise; 
On  Scottish  moor,  or  English  down, 
It  ne'er  was  graced  by  fair  renown; 
Nor    won, —  best    meed     to    minstrel 

true,  — 
One    favoring    smile    from    fair   Buc- 

CLEUCH  ! 
By  one  poor  streamlet  sounds  its  tone. 
And  heard  by  one  dear  maid  alone. 


But,   if    thou  bid'st,  these  tones  shall 

tell 
Of  errant  knight,  and  damozelle; 
Of  the  dread  knot  a  Wizard  tied, 
In  punishment  of  maiden's  pride, 
In  notes  of  marvel  and  of  fear. 
That  best  may  charm  romantic  ear. 
For    Lucy    loves, — like    Collins,    ill- 

star'd  name ! 
Whose  lay's  requital  was  that  tardy  fame. 
Who  bound   no  laurel   round  his    living 

head, 
Should  hang  it  o'er  his  monument  when 

dead, — 
For  Lucy  loves  to  tread  enchanted  strand. 
And  thread,  like  him,  the  maze  of  Fairy- 
land; 
Of     golden    battlements,     to    view    the 

glejim, 
And  slumber  soft  by  some  Elysian  stream; 
Such    lays    she     loves,  - — and    such    my 

Lucy's  choice. 
What  other  song  can  claim  her    Poet's 
voice  ? 

*  The  Mocking  Bird. 


Canto  I. 


THE   BRIDAL    OF  TRIERMAIN. 


263 


CANTO   FIRST. 
I. 
Where  is  the  Maiden  of  mortal  strain. 
That  may  match  with  the  Baron  of  Tri*- 

niain  ?  ^ 
She  must  be  lovely,  and  constant,  and 

kind, 
Holy  and  pure,  and  humble  of  mind. 
Blithe  of  cheer,  and  gentle  of  mood. 
Courteous,  and  generous,  and  noble  of 

blood  — 
Lovely  as  the  sun's  first  ray, 
When  it  breaks  the  clouds  of  an  April 

day; 
Constant  and  true  as  the  widow'd  dove. 
Kind  as  a  minstrel  that  sings  of  love; 
Pure  as  the  fountain  in  rocky  cave. 
Where  never  sunbeam  kiss'd  the  wave; 
Humble  as  maiden  that  loves  in  vain. 
Holy  as  hermit's  vesper  strain; 
Gentle  as  breeze  that  but  whispers  and 

dies. 
Yet  blithe  as  the  light  leaves  that  dance 

in  its  sighs; 
Courteous  as  monarch  the  morn  he  is 

crown'd. 
Generous  as  spring-dews  that  bless  the 

glad  ground; 
Noble  her  blood  as  the  currents  that  met 
In  the  veins  of  the  noblest  Plantagenet  — 
Such  must  her  form  be,  her  mood,  and 

her  strain. 
That  shall   match    with    Sir   Roland   of 

Triermain. 


Sir  Roland  de  Vaux  he  hath  laid  him  to 

sleep. 
His  blood  it  was  fever'd,  his  breathing 

was  deep. 
He  had  been  pricking  against  the  Scot, 
The  foray  was  long,  and  the  skirmish  hot; 
His  dinted  helm  and  his  buckler's  plight 
Bore  token  of  a  stubborn  fight. 

All  in  the  castle  must  hold  them  still, 
Harpers  must  lull  him  to  his  rest, 
With  the  slow  soft  tunes  he  loves  the  best. 
Till  sleep  sink  down  upon  his  breast, 

Like  the  dew  on  a  summer  hill. 


It  was  the  dawn  of  an  autumn  day; 
The  sun  was  struggling  with  frost-fog  gray. 


That  like  a  silvery  cape  was  spread 
Round  Skiddaw's  dim  and  distant  head. 
And  faintly  gleam'd  each  painted  pane 
Of  the  lordly  halls  of  Triermain, 

When  that  Baron  bold  awoke. 
Starting  he  woke,  and  loudly  did  call. 
Rousing    his    menials     in    bower    and 
hall. 

While  hastily  he  spoke :  — 


"  Hearken,  my  minstrels !     Which  of  ye 

all 
Touch'd  his  harp  with  that  dying  fall. 

So  sweet,  so  soft,  so  faint. 
It  seem'd  an  angel's  whisper'd  call 

To  an  expiring  saint  ? 
And    hearken,    my    merry-men !      What 
time  or  where 
Did  she  pass,  that   maid  with  hei 
heavenly  brow. 
With  her  look  so  sweet  and  her  eyes  so 

fair. 
And  her  graceful  step  and  her  angel  air, 
And  the  eagle  plume  in  her  dark-browif 
hair. 
That  pass'd  from   my   bower   e'en 
now  ? ' ' 


Answer'd  him  Richard  de  Bretville;  he 
Was  chief  of  the  Baron's  minstrelsy,  — 
"  Silent,  noble  chieftain,  we 

Have  sat  since  midnight  close,         i 
When  such  lulling  sounds  as  the  brooklef 

sings, 

Murmur'd  from  our  melting  strings. 

And  hush'd  you  to  repose. 

Had  a  harp-note  sounded  here. 

It  had  caught  my  watchful  ear. 

Although  it  fell  as  faint  and  shy 

As  bashful  maiden's  half-form'd  sigh, 

When  she  thinks  her  lover  near."  — 
Answer'd  Philip  of  Fasthwaite  tall. 
He  kept  guard  in  the  outer-hall :  — 
"  Since  at  eve  our  watch  took  post, 
Not  a  foot  has  thy  portal  cross'd; 

Else  had  I  heard  the  steps,  though 
low 
And  light  they  fell,  as  when  earth  je- 

ceives. 
In  morn  of  frost,  the  wither'd  leaves. 
That  drop  when  no  winds  blow."  — 


264 


THE  BRIDAL    OF  TRIERMAIN. 


Canto  I. 


"  Then  come  thou  hither,  Henry  my  page, 
Whom  I  saved  from  the  sack  of  Hermit- 
age, 
When  that  dark  castle,  tower,  and  spire, 
Rose  to  the  skies  a  pile  of  fire, 

And    redden 'd    all    the    Nine-stane 
Hill, 
And  the    shrieks   of   death,  that  wildly 

broke 
Through   devouring  flame  and  smother- 
ing smoke, 

Made  the  warrior's  heart-blood  chill. 
The  trustiest  thou  of  all  my  train. 
My  fleetest  courser  thou  must  rein, 

And  ride  to  Lyulph's  tower. 
And  from  the  Baron  of  Triermain 

Greet  well  that  sage  of  power. 
He  is  sprung  from  Druid  sires, 
And  British  bards  that  tuned  their  lyres 
To  Arthur's  and  Pendragon's  praise, 
And  his  who  sleeps  at  Dunmailraise.  • 
Gifted  like  his  gifted  race. 
He  the  characters  can  trace. 
Graven  deep  in  elder  time 
Upon  Helvellyn's  cliffs  sublime; 
Sign  and  sigil  well  doth  he  know. 
And  can  bode  of  weal  and  woe. 
Of  kingdoms'  fall  and  fate  of  wars, 
From  mystic  dreams  and  course  of  stars. 
He  shall  tell  if  middle  earth 
To  that  enchanting  shape  gave  birth, 
Or  if  'twas  but  an  airy  thing, 
Such  as  fantastic  slumbers  bring, 
Framed  from  the  rainbow's  varying  dyes. 
Or  fading  tints  of  western  skies. 
For,  by  the  blessed  Rood  I  swear, 
If  that  fair  form  breathe  vital  air. 
No  other  maiden  by  my  side 
Shall  ever  rest  De  Vaux's  bride  !  " 


The  faithful  Page  he  mounts  his  steed, 
And   soon   he    cross'd   green    Irthing's 

mead, 
Dash'd  o'er  Kirkoswald's  verdant  plain, 
And  Eden  barr'd  his  course  in  vain. 
He  pass'd  red  Penrith's  Table  Round,^ 
For  feats  of  chivalry  renown'd, 

•  Dunmailraise  is  one  of  the  grand  passes 
from  Cumberland  into  Westmoreland.  There  is 
a  cairn  on  it  said  to  be  the  monument  of  Dun- 
mail,  the  last  King  of  Cumberland. 


Left  Mayburgh's  mound  ^  and  stones  of 

power, 
By  Druids  raised  in  magic  hour, 
And  traced  the  Eamont's  winding  way, 
Till  Ulfo'st  lake  beneath  him  lay. 


Onward  he  rode,  the  pathway  still 
Winding  betwixt  the  lake  and  hill; 
Till,  on  the  fragment  of  a  rock, 
Struck  from  its  base  by  lightning  shock, 

He  saw  the  hoary  Sage: 
The  silver  moss  and  lichen  twined. 
With  fern  and  deer-hair  check'd  and  lined, 

A  cushion  fit  for  age; 
And  o'er  him  shook  the  aspen-tree, 
A  restless,  rustling  canopy. 
Then  sprung  young  Henry  from  hisselle, 

And  greeted  Lyulph  grave, 
And  then  his  master's  tale  did  tell. 

And  then  for  counsel  crave. 
The  Man  of  Years  mused  long  and  deep, 
Of  time's  lost  treasures  taking  keep, 
And  then,  as  rousing  from  a  sleep. 

His  solemn  answer  gave: — 


"  That  maid  is  born  of  middle  earth. 

And  may  of  man  be  won. 
Though  there  have  glided  since  her  birth 

Five  hundred  years  and  one. 
But  where's  the  Knight  in  all  the  north, 
That  dare  the  adventure  follow  forth, 
So  perilous  to  knightly  worth. 

In  the  valley  of   St.  John? 
Listen,  youth,  to  what  I  tell, 
And  bind  it  on  thy  memory  well; 
Nor  muse  that  I  commence  the  rhyme 
Far  distant  mid  the  wrecks  of  time. 
The  mystic  tale,  by  bard  and  sage, 
Is  handed  down  from  Merlin's  age. 


lyulph's  tale. 
'•  King  Arthur  has  ridden  from  merry 
Carlisle 
When  Pentecost  was  o'er : 
He  journey'd  like  errant-knight  the  while, 
And  sweetly  the  summer  sun  did  smile 
On  mountain,  moss,  and  moor. 

t  U  Is  water.  _ 


Canto  I. 


THE  BRIDAL    OF   TRIERMAIN. 


265 


Above  his  solitary  track 
Rose  Glaraniara's  ridgy  back, 
Amid  whose  yawning  gulfs  the  sun 
Cast  unii)er'd  radiance  red  and  dun, 
Though  never  sunlieam  could  discern 
The  surface  of  that  sable  tarn,* 
In  whose  black  mirror  you  may  spy 
The  stars,  while  noontide  lights  the  sky. 
The  gallant  King  he  skirted  still 
The  margin  of   that  mighty  hill; 
Rock  upon  rocks  incumbent  hung, 
And  torrents,  down  the  gullies  flung, 
Joia'd  the  rude  river  that  brawl'd  on, 
Recoiling  now  from  crag  and  stone. 
Now  diving  deep  from  human  ken, 
And  raving  down  its  darksome  glen. 
The  Monarch  judged  this  desert  wild. 
With  such  romantic  ruin  piled. 
Was  theatre  by  Nature's  hand 
For  feat  of  high  achievement  plann'd. 


"O  rather  he  chose,  that  Monarch  bold. 

On  vent'rous  quest  to  ride. 
In  plate  and  mail,  by  wood  and  wold, 
Than,  with  ermine  trapp'd  and  cloth  of 
gold. 
In  princely  bower  to  bide; 
The  bursting  crash  of  a  foeman's  spear 

As  it  shiver 'd  against  his  mail. 
Was  merrier  music  to  his  ear 

Than  courtier's  whisper'd  tale; 
And  the  clash  of  Caliburn*  more  dear. 
When  on  the  hostile  casque  it  rung. 
Than  all  the  lays 
To  their  monarch's  praise 
That  the  harpers  of  Reged  sung. 
He  loved  better  to  rest  by  wood  or  river, 
Than    in    bower     of     his    bride.   Dame 

Guenever, 
For  he  left  that  lady,  so  lovely  of  cheer. 
To  follow  adventures  of  danger  and  fear; 
And  the  frank-hearted  Monarch  full  little 

did  wot,  I 
That  she  smiled,  in  his  absence,  on  brave 
Lancelot. 


"  He  rode,  till  over  down  and  dell 
The  shade  more  broad  and  deeper  fell; 


*  King  Arthur's  sword,  called  by  Tennyson 
Excalibur. 


And  though  around  the  mountain's  head 
Flow'd    streams  of    purple,    and    gold, 

and  red. 
Dark  at  the  base,  unblest  by  beam, 
Frown'd  the  black  rocks,  and  roar'd  the 

stream. 
With  toil  the  King  his  way  pursued 
By  lonely  Threlkeld's  waste  anti  wood. 
Till  on  his  course  obliquely  shone 
The  narrow  valley  of  Saint  John, 
Down  sloping  to  the  western  sky. 
Where  lingering  sunbeams  love  to  lie. 
Right  glad  to  feel  those  beams  again. 
The  King  drew  up  his  charger's  rein; 
With  gauntlet  raised  he  screen'd  his  sight, 
As  dazzled  with  the  level  light. 
And,  from  beneath  his  glove  of  mail, 
Scann'd  at  his  ease  the  lovely  vale. 
While  'gainst  the  sun  his  armor  bright 
Gleam'd  ruddy  like  the  beacon's  light. 


"Paled  in  by  many  a  lofty  hill. 
The  narrow  dale  lay  smooth  and  still. 
And,  down  its  verdant  Ixwom  led, 
A  winding  brooklet  found  its  bed. 
But,  midmost  of  the  vale,  a  mound 
Arose  with  airy  turrets  crown'd, 
Buttress,  and  rampire's  circling  Iwund, 

And  mighty  keep  and  tower; 
Seem'd  some  primeval  giant's  hand 
The  castle's  massive  walls  had  plann'd, 
A  ponderous  bulwark  to  withstand 

Ambitious  Nimrod's  power. 
Above  the  moated  entrance  slung, 
The  balanced  drawbridge  trembling  hung, 

As  jealous  of  a  foe; 
Wicket  of  oak,  as  iron  hard, 
Wfth  iron  studded,  clench'd  and  barr'd. 
And  prong'd  portcullis,  join'd  to  guard 

The  gloomy  pass  below. 
But  the  giay  walls  no  banners  crown'd. 
Upon  the  watch-tower's  airy  round 
No  warder  stood  his  horn  to  sound. 
No  guard  beside  the  bridge  was  found. 
And  where  the  Gothic  gateway  frown'd, 

Glanced  neither  bill  nor  bow. 


"  Beneath  the  castle's  gloomy  pride 
In  ample  round  did  Arthur  ride 
Three  times;    nor  living  thing  he  spied, 
Nor  heard  a  living  sound. 


266 


THE  BRIDAL    OF   TRIERMAIN. 


Canto  I. 


Save  that,  awakening  from  her  dream, 
The  owlet  now  began  to  scream. 
In  concert  with  the  rushing  stream, 

That  wash'd  the  battled  mound. 
He  lighted  from  his  goodly  steed. 
And  he  left  him  to  graze  on  bank  and  mead ; 
And  slowly  he  climb'd  the  narrow  way, 
That  reach'd  the  entrance  grim  and  gray. 
And  he  stood  the  outward  arch  below. 
And  his  bugle-horn  prepared  to  blow. 

In  summons  blithe  and  bold, 
Deeming  to  rouse  from  iron  sleep 
The  guardian  of  this  dismal  Keep, 

Which  well  he  guess'd  the  hold 
Of  wizard  stern,  or  goblin  grim. 
Or  pagan  of  gigantic  limb. 

The  tyrant  of  the  wold. 


"  The  ivory  bugle's  golden  tip 

Twice  touch'd  the  monarch's  manly  lip. 

And  twice  his  hand  withdrew. 
—  Think  not  but  Arthur's  heart  was  good  ! 
His  shield  was  cross'd  by  the  blessed  rood, 
Had  a  pagan  host  before  him  stood. 

He  had  charged  them  through  and 
through ; 
Yet  the  silence  of  that  ancient  place 
Sunk  on  his  heart,  and  he  paused  a  space 

Ere  yet  his  horn  he  blew. 
But,  instant  as  its  'larum  rung. 
The  castle  gate  was  open  flung. 
Portcullis  rose  with  crashing  groan 
Full  harshly  up  its  groove  of  stone; 
The  balance-beams  obey'd  the  blast. 
And  down  the  trembling  drawl iridge  cast ; 
The  vaulted  arch  before  him  lay. 
With  naught  to  b.ar  the  gloomy  way. 
And  onward  Arthur  paced,  with  hand 
On  Caliburn's  resistless  brand. 


"  A  hundred  torches,  flashing  bright, 
Dispell'd  at  once  the  gloomy  night 

That  lour'd  along  the  walls, 
And  show'd  the  King's  astonish'd  sight 

The  inmates  of  the  halls. 
Nor  wizard  stern,  nor  goblin  grim, 
Nor  giant  huge  of  form  and  limb, 

Nor  heathen  knight,  was  there : 
But  the  cressets,  which  odors  flung  aloft, 
Show'd  by  their  yellow  light  and  soft, 

A  band  of  damsels  fair. 


Onward  they  came,  like  summer  wave 
That  dances  to  the  shore; 

A  hundred  voices  welcome  gave, 
And  welcome  o'er  and  o'er ! 

A  hundred  lovely  hands  assail 

The  bucklers  of  the  monarch's  mail. 

And  busy  labor'd  to  unhasp 

Rivet  of  steel  and  iron  clasp. 

One  wrapp'd  him  in  a  mantle  fair. 

And  one  flung  odors  on  his  hair; 

His   short    curl'd   ringlets  one  smooth'd 
down, 

One  wreathed  them  with  a  myrtle  crown. 

A  bride  upon  her  wedding-day, 

Was  tended  ne'er  by  troop  so  gay. 


"  Loud  laugh'd  they  all,  —  the  King,  in 

vain. 
With  questions  task'd  the  giddy  train; 
Let  him  entreat,  or  crave,  or  call, 
'Twas  one  reply  —  loud  laugh'd  they  all. 
Then  o'er  him  mimic  chains  they  fling, 
]"~ramed  of  the  fairest  flowers  of  spring. 
While  some  their  gentle  force  unite. 
Onward  to  drag  the  wondering  knight. 
Some,  bolder,  urge  his  pace  with  blows. 
Dealt  with  the  lily  or  the  rose. 
Behind  him  were  in  triumph  borne 
The  warlike  arms  he  late  had  worn. 
Four  of  the  train  combined  to  rear 
The  terrors  of  Tintadgel's  spear;^ 
Two,  laughing  at  their  lack  of  strength, 
Dragg'd  Caliburn  in  cumbrous  length; 
One,  while  she  aped  a  martial  stritle. 
Placed  on  her  brows  the  helmet's  pride; 
Then  scream'd,  'twixt  laughter  and  sur- 
prise, 
To  feel  its  depth  o'erwhelm  her  eyes. 
With  revel-shout,  and  triumph-song. 
Thus  gaylymarch'd  the  giddy  throng. 


"  Through  many  a  gallery  and  hall 
They  led,  I  ween,  their  royal  thrall; 
At  length,  beneath  a  fair  arcade 
Their  march  and  song  at  once  they  staid. 
The  eldest  maiden  of  the  band, 

(The   lovely  maid  was  scarce  eigh- 
-   teen,) 
Raised,  with  imposing  air  her  hand. 
And  reverent  silence  did  command; 

On  entrance  of  their  Queen, 


Canto  II. 


THE  BRIDAL   OF  TRIERMAIN. 


267 


And  they  were  mute.  —  But  as  a  glance 
They  steal  on  Arthur's  countenance, 

Bewikler'd  with  surprise, 
Their  sniother'd  mirth  again  'gan  speak, 
In  archly  dimpled  chin  and  cheek, 

And  laughter-lighted  eyes. 


"  The  attributes  of  those  high  days 
Now  only  live  in  minstrel-lays; 
For  Nature,  now  exhausted,  still 
Was  then  profuse  of  good  and  ill. 
Strength  was  gigantic,  valor  high, 
And  wisdom  soar'd  beyond  the  sky. 
And  beauty  had  such  matchless  beam 
As  lights  not  now  a  lover's  dream. 
Yet  e'en  in  that  romantic  age. 

Ne'er  were  such  charms  by  mortal 
seen. 
As  Arthur's  dazzled  eyes  engage, 
When  forth  on  that  enchanted  stage. 
With  glittering  train  of  maid  and  page. 

Advanced  the  castle's  Queen  ! 
While  up  the  hall  she  slowly  pass'd, 
Her  dark  eye  on  the  King  she  cast. 

That  flash'd  expression  strong; 
The  longer  dwelt  that  lingering  look, 
Her  cheek  the  livelier  color  took. 
And  scarce  the  shame-faced  King  could 
brook 

The  gaze  that  lasted  long. 
A  sage,  who  had  that  look  espied. 
Where  kindling  passion  strove  with  pride. 

Had  whispered,  '  Prince,  beware  ! 
From  the  chafed  tiger  rend  the  prey, 
Rush  on  the  lion  when  at  bay, 
Bar  the  fell  dragon's  blighted  way. 

But  shun  that  lovely  snare  ! '  — 


"  At  once  that  inward  strife  suppress'd. 
The  dame  approach'd  her  warlike  guest, 
With  greeting  in  that  fair  degree, 
Where  female  pride  and  courtesy 
Are  blended  with  such  passing  art 
As  awes  at  once  and  charms  the  heart. 
A  courtly  welcome  first  she  gave. 
Then  of  his  goodness  'gan  to  crave 

Construction  fair  and  true 
Of  her  light  mai-lens'  idle  mirth, 
Who  drew  from  lonely  glens  their  birth. 
Nor  knew  to  pay  to  stranger  worth 

And  dignity  their  due; 


And  then  she  pray'd  that  he  would  rest 
That  night  her  castle's  honor'd  guest. 
The  Monarch  meekly  thanks  express'd; 
The  banquet  rose  at  her  behest. 
With  lay  and  tale,  and  laugh  and  jest, 
Apace  the  evening  flew. 


"The  lady  sate  the  Monarch  by. 
Now  in  her  turn  abash'd  and  shy. 
And  with  indifference  seem'd  to  hear 
The  toys  he  whisper'd  in  her  ear. 
Her  bearing  modest  was  and  fair. 
Yet  shadows  of  constraint  were  there, 
That  show'd  an  over-cautious  care 

Some  inward  thought  to  hide; 
Oft  did  she  pause  in  full  reply. 
And  oft  cast  down  her  large  dark  eye, 
Oft  check'd  the  soft  voluptuous  sigh. 

That  heaved  her  bosom's  pride. 
Slight   symptoms   these,    but   shepherds 

know 
How  hot  the  mid-day  sun  shall  glow. 

From  the  mist  of  morning  sky; 
And  so  the  wily  Monarch  guess'd, 
That  this  assumed  restraint  express'd 
More  ardent  passions  in  the  breast. 

Than  ventured  to  the  eye. 
Closer  he  press'd,  while  beakers  rang, 
While  maidens  laugh'd  and  minstrels  sang 

Still  closer  to  her  ear  — 
But  why  pursue  the  common  tale? 
Or  wherefore  show  how  knights  prevail 

When  ladies  dare  to  hear  ? 
Or  whereforelrace  from  what  slight  cause 
Its  source  one  tyrant  passion  draws. 

Till,  mastering  all  within, 
Where  lives  the  men  that  has  not  tried. 
How  mirth  can  into  folly  glide. 

And  folly  into  sin  ?  " 


CANTO  SECOND. 

I. 

lyulph's  tale,  continued. 

"  Another  day,  another  day. 
And  yet  another  glides  away ! 
The  Saxon  stern,  the  pagan  Dane, 
Maraud  on  Britain's  shores  again. 
Arthur,  of  Christendom  the  Hewer, 
Lies  loitering  in  a  lady's  bower; 


268 


THE  BRIDAL    OF  TRIERMAIN. 


Canto  II, 


The  horn,  that  foemen  wont  to  fear, 
Sounds  but  to  wake  the  Cumbrian  deer, 
And  Caliburn,  the  British  pride. 
Hangs  useless  by  a  lover's  side. 


"  Another  day,  another  day. 

And  yet  another  glides  away ! 

Heroic  j)lans  in  pleasure  drown'd, 

He  thinks  not  of  the  Table  Round; 

In  lawless  love  dissolved  his  life, 

He  thinks  not  of  his  beauteous  wife: 

Better  he  loves  to  snatch  a  flower 

From  Ixjsom  of  his  paramour, 

Than  from  a  Saxon  knight  to  wrest 

The  honors  of  his  heathen  crest! 

Better  to  wreathe,  mid  tresses  brown, 

The  heron's  plume  her  hawk  struck  down. 

Than  o'er  the  altar  give  to  flow 

The  banners  of  a  Paynim  foe. 

Thus,  week  by  week,  and  day  by  day, 

His  life  inglorious  glides  away: 

But  she,  that  soothes  his  dream,  with  fear 

Beholds  his  hour  of  waking  near  ! 


"  Much    force    have    mortal    charms   to 

stay 
Our  peace  in  Virtue's  toilsome  way; 
But  Guendolen's  might  far  outshine 
Each  maid  of  merely  mortal  line. 
Her  mother  was  of  human  birth. 
Her  sire  a  Genie  of  the  earth, 
In  days  of  old  deem'd  to  preside 
O'er  lovers'  wiles  and  beauty's  pride. 
By  youths  and  virgins  worshipp'd  long. 
With  festive  dance  and  choral  song, 
Till,  when  the  cross  to  Britain  came, 
On  heathen  altars  died  the  flame. 
Now,  deep  in  Wastdale  solitude. 
The  downfall  of  his  rights  he  rued. 
And,  born  of  his  resentment  heir. 
He  train'd  to  guile  that  lady  fair. 
To  sink  in  slothful  sin  and  shame 
The  champions  of  the  Christian  name. 
Well  skill'd  to  keep  vain  thoughts  alive. 
And  all  to  promise,  naught  to  give,  — 
The  timid  youth  had  hope  in  store. 
The  bold  and  pressing  gain'd  no  more. 
As  wilder'd  children  leave  their  home. 
After  the  rainbow's  arch  to  roam, 
Her  lovers  barter 'd  fair  esteem. 
Faith,  fame,  and  honor,  for  a  dream. 


"  Her  sire's  soft  arts  the  soul  to  tame 
She  practised  thus  —  till  Arthur  came; 
Then,  frail  humanity  had  ))art, 
And  all  the  mother  claim'd  her  heart. 
Forgot  each  rule  her  father  gave. 
Sunk  from  a  princess  to  a  slave. 
Too  late  must  Guendolen  deplore, 
He,  that  has  all,  can  hope  no  more ! 
Now  must  she  see  her  lover  strain 
At  every  turn  her  feeble  chain; 
Watch,  to  new-bind  each  knot,  and  shrink 
To  view  each  fast-decaying  link. 
Art  she  invokes  to  Nature's  aid. 
Her  vest  to  zone,  her  locks  to  braid; 
Each  varied  pleasure  heard  her  call. 
The  feast,  the  tourney,  and  the  ball: 
Her  storied  lore  she  next  applies. 
Taxing  her  mind  to  aid  her  eyes; 
Now  more  than  mortal  wise,  and  then 
In  female  softness  sunk  again : 
Now,  raptured, with  each  wish  complying. 
With  feign'd  reluctance  now  denying; 
Pvach  charm  she  varied,  to  retain 
A  varying  heart  —  and  all  in  vain  ! 


"Thus  in  the  garden's  narrow  bound, 
Flank'd  by  some  castle's  Gothic  round. 
Fain  would  the  artist's  skill  provide. 
The  limits  of  his  realms  to  hide. 
The  walks  and  labyrinths  he  twines. 
Shade  after  shade  with  skill  combines. 
With  many  a  varied  flowery  knot. 
And  copse,  and  arbor,  decks  the  spot, 
Tenijiting  the  hasty  foot  to  stay, 

And  linger  on  the  lovely  way 

Vain  art !  vain  hope  !   'tis  fruitless  all ! 
At  length  we  reach  the  bounding  wall, 
And,  sick  of  flower  and  trim-dress'd  tree, 
Long  for  rough  glades  and  forest  free. 


"Three    summer    months    had    scantly 

flown, 
When  Arthur,  in  embarrass'd  tone. 
Spoke  of  his  liegemen  and  his  throne; 
Said,  all  too  long  had  been  his  stay. 
And  duties,  which  a  Monarch  sway, 
Duties,  unknown  to  humbler  men. 
Must  tear  her  knight  from  Guendolen. — ■ 
She  listen'd  silently  the  while. 
Her  mood  express'd  in  bitter  smile; 


Canto  II. 


THE   BRIDAL    OF   TRIERMAIN. 


269 


Beneath  her  eye  must  Arthur  quail, 
And  oft  resume  the  unfinish'd  tale, 
Confessing,  by  his  downcast  eye, 
The  wrong  he  sought  to  justify. 
He  ceased.     A  moment  mute  she  gazed. 
And  then  her  looks  to  heaven  she  raised; 
One  palm  her  temples  veil'd,  to  hide 
The  tear  that  sprung  in  spite  of  pride ! 
The  other  for  an  instant  press'd 
nie  foldings  of  her  silken  vest ! 


I       "  At  her  reproachful  sign  and  look. 

The     hint     the     Monarch's     conscience 

took. 
Eager  he  spoke :  — - '  No,  lady,  no  ! 

I       Deem  not  of  British  Arthur  so, 

I       Nor  think  he  can  deserter  prove 
To  the  dear  pledge  of  mutual  love. 
I  swear  by  sceptre  and  by  sword, 

I       As  belted  knight  and  Britain's  lord, 
That  if  a  boy  shall  claim  my  care. 
That  boy  is  born  a  kingdom's  heir; 
But,  if  a  maiden  Fate  allows, 

'       To  choose  that  maid  a  fitting  spouse, 
A  summer-day  in  lists  shall  strive 
My  knights, — thebravest  knights  alive, — 
And  he,  the  best  and  bravest  tried, 
Shall  Arthur'sdaughter  claim  for  bride.' — 
He  spoke,  with  voice  resolved  and  high  — 
The  lady  deign'd  him  not  reply. 


"  At  dawn  of  morn,  ere  on  the  brake 
His  matins  did  a  warbler  make. 
Or  stirr'd  his  wing  to  brush  away 
A  single  dew-drop  from  the  spray. 
Ere  yet  a  sunl>eam  through  the  mist. 
The  castle-battlements  had  kiss'd. 
The  gates  revolve,  the  drawbridge  falls, 
And  Arthur  sallies  from  the  walls. 
1  )off 'd  his  soft  garb  of  Persia's  loom. 
And  steel  from  spur  to  helmet-plume. 
His  Libyan  steed  full  proudly  trode. 
And  joyful  neigh'd  beneath  his  load. 
The  Monarch  gave  a  passing  sigh 
To  penitence  and  pleasures  by, 
When,  lo !  to  his  astonish '/I  ken 
Appear'd  the  form  of  Guendolen. 


"  Beyond  the  outmost  wall  she  stood, 
Attir'd  like  huntress  of  the  wood: 


Sandall'd  her  feet,  her  ankles  bare. 
And  eagle-plumage  deck'd  her  hair; 
Firm  was  her  look,  her  bearing  bold. 
And  in  her  hand  a  cup  of  gold. 
'  Thou  goest,'  she  said,  '  and  ne'er  again 
Must  we  two  meet,  in  joy  or  pain. 
Full  fain  would  I  this  hour  delay. 
Though  weak  the  wish — yet  wilt  thou 

stay? 
—  No !      thou    look'st    forward.      Still 

attend,  — 
Part  we  like  lover  and  like  friend.' 
She  raised  the  cup  —  '  Not  this  the  juice 
The  sluggish  vines  of  earth  produce; 
Pledge  we,  at  parting,  in  the  draught 
Which  Genii  love  ! ' — shesaid,  andquaff'd, 
And  strange  unwonted  lustres  fly 
From  her  flush'd  cheek  and  sparkling  eye. 


"The     courteous     Monarch     bent    him 

low. 
And,  stooping  down  from  saddle-bow, 
Lifted  the  cup,  in  act  to  drink. 
A  drop  escaped  the  goblet's  brink  — 
Intense  as  liquid  fire  from  hell. 
Upon  the  charger's  neck  it  fell. 
Screaming  with  agony  and  fright, 
He  bolted  twenty  feet  upright !  — 
—  The  peasant  still  can  show  the  dint. 
Where  his  hoofs  lighted  on  the  flint.  — 
From  Arthur's  hand  the  goblet  flew, 
Scattering  a  shower  of  fiery  dew,^ 
That  burn'd  and  blighted  where  it  fell ! 
The  frantic  steed  rush'd  up  the  dell. 
As  whistles  from  the  bow  the  reed; 
Nor  bit  nor  reign  could  check  his  speed. 

Until  he  gain'd  the  hill; 
Then  breath  and  sinew  fail'd  apace, 
And,  reeling  from  the  desperate  race. 

He  stood,  exhausted,  still. 
The  Monarch,  breathless  and  amazed. 
Back  on  the  fatal  castle  gazed  — 
Nor  tower  nor  donjon  could  he  spy. 
Darkening  against  the  morning  sky;^ 
But,  on  the  spot  where  once  they  frown'd, 
The  lonely  streamlet  brawl'd  around 
A  tufted  knoll,  where  dimly  shone 
Fragments  of  rocks  and  rifted  stone. 
Musing  on  this  strange  hap  the  while, 
The  king  wends  back  to  fair  Carlisle : 
And  cares,  that  cumber  royal  sway. 
Wore  memory  of  the  past  away. 


270 


THE   BRIDAL    OF   TRIERMAIN. 


Canto  II. 


"  Full  fifteen  years,  and  more,  were  sped. 
Each   brought  new  wreaths  to  Arthur's 

head. 
Twelve  Vjloody  fields,  with  glory  fought,* 
The  Saxons  to  subjection  brought : 
Rython,  the  mighty  giant,  slain 
By  his  good  brand,  relieved  Bretagne: 
The  Pictish  Gillamore  in  fight, 
And  Roman  Lucius  own'd  his  might; 
And  wide  were  through  the  world  re- 

nown'd 
The  glories  of  his  Table  Round. 
Each   knight    who   sought    adventurous 

fame, 
To  the  bold  court  of  Britain  came. 
And  all  who  suffer'd  causeless  wrong. 
From  tyrant  proud,  or  faitour  strong, 
Sought  Arthur's  presence  to  complain. 
Nor  there  for  aid  implored  in  vain. 


"  For  this  the  King,  with  pompand  pride. 
Held  solemn  court  at  Whitsuntide, 

And  summon'd  I'rince  and  Peer, 
All  who  owed  homage  for  their  land, 
Or  who  craved  knighthood  from  his  hand. 
Or  who  had  succor  to  demand, 

To  come  from  far  and  near. 
At  such  high  tide  were  glee  and  game 
Mingled  with  feats  of  martial  fame. 
For  many  a  stranger  champion  came. 

In  lists  to  break  a  spear; 
And  not  a  knight  of  Arthur's  host. 
Save  that  he  trode  some  foreign  coast, 
But  at  this  feast  of  Pentecost 

Before  him  must  appear. 
Ah,  Minstrels!  when  the  Table  Round 
Arose,  with  all  its  warriors  crown'd. 
There  was  a  theme  for  bards  to  sound 

In  triumph  to  their  string ! 
Five  hundred  years  are  past  and  gone, 
But  time  shall  draw  his  dying  groan. 
Ere  he  behold  the  British  throne 

Begirt  with  such  a  ring; 


"  The  heralds  named  the  appointed  spot. 
As  Caerlon  or  Camelot, 

Or  Carlisle  fair  and  free. 
At  Penrith,  now,  the  feast  was  set. 
And  in  fair  Eamont's  vale  were  met 

The  flower  of  Chivalry, 


There  Galaad  sate  with  manly  grace, 
Yet  maiden  meekness  in  his  face  ; 
There  Morolt  of  the  iron  mace. 

And  love-lorn  Tristrem  there;^ 
And  Dinadam  with  lively  glance. 
And  Lanval  with  the  fairy  lance. 
And  Mordred  with  his  look  askance, 

Brunor  and  Bevidere. 
Why  should  I  tell  of  meml>ers  more? 
Sir  Cay,  Sir  Banier,  and  Sir  Bore, 

Sir  Carodac  the  keen. 
The  Gentle  Gawain's  courteous  lore. 
Hector  de  Mares  and  Pellinore, 
And  Lancelot,  that  evermore 
Look'd  stol'n-wise  on  the  Queen. ^'^ 


"  When  wine  and  mirth  did  most  abound, 
And  harpers  play'd  their  blithest  round, 
A  shrilly  trumpet  shook  the  ground, 

And  marshals  clear'd  the  ring; 
A  maiden,  on  a  palfrey  white, 
Heading  a  band  of  damsels  bright, 
Paced  through  the  circle,  to  alight 

And  kneel  before  the  King. 
Arthur,  with  strong  emotion,  saw 
Her  graceful  boldness  check'd  by  awe. 
Her  dress,  like  huntress  of  the  wold, 
Her  bow  and  baldric  trapp'd  with  gold. 
Her  sandall'd  feet,  her  ankles  bare. 
And  the  eagle-plume  that  deck'd  her  hair. 
Graceful  her  veil  she  backward  flung — • 
The  King,  as  from  his  scat  he  sprung, 

Almost  cried  '  Guendolen  !  ' 
But  'twas  a  face  more  frank  and  wild. 
Betwixt  the  woman  and  the  child. 
Where  less  of  magic  beauty  smiled 

Than  of  the  race  of  men; 
And  in  the  forehead's  haughty  grace 
The  lines  of  Britain's  royal  race, 

Pendragon's  you  might  ken. 


"  Faltering,  yet  gracefully,  she  said:  — 
'  Great  Prince  !  behold  an  orphan  maid, 
In  her  departed  mother's  name, 
A  father's  vow'd  protection  claim  ! 
The  vow  was  sworn  in  desert  lone, 
In  the  deep  valley  of  St.  John.' 
At  once  the  King  the  suppliant  raised. 
And  kiss'd  her  brow,  her  beauty  praised; 
His  vow,  he  said,  should  well  be  kept, 
Ere  in  the  sea  the  sun  was  dipp'd,  — 


Canto  II. 


THE  BRIDAL    OF   TRtERMAlN. 


271 


Then,     conscious,     glanced     upon     his 

queen; 
But  she,  unruffled  at  the  scene 
Of  human  frailty,  construed  mild, 
Look'd  upon  Lancelot  and  smiled. 


"  '  Up  !  up  I  each  knight  of  gallant  crest 

Take  buckler,  spear,  and  brand ! 
lie  that  to-day  shall  bear  him  best, 

Shall  win  my  Gyncth's  hand. 
And  Arthur's  daughter,  when  a  bride, 

Shall  bring  a  noble  dower; 
Botii  fair  Strath-Clyde  and  Reged  wide. 

And  Carlisle  town  and  tower.' 
Then  might  you  hear  each  valiant  knight, 

To  page  and  squire  that  cried, 
'  Bring  my  armor  bright,  and  my  courser 

wight ! 
'Tis  not  each  day  that  a  warrior's  might 

May  win  a  royal  bride.' 
Then  cloaks  and  caps  of  maintenance 

In  haste  aside  they  fling; 
The  helmets  glance,  and  gleams  the  lance. 

And  the  steel-weaved  hauberks  ring. 
Small  care  had    they  of    their    peaceful 
array. 

They  might  gather  it  that  wolde; 
For  brake  and  bramble  glitter'd  gay. 

With  pearls  and  cloth  of  gold. 


"  Within  trumpet    sound    of    the    Table 
Round 

Were  fifty  champions  free. 
And  they  all  arise  to  fight  that  prize,  — 

They  all  arise  but  three. 
Nor  love's  fond  troth,  nor  wedlock's  oath, 

One  gallant  could  withhold. 
For  priests  will  allow  of  a  broken  vow. 

For  penance  or  for  gold. 
But  sigh  and  glance  from  ladies  bright 

Among  the  troop  were  thrown. 
To  plead  their  right,  and  true-love  plight. 

And  plain  of  honor  flown. 
The  knights  they  busied  them  so  fast. 

With  buckling  spur  and  belt, 
That  sigh  and  look,  by  ladies  cast. 

Were  neither  seen  nor  felt. 
From  pleading  or  upbraiding  glance. 

Each  gallant  turns  aside. 
And  only  thought,  '  If  speeds  my  lance, 

A  queen  becomes  my  bride  ! 


She  has   fair   Strath -Clyde,  .ind    Reged 
wide. 

And  Carlisle  tower  and  town; 
She  is  the  loveliest  maid,  beside. 

That  ever  heir'd  a  crown.' 
So  in  haste  their  coursers  they  bestride, 

And  strike  their  visors  down. 


"  The  champions,  arm'd  in  martial  sort. 

Have  throng'd  into  the  list. 
And  but  three  knights  of  Arthur's  court 

Are  from  the  tourney  miss'd. 
And  still  these  lovers'  fame  survives 

For  faith  so  constant  shown  — 
There  were  two  who  loved  their  neigh- 
lx)r's  wives. 

And  one  who  loved  his  own.^^* 
The  first  was  Lancelot  de  Lac, 

The  second  Tristrem  bold, 
The  third  was  valiant  Carodac, 

Who  won  the  cup  of  gold,*'^ 
What  time,  of  all  King  Arthur's  crew, 

(Thereof  came  jeer  and  laugh,) 
He,  as  the  mate  of  lady  true. 

Alone  the  cup  could  quaff. 
Though  envy's  tongue  would  fain  surmise, 

That  but  for  very  shame. 
Sir  Carodac,  to  fight  that  prize. 

Had  given  both  cup  and  dame; 
Vet,  since  but  one  of  that  fair  court 

Was  true  to  wedlock's  shrine. 
Brand  him  who  will  with  base  report,  — 

He  shall  be  free  from  mine. 


"  Now  caracoled  the  steeds  in  air, 

Now    plumes    and    pennons    wanton'd 

fair. 
As  all  around  the  lists  so  wide 
In  panoply  the  champions  ride. 
King  Arthur  saw  with  startled  eye. 
The  flower  of  chivalry  march  by. 
The  bulwark  of  the  Christian  creed. 
The  kingdom's  shield  in  hour  of  need. 
Too  late  he  thought  him  of  the  woe 
Might  from  their  civil  conflict  flow; 
For  well  he  knew  they  would  not  part 
Till  cold  was  many  a  gallant  heart. 
His  hasty  vow  he  'gan  to  rue, 
And  Gyneth  then  apart  he  drew; 
To  her  his  leafling-staff  resign'd, 
But  added  caution  grave  and  kind :  — 


272 


THE  BRIDAL    OF   TRIERMAIM. 


Canto  II. 


" '  Thou   seest,  my   child,   as   promise- 
bound, 
I  bid  the  trump  for  lourney  sound.' 
Take  thou  my  warder  as  the  queen 
And  umpire  of  the  martial  scene; 
But  mark  thou  this:  — as  Beauty  bright 
Is  polar  star  to  valiant  knight, 
As  at  her  word  his  sword  he  draws, 
His  fairest  guerdon  her  applause. 
So  gentle  maid  should  never  ask 
Of  Knighthood  vain  and  dangerous  task; 
And  Beauty's  eyes  should  ever  be 
Like  the  twin  stars  that  soothe  the  sea. 
And  Beauty 'sbreath  should  whisperpeace. 
And  bid  the  storm  of  battle  cease. 
I  tell  thee  this,  lest  all  too  far. 
These  knights  urge  tourney  into  war. 
Blithe  at  the  trumpet  let  them  go. 
And  fairly  counter  blow  for  blow;  — 
No  striplings  these,  who  succor  need 
For/a  razed  helm  or  falling  steed. 
But,  Gyneth,  when  the  strife  grows  warm. 
And  threatens  death  or  deadly  harm, 
Thy  sire  entreats,  thy  king  commands. 
Thou  drop  the  warder  from  thy  hands. 
Trust  thou  thy  father  with  thy  fate. 
Doubt  not  he  choose  thee  fitting  mate; 
Nor  l)e  it  said,  through  Gyneth's  pride 
A  rose  of  Arthur's  chaplet  died." 


"  A  proud  and  discontented  glow 
O'ershadow'd  Gyneth's  brow  of  snow; 

She  put  the  warder  by :  - — 
'  Reserve  thy  boon,  my  liege,'  she  said, 
'  Thus  chaffer'd  down  and  limited, 
Debased  and  narrow,  for  a  maid 

Of  less  degree  than  I. 
No  petty  chief  but  holds  his  heir 
At  a  more  honor'd  price  and  rare 

Than  Britain's  King  holds  me ! 
Although  the  sun-burn'd  maid,  for  dower. 
Has  but  her  fatlier's  rugged  tower. 

His  barren  hill  and  lee.'  — 
King  Arthur  swore,  '  By  crown  and  sword, 
As  belted  knight  and  Britain's  lord. 
That  a  whole  summer's  day  should  strive 
His  knights,  the  bravest  knights  alive  ! ' 
'  Recall  thine  oath  !  and  to  her  glen 
Poor  Gyneth  can  return  aj^en  ! 
Not  on  thy  daughter  will  the  stain. 
That  soils  thy  sword  and  crown  remain. 


But  think  not  she  will  e'er  be  bride 
Save  to  the  bravest,  proved  and  tried; 
Pendragon's  daughter  will  not  fear 
For  clashing  sword  or  splinter'd  spear. 

Nor  shrink  though  blood  should  flow ; 
And  all  too  well  sad  Guendolen 
Hath  taught  the  faithlessness  of  men. 
That  child  of  hers  should  pity,  when 

Their  meed  they  undergo.'  — 


'*  He  frown'd  and  sigh'd,  the  Monarch 

bold:  — 
'  I  give  —  what  I  may  not  withhold; 
For,  not  for  danger,  dread,  or  death, 
Must  British  Arthur  break  his  faith. 
Too  la,te  I  mark,  thy  mother's  art 
Hath  taught  thee  this  relentless  part. 
I  blame  her  not,  for  she  had  wrong. 
But  not  to  these  my  faults  belong. 
Use,  then,  the  warder  as  thou  wilt; 
But  trust  me,  that  if  life  be  spilt. 
In  Arthur's  love,  in  Arthur's  grace, 
Gyneth  shall  lose  a  daughter's  place.' 
With  that  he  turn'd  his  head  aside, 
Nor  brook'd  to  gaze  upon  her  pride. 
As,  with  the  truncheon  raised,  she  sate 
The  arbitress  of  mortal  fate: 
Nor  brook'd  to  mark,  in  ranks  disposed, 
How  the  lx)ld  champions  stood  opposed. 
For  shrill  the  trumpet-flourish  fell 
Upon  his  ear  like  passing  bell ! 
Then  first  from  sight  of  martial  fray 
Did  Britain's  hero  turn  away. 


"  But  Gyneth  heard  the  clangor  high. 
As  hears  the  hawk  the  partridge  cry. 
Oh,    blame    her    not !    the    blood    was 

hers. 
That  at  the  trumpet's  summons  stirs  !  — 
And  e'en  the  gentlest  female  eye 
Might  the  brave  strife  of  chivalry 

A  while  untroubled  view; 
So  well  accomplish'd  was  each  knight. 
To  strike  and  to  defend  in  fight. 
Their  meeting  was  a  goodly  sight. 

While  plate  and  mail  held  true. 
The  lists  with  painted  plumes  were  strewn. 
Upon  the  wind  at  random  thrown. 
But  helm  and  breastplate  bloodless  shone. 
It  seem'd  their  feather'd  crests  alone 

Should  this  encounter  rue. 


Canto  II. 


THE   BRIDAL    OF   TRIERMAIN. 


273 


And  ever,  as  the  combat  grows. 
The  trumpet's  cheery  voice  arose, 
Like  lark's  shrill  song  the  flourish  flows, 
Heard  while  the  gale  of  April  blows 
The  merry  greenwood  through. 


"  But  soon  to  earnest  grew  their  game, 
The  spears  drew  blood,  the  swords  struck 

flame, 
And,  horse  and  man,  to  ground    there 
came 

Knights,  who  shall  rise  no  more ! 
Gone  was  the  pride  the  war  that  graced. 
Gay  shields  were  cleft,  and  crests  defaced, 
And  steel  coats  riven,  and  helms  unbraced. 

And  pennons  stream'd  with  gore. 
Gone,  too,  were  fence  and  fair  array. 
And  desperate  strength  made  deadly  way 
At  random  through  the  bloody  fray. 
And   blows    were    dealt  with   headlong 
sway. 

Unheeding  where  they  fell; 
And  now  the  trumpet's  clamors  seem 
Like  the  shrill  sea-bird's  wailing  scream. 
Heard  o'er  the  whirlpool's  gulfing  stream, 

The  sinking  seaman's  knell ! 


"  Seem'd  in  this  dismal  hour,  that  Fate 
Would  Camlan's  ruin  antedate, 

And  spare  dark  Mordred's  crime; 
Already  gasping  on  the  ground 
Lie  twenty  of  the  Table  Round, 

Of  chivalry  the  prime. 
Arthur,  in  anguish,  tore  away 
From  head  and  beard  his  tresses  gray, 
And  she,  proud  Gyneth,  felt  dismay, 

And  quaked  with  ruth  and  fear; 
But  still  she  deem'd  her  mother's  shade 
Hung  o'er  the  tumult,  and  forbade 
The  sign  that  had  the  slaughter  staid. 

And  chid  the  rising  tear. 
Then  Brunor,  Taulas,  Mador,  fell, 
Helias  the  White,  and  Lionel, 

And  many  a  champion  more; 
Rochemont  and  Dinadam  are  down. 
And  Ferrand  of  the  Forest  Brown 

Lies  gasping  in  his  gore. 
Vanoc,  by  mighty  Morolt  press'd 
Even  to  the  confines  of  the  list. 
Young  Vanoc  of  the  beardless  face, 
(Fame  spoke  the  youth  of  Merlin's  race,) 


O'erpower'd  at  Gyneth's  footstool  bled. 
His  heart's-blood  dyed  her  sandals  red. 
But  then  the  sky  was  overcast. 
Then  howl'd  at  once  a  whirlwind's  blast, 

And,  rent  by  sudden  throes, 
Yawn'd  in  mid  lists  the  quaking  earth. 
And      from      the      gulf,  —  tremendous 
birth !  — 

The  form  of  Merlin  rose. 

XXVI. 

"  Sternly  the  Wizard  Prophet  eyed 

The  dreary  lists  with  slaughter  dyed. 
And  sternly  raised  his  hand:  — 

'  Madmen,'  he  said,  'your  strife  forbear; 

And  thou,  fair  cause  of  mischief,  hear 
The  doom  thy  fates  demand ! 
Long  shall  close  in  stony  sleep 
Eyes  for  ruth  that  would  not  weep; 
Iron  lethargy  shall  seal 
Heart  that  pity  scorn'd  to  feel. 
Yet  because  thy  mother's  art 
Warp'd  thine  unsuspicious  heart. 
And  for  love  of  Arthur's  race. 
Punishment  is  blent  with  grace. 
Thou  shall  bear  thy  penance  lone 
In  the  Valley  of  Saint  John, 
And  this  weird*  shall  overtake  thee; 
Sleep,  until  a  knight  shall  wake  thee. 
For  feats  or  arms  as  far  renown 'd 
As  warrior  of  the  Table  Round. 
Long  endurance  of  thy  slumber 
Well  may  teach  the  world  to  number 
All  their  wo^s  from  Gyneth's  pride. 
When  the  Red  Cross  champions  died.' 

XXVII. 

"  As  Merlin  speaks,  on  Gyneth's  eye 
Slumber's  load  begins  to  lie; 
Fear  and  anger  vainly  strive 
Still  to  keep  its  light  alive. 
Twice,  with  effort  and  with  pause. 
O'er  her  brow  her  hand  she  draws; 
Twice  her  strength  in  vain  she  tries. 
From  the  fatal  chair  to  rise; 
Merlin's  magic  doom  is  spoken, 
Vanoc's  death  must  now  be  wroken. 
Slow  the  dark-fringed  eyelids  fall. 
Curtaining  each  azure  ball. 
Slowly  as  on  summer  eves 
Violets  fold  their  dusky  leaves. 

*  Doom. 


274 


THE  BRIDAL    OF   TRIERMAIN. 


Canto  II. 


The  weighty  baton  of  command 
Now  bears  down  her  sinking  hand, 
On  her  shoulder  droops  her  head; 
Net  of  pearl  and  golden  thread, 
Bursting,  gave  her  locks  to  flow 
O'er  her  arm  and  breast  of  snow. 
And  so  lovely  seem'd  she  there, 
Spell-bound  in  her  ivory  chair, 
That  her  angry  sire,  repenting. 
Craved  stern  Merlin  for  relenting. 
And  the  champions,  for  her  sake. 
Would  again  the  contest  wake; 
Till,  in  necromantic  night, 
Gyneth  vanish'd  from  their  sight. 


"  Still  she  bears  her  weird  alone. 
In  the  Valley  of  Saint  John; 
And  her  semblance  oft  will  seem. 
Mingling  in  a  champion's  dream. 
Of  her  weary  lot  to  'plain. 
And  crave  his  aid  to  burst  her  chain. 
"While  her  wondrous  tale  was  new. 
Warriors  to  her  rescue  drew. 
East  and  west,  and  south  and  north. 
From  the  Liffy,  Thames,  and  Forth. 
Most  have  sought  in  vain  the  glen. 
Tower  nor  castle  could  they  ken; 
Not  at  every  time  or  tide. 
Nor  by  every  eye,  descried. 
Fast  and  vigil  must  be  borne, 
Many  a  night  in  watching  worn. 
Ere  an  eye  of  mortal  powers 
Can  discern  those  magic  towers. 
Of  the  persevering  few. 
Some  from  hopeless  task  withdrew. 
When  they  read  the  dismal  threat 
Graved  upon  the  gloomy  gate. 
Few  have  braved  the  yawning  door, 
And  those  few  return'd  no  more. 
In  the  lapse  of  time  forgot, 
Wellnigh  lost  is  Gyneth's  lot; 
Sound  her  sleep  as  in  the  tomVj, 
Till  waken'd  by  the  trump  of  doom." 

END   OF    LYULPH'S   TALE. 


Here  pause  my  tale;    for  all  too  soon. 
My  Lucy,  comes  the  hour  of  noon. 
Already  from  thy  lofty  dome 
Its  courtly  inmates  'gin  to  roam. 
And  each,  to  kill  the  goodly  day 
That  God  has  granted  them,  his  way 


Of  lazy  sauntering  has  sought; 

Lordlings  and  witlings  not  a  few, 
Incapable  of  doing  aught, 

Yet  ill  at  ease  with  naught  to  do. 

Here  is  no  longer  place  for  me; 

For,  Lucy,  thou  wouldst  blush  to  see 
Some  phantom,  fashionably  thin. 
With  limb  of  lath  and  kerchief 'd  chin. 
And  lounging  gape,  or  sneering  grin. 

Steal  sudden  on  our  privacy. 

And  how  should  I,  so  humbly  born. 

Endure  the  graceful  spectre's  scorn? 

Faith !  ill,  I  fear,  while  conjuring  wand 

Of  English  oak  is  hard  at  hand. 


Or  grant  the  hour  be  all  too  soon 
For  Hessian  boot  and  pantaloon. 
And  grant  the  lounger  seldom  strays 
Beyond  the  smooth  and  gravell'd  maze. 
Laud  we  the  gods,  that  Fashion's  train 
Holds  hearts  of  more  adventurous  strain. 
Artists  are  hers,  who  scorn  to  trace 
Their    rules    from    Nature's    boundless 

grace. 
But  their  right  paramount  assert 
To  limit  her  by  pedant  art. 
Damning  whate'er  of  vast  and  fair 
Exceeds  a  canvas  three  feet  square. 
This  thicket  for  their  gumption  fit, 
May  furnish  such  a  happy  bit. 
Bards,  too,  are  hers,  wont  to  recite 
Their  own  sweet  lays  by  waxen  light, 
Half  in  the  salver's  tingle  drown'd. 
While  the  chasse-cnfe  glides  around; 
And  such  may  hither  secret  stray. 
To  labor  an  extempore: 
Or  sportsman,  with  his  boisterous  hollo, 
May  here  his  wiser  spaniel  follow. 
Or  stage-struck  Juliet  may  presume 
To  choose  this  bower  for  tiring-room; 
And  we  alike  must  shun  regard, 
From  painter,  player,  sportsman,  bard. 
Insects  that  skim  in  Fashion's  sky. 
Wasp,  blue-bottle,  or  butterfly, 
Lucy,  have  all  alarms  for  us. 
For  all  can  hum  and  all  can  buzz. 


But  oh,  my  Lucy,  say  how  long 
We  still  must  dread  this  trifling  throng. 
And  stoop  to  hide,  with  coward  art,       j 
The  genuine  feelings  of  the  heart ! 


Canto  II. 


THE   BRIDAL    OF   TRtERMAIN. 


475 


No  parents  thine  whose  just  command 
Should  rule  their  child's  obedient  hand: 
Thy  guardians,  with  contending  voice, 
Press  each  his  individual  choice. 
And  which  is  Lucy's?  —  Can  it  be 
That  puny  fop,  trimm'd  cap-a-pie, 
Who  loves  in  the  saloon  to  show 
The  arms  that  never  knew  a  foe; 
Whose  sabre  trails  along  the  ground. 
Whose  legs  in  shapeless  bootsaredrown'd; 
A  new  Achilles,  sure,  —  the  steel 
Fled  from  his  breast  to  fence  his  heel; 
One,  for  the  simple  manly  grace 
That  wont  to  deck  our  martial  race. 
Who  comes  in  foreign  trashery 

Of  tinkling  chain  and  spur, 
A  walking  haberdashery. 

Of  feathers,  lace,  and  fur: 
In  Rowley's  antiquated  phrase, 
Horse-milliner  of  modern  days? 


Or  is  it  he,  the  wordy  youth. 

So  early  train'd  for  statesman's  part. 

Who  talks  of  honor,  faith,  and  truth, 
As  themes  that  he  has  got  by  heart; 
Whose  ethics  Chesterfield  can  teach. 
Whose  logic  is  from  Single-speech ;  ^^ 
Who    scorns    the    meanest    thought    to 

vent, 
Save  in  the  phrase  of  Parliament; 
Who,  in  a  tale  of  cat  and  mouse. 
Calls  "order,"  and  "  divides  the  house," 
Who  "craves  permission  to  reply," 
Whose  "  noble  friend  is  in  his  eye;" 
Whose  loving  tender  some  have  reckon'd 
A  motion,  you  should  gladly  second ? 


What,  neither !     Can  there  be  a  third. 
To  such  resistless  swains  preferr'd?  — 
O  why,  my  Lucy,  turn  aside. 
With  that  quick  glance  of  injured  pride? 
Forgive  mc,  love,  I  cannot  bear 
That  alter'd  and  resentful  air. 
Were  all  the  wealth  of  Russell  mine. 
And  all  the  rank  of  Howard's  line, 
All  would  I  give  for  leave  to  dry 
That  dewdrop  trembling  in  thine  eye. 
Think  not  I  fear  such  fops  can  wile 
From  Lucy  more  than  careless  smile; 
But  yet  if  wealth  and  high  degree 
Give  gilded  counters  currency. 


Must  I  not  fear,  when  rank  and  birth 
Stamp  the  pure  ore  of  genuine  worth? 
Nobles  there  are,  whose  martial  fires 
Rival  the  fame  that  raised  their  sires, 
And  patriots,  skill'd  through  storms  of  fate 
To  guide  and  guard  the  reeling  state. 
Such,   such   there  are — if   such  should 

come, 
Arthur  must  tremble  and  l^  dumb. 
Self-exiled  seek  some  distant  shore. 
And  mourn  till  life  and  grief  are  o'er. 


What  sight,  what  signal  of  alarm. 
That  Lucy  clings  to  Arthur's  arm? 
Or  is  it,  that  the  rugged  way 
Makes  Beauty  lean  on  lover's  stay? 
Oh,  no !   for  on  the  vale  and  brake, 
Nor  sight  nor  sounds  of  danger  wake. 
And  this  trim  sward  of  velvet  green. 
Were  carpet  for  the  Fairy  Queen. 
That  pressure  slight  was  but  to  tell. 
That  Lucy  loves  her  Arthur  well. 
And  fain  would  banish  from  his  mind 
Suspicious  fear  and  doubt  unkind. 


But  would'st  thou  bid  the  demons  fly 
Like  mist  tefore  the  dawning  sky, 
There  is  but  one  resistless  spell  — 
Say,  wilt  thou  guess,  or  must  I  tell  ? 
'Twere  hard  to  name,  in  minstrel  phrase, 
A  landaulet  and  four  blood-bays, 
But  bards  agree  this  wizard  band 
Can  but  l>e  bound  in  Northern  land. 
'Tis  there — nay,  draw  not  back  thy  hand  ! 
'Tis  there  this  slender  finger  round 
Must  golden  amulet  be  bound. 
Which,  bless'd  with  many  a  holy  prayer. 
Can  change  to  rapture  lover's  care. 
And  doubt  and  jealousy  shall  die. 
And  fears  give  place  to  ecstasy. 

VIII. 
Now,  trust  me,  Lucy,  all  too  long 
Has  l>een  thy  lover's  tale  and  song, 
O,  why  so  silent,  love,  I  pray? 
Have  I  not  spoke  the  livelong  day? 
And  will  not  Lucy  deign  to  say 

One  word  her  friend  to  bless? 
I  ask  but  one  —  a  simple  sound. 
Within  three  little  letters  bound, 

O,  let  the  word  be  YES ! 


276 


THE  BRIDAL    OF   TRIERMAIN. 


Canto  III. 


CANTO  THIRD. 

INTRODUCTION. 

I. 

Long  loved,  long  woo'd,  and  lately  won. 

My    life's   best    hope,    and    now    mine 

own ! 
Doth  not  this  rude  and  Alpine  glen 
Recall  our  favorite  haunts  agen? 
A  wild  resemblance  we  can  trace, 
Though  reft  of  every  softer  grace, 
As  the  rough  warrior's  brow  may  bear 
A  likeness  to  a  sister  fair. 
Full  well  advised  our  Highland  host, 
That  this  wild  pass  on  foot  be  cross'd. 
While  round  Ben-Cruach's  mighty  base 
Wheel  the  slow  steed  and  lingering  chaise. 
The  keen  old  carle,  with  Scottish  pride. 
He  praised  his  glen  and  mountains  wide; 
An  eye  he  bears  for  nature's  face. 
Ay,  and  for  woman's  lovely  grace. 
Even  in  such  mean  degree  we  find 
The  subtle  Scot's  observing  mind; 
For,  nor  the  chariot  nor  the  train 
Could  gape  of  vulgar  wonder  gain. 
But  when  old  Allan  would  expound 
Of  Beal-na-paish  *  the  Celtic  sound. 
His  bonnet  doff'd,  and  bow,  applied 
His  legend  to  my  bonny  bride; 
While  Lucy  blush 'd  beneath  his  eye. 
Courteous  and  cautious,  shrewd  and  sly. 


Enough  of  him. —  Now,  ere  we  lose. 
Plunged  in  the  vale,  the  distant  views. 
Turn  thee,  my  love  !  look  back  once  more 
To  the  blue  lake's  retiring  shore. 
On  its  smooth  breast  the  shadows  seem 
Like  objects  in  a  morning  dream, 
What  time  the  slumberer  is  aware 
He  sleeps,  and  all  the  vision's  air: 
Even  so,  on  yonder  liquid  lawn, 
In  hues  of  bright  reflection  drawn. 
Distinct  the  shaggy  mountains  lie. 
Distinct  the  rocks,  distinct  the  sky;  ' 
The  summer-clouds  so  plain  we  note. 
That  we  might  count  each  dappled  spot: 
We  gaze  and  we  admire,  yet  know 
The  scene  is  all  delusive  show. 
Such  dreams  of  bliss  would  Arthur  draw. 
When  first  his  Lucy's  form  he  saw; 

*  Beal-na-paish,  in   English  the  Vale  of  the 
Bridal. 


Yet  sigh'd  and  sicken'd  as  he  drew, 
Despairing  they  could  e'er  prove  true ! 


But,  Lucy,  turn  thee  now,  to  view 

Up     the     fair    glen,    our    destined 
way: 
The  fairy  path  that  we  pursue. 
Distinguish 'd  but  by  greener  hue. 

Winds  round  the  purple  brae, 
While  Alpine  flowers  of  varied  dye 
For  carpet  serve,  or  tapestry. 
See  how  the  little  runnels  leap. 
In  threads  of  silver,  down  the  steep, 

To  swell  the  brooklet's  moan  ! 
Seems  that  the  Highland  Naiad  grieves. 
Fantastic  while  her  crown  she  weaves. 
Of  rowan,  birch,  and  alder-leaves. 

So  lovely,  and  so  lone. 
There's  no  illusion  there;    these  flowers. 
That  wailing  brook,  these  lovely  bowers, 

Are,  Lucy,  all  our  own; 
And,    since    thine    Arthur    call'd    thee 

wife, 
Such  seems  the  prospect  of  his  life, 
A  lovely  path,  on-winding  still, 
By  gurgling  brook  and  sloping  hill. 
'Tis  true,  that  mortals  cannot  tell 
What  waits  them  in  the  distant  dell; 
But  be  it  hap,  or  be  it  harm, 
We  tread  the  pathway  arm  in  arm. 


And  now,  my  Lucy,  wot'st  thou  why 

I  could  thy  bidding  twice  deny, 

W'hen  twice  you  pray'd  I  would  again 

Resume  the  legendary  strain 

Of  the  bold  knight  of  Triermain? 

At  length  yon  peevish  vow  you  swore. 

That  you  would  sue  to  me  no  more. 

Until  the  minstrel  fit  drew  near, 

And  made  me  prize  a  listening  ear. 

But,    loveliest,    when    thou    first    didst 

pray 
Continuance  of  the  knightly  lay. 
Was  it  not  on  the  happy  day 

That  made  thy  hand  mine  own? 
When,  dizzied  with  mine  ecstasy. 
Naught  past,  or  present,  or  to  be. 
Could  I  or  think  on,  hear,  or  see, 

Save,  Lucy,  thee  alone  ! 
A  giddy  draught  my  rapture  was. 
As  ever  chemist's  magic  gas. 


Canto  III. 


THE  BRIDAL    OF   TRIERMAIN. 


277 


Again  the  summons  I  denied 
In  yon  (air  capital  of  Clyde: 
My  Harp  —  or  let  me  rather  choose 
The  good  old  classic  form  —  my  Muse, 
(For  Harp's  an  over-scutched  phrase, 
Worn  out  by  bards  of  modern  days), 
My  Muse,  then  —  seldom  will  she  wake. 
Save  by  dim  wood  and  silent  lake; 
She  is  the  wild  and  rustic  Maid, 
Whose  foot  unsandall'd  loves  to  tread 
Where  the  soft  greensward  is  inlaid 

With  varied  moss  and  thyme; 
And,  lest  the  simple  lily-braid, 
That  coronets  her  temples,  fade, 
She  hides  her  still  in  greenwood  shade. 

To  meditate  her  rhyme. 


And  now  she  comes !     The  murmur  dear 
Of  the  wild  brook  hath  ciught  her  ear, 

The  glades  hath  won  her  eye; 
She  longs  to  join  with  each  blithe  rill 
That  dances  down  the  Highland  hill, 

Her  blither  melody. 
And  now,  my  Lucy's  way  to  cheer, 
She  bids  Ben-Cruach's  echoes  hear 
How  closed  the  tale,  my  love  whilere 

Loved  for  its  chivalry. 
List  how  she  tells,  in  notes  of  flame, 
"  Child  Roland  to  the  dark  tower  came." 


CANTO  THIRD. 
I. 

Bewcastlk  now  must  keep  the  Hold, 

Speir- Adam's  steeds  must  bide  in  stall, 
Of  Hartley-burn  the  Ixjwmen  Ixild 

Must  only  shoot  from  battled  wall. 
And  Liddesdale  may  buckle  spur. 

And  Teviot  now  may  belt  the  brand, 
Tarras  and  Ewes  keep  nightly  stir. 

And  Eskdale  foray  Cumberland. 
Of  wasted  fields  and  plunder'd  flocks 

The  Borderers  bootless  may  complain; 
They  lack  the  sword  of  brave  de  Vaux, 

There  comes  no  aid  from  Trierniain. 
That  lord,  on  high  adventure  bound. 

Hath  wander'd  forth  alone, 
And  day  and  night  keeps  watchful  round 

In  the  valley  of  Saint  John. 


When  first  began  his  vigil  lx)ld, 

The  moon  twelve  summer  nights  was  old. 

And  shone  both  fair  and  full; 
High  in  the  vault  of  cloudless  hue, 
O'er  streamlet,  dale,  and  rock  she  threw 

Her  light  composed  and  cool. 
Stretch'd  on  the  brownhill's  heathy  breast, 

Sir  Roland  eyed  the  vale; 
Chief  where,  distinguish'd  from  the  rest. 
Those  clustering  rocks  uprear'd  their  crest. 
The  dwelling  of  the  fair  distress'd. 

As  told  gray  Lyulph's  tale. 
Thus  as  he  lay,  the  lamp  of  night 
Was  quivering  on  his  armor  bright. 

In  beams  that  rose  and  fell. 
And  danced  upon  his  buckler's  boss, 
That  lay  beside  him  on  the  moss. 

As  on  a  crystal  well. 


Ever  he  watch'd,  and  oft  he  deem'd. 
While   on    the    mound    the    moonlight 
stream'd, 

It  alter'd  to  his  eyes; 
Fain  would  he  hope  the  rocks  'gan  change 
To  buttress'd  walls  their  shapeless  range. 
Fain  think,  by  transmutation  strange, 

He  saw  gray  turrets  rise. 
But  scarce  his  heart  with  hope  throbb'd 

high, 
Before  the  wild  illusions  fly. 

Which  fancy  had  conceived. 
Abetted  by  an  anxious  eye 

That  long'd  to  be  deceived. 
It  was  a  fond  deception  all. 
Such  as,  in  solitary  hall, 

Beguiles  the  musing  eye. 
When,  gazing  on  the  sinking  fire. 
Bulwarks,  and  battlement,  and  spire. 

In  the  red  gulf  we  spy. 
For,  seen  by  moon  of  middle  night. 
Or  by  the  blaze  of  noontide  bright. 
Or  by  the  dawn  of  morning  light, 

Or  evening's  western  flame. 
In  every  tide,  at  every  hour. 
In  mist,  in  sunshine,  and  in  shower. 

The  rocks  remain'd  the  same. 

IV. 
Oft  has  he  traced  the  charmed  mound, 
Oft  climb'd  its  crest,  or  paced  it  round, 
Yet  nothing  might  explore, 


278 


THE  BRIDAL    OF   TRIERMAIN. 


Canto  III. 


Save  that  the  crags  so  rudely  piled. 
At  distance  seen,  resemblance  wild 

To  a  rough  fortress  bore. 
Yet  still  his  watch  the  Warrior  keeps, 
Feeds  hard  and  spare,  and  seldom  sleeps, 

And  drinks  but  of  the  well; 
Ever  l)y  day  he  walks  the  hill. 
And  when  the  evening  gale  is  chill, 

He  seeks  a  rocky  cell. 
Like  hermit  poor  to  bid  his  bead. 
And  tell  his  Ave  and  his  Creed, 
Invoking  every  saint  at  need. 

For  aid  to  burst  his  spell. 


And  now  the  moon  her  orb  has  hid, 
And  dwindled  to  a  silver  thread, 

Dim  seen  in  middle  heaven, 
While  o'er  its  curve  careering  fast. 
Before  the  fury  of  the  blast 

The  midnight  clouds  are  driven. 
The  brooklet  raved,  for  on  the  hills, 
The  upland  showers  had  swoln  the  rills. 

And  down  the  torrents  came; 
Mutter'd  the  distant  thunder  dread, 
And  frequent  o'er  the  vale  was  spread 

A  sheet  of  lightning  flame. 
De  Vaux,  within  his  mountain  cave, 
(No  human  step  the  storm  durst  brave,) 
To  moody  meditation  gave 

Each  faculty  of  soul. 
Till,  lull'd  by  distant  torrent  soimd. 
And  the  sad  winds  that  whistled  round, 
Upon  his  thoughts,  in  musing  drown'd, 

A  broken  slumber  stole. 


'Twas  then  was  heard  a  heavy  sound, 
(Sound,  strange  and   fearful  there  to 
hear, 
'Mongst    desert    hills,    where,    leagues 
around. 
Dwelt  but  the  gor-cock  and  the  deer : ) 
As,  starting  from  his  couch  of  fern, 
Again  he  heard  in  clangor  stern. 

That  deep  and  solemn  swell, — 
Twelve  times,  in  measured  tone,  it  spoke, 
Like  some  proud  minster's  pealing  clock, 

Or  city's  larum-bell. 
What    thought  was  Roland's  first  when 

fell, 
In  that  deep  wilderness,  the  knell 
Upon  his  startled  ear? 


To  slander  warrior  were  I  loth, 
Vet  must  I  hold  my  minstrel  troth,  — 
It  was  a  thought  of  fear. 


But  lively  was  the  mingled  thrill 
That  chased  that  momentary  chill. 

For  Love's  keen  wish  was  there, 
And  eager  Hope,  and  Valor  high. 
And  the  proud  glow  of  Chivalry, 

That  burn'd  to  do  and  dare. 
Forth     from     the      cave     the     Warrior 

rush'd. 
Long     ere     the     mountain-voice     was 
hush'd, 

That  answer'd  to  the  knell; 
For  long  and  far  the  unwonted  sound, 
Eddying  in  echoes  round  and  round, 

Was  toss'd  from  fell  to  fell; 
And  Glaraniara  answer  flung. 
And  Grisdale-pike  responsive  rung. 
And     Legbert     heights      their     echoes 
swung. 

As  far  as  Derwent's  dell. 


Forth  upon  trackless  darkness  gazed 
The  Knight,  bedeafen'd  and  amazed, 

Till  all  was  hush'd  and  still, 
Save  the  swoln  torrent's  sullen  roar, 
And  the  night-blast  that  wildly  bore 

Its  course  along  the  hill. 
Then  on  the  northern  sky  there  came 
A  light,  as  of  reflected  flame. 

And  over  Legbert-head, 
As  if  by  magic  art  controll'd, 
A  mighty  meteor  slowly  roll'd 

Its  orb  of  fiery  red; 
Thou  wouldst  have  thought  some  demon 

dire 
Came  mounted  on  that  car  of  fire, 

To  do  his  errand  dread. 
Far  on  the  sloping  valley's  course. 
On  thicket,  rock,  and  torrent  hoarse, 
.Siiingle  and  scrae,*  and  fell  and  force,t 

A  dusky  light  arose : 
Display 'd,  yet  alter'd  was  the  scene; 
Dark  rock,  and  brook  of  silver  sheen. 
Even  the  gay  thicket's  summer  green. 

In  bloody. tincture  glows. 

*  Bank  of  loose  stones, 
t  WaterfaU. 


Canto  III. 


THE   BRIDAL    OF   TRIERMAIN. 


279 


De  Vaux  had  niark'd  the  sunbeams  set, 
At  eve,  upon  the  coronet 

Of  that  enchanted  mound, 
And  seen  but  crags  at  random  flung, 
I'hat,  o'er  the  brawhng  torrent  hung, 

In  desolation  frown'd. 
W'liat  sees  he  by  that  meteor's  lour?  — 
A  banner'd  Castle,  keep,  and  tower. 

Return  the  lurid  gleam, 
\\  ith  battled  walls  and  buttress  fast, 
And  barbican  *  and  balliura  t  vast. 
And  airy  flanking  towers,  that  cast 

Their  shadows  on  the  stream. 
'Tis  no  deceit !  —  distinctly  clear 
("■renell  X  and  parapet  appear. 
While  o'er  the  pile  that  meteor  drear 

Makes  momentary  pause; 
Then  forth  its  solemn  path  it  drew. 
And  fainter  yet  and  fainter  grew 
Those  gloomy  towers  upon  the  view, 

As  its  wild  light  withdraws. 


Forth  from  the  cave  did  Roland  rush. 
O'er  crag  and  stream,  through  brier  and 
bush ; 

Yet  far  he  had  not  sped. 
Ere  sunk  was  that  portentous  light 
Behind  the  hills,  and  utter  night 

Was  on  the  valley  spread. 
He  paused  perforce,  and  blew  his  horn, 
And,  on  the  mountain-echoes  borne,. 

Was  heard  an  answering  sound, 
A  wild  and  lonely  trumpet-note,  — 
In  middle  air  it  seem'd  to  float 

High  o'er  the  battled  mound; 
And  sounds  were  heard,  as  when  a  guard 
Of  some  proud  castle,  holding  ward. 

Pace  forth  their  nightly  round. 
The  valiant  Knight  of  Triermain 
Rung  forth  his  challenge-blast  again, 

But  answer  came  there  none; 
And  mid  the  mingled  wind  and  rain. 
Darkling  he  sought  the  vale  in  vain, 

Until  the  dawning  shone; 
And  when  it  dawn'd,  that  wondrous  sight, 
Distinctly  seen  by  meteor  light, 

It  all  had  pass'd  away  ! 

*  The  outer  defence  of  a  castle  gate. 

t  A  fortified  court. 

t  Apertures  for  shooting  arrows, 


And  that  enchanted  mount  once  more 
A  pile  of  granite  fragments  bore. 
As  at  the  close  of  day. 


Steel'd  for  the  deed,  De  Vaux's  heart 
Scorn'd  from  his  venturous  quest  to  part. 

He  walks  the  vale  once  more; 
But  only  sees,  by  night  or  day. 
That  shatter'd  pile  of  rocks  so  gray, 

Hears  but  the  torrent's  roar. 
Till  when,  through  hills  of  azure  borne. 
The  moon  renew'd  her  silver  horn. 
Just  at  the  time  her  waning  ray 
Had  faded  in  the  dawning  day, 

A  summer  mist  arose; 
Adown  the  vale  the  vapors  float. 
And  cloudy  undulations  moat 
That  tufted  mound  of  mystic  note. 

As  round  its  base  they  close. 
And  higher  now  the  fleecy  tide 
Ascends  its  stern  and  shaggy  side. 
Until  the  airy  billows  hide 

The  kock's  majestic  isle; 
It  seem'd  a  veil  of  filmy  lawn. 
By  some  fantastic  fairy  drawn 

Around  enchanted  pile. 


The  breeze  came  softly  down  the  brook, 

And,  sighing  as  it  blew. 
The  veil  of  silver  mist  it  shook. 
And  to  De  Vaux's  eager  look 

Renew'd  that  wondrous  view. 
For,  though  the  loitering  vapor  braved 
The  gentle  breeze,  yet  oft  it  waved 

Its  mantle's  dewy  fold; 
And  still,  when  shook  that  filmy  screen. 
Were  towers  and  bastions  dimly  seen. 
And  Gothic  battlements  between 

Their  gloomy  length  unroll'd. 
Speed,  speed,  De  Vaux,  ere  on  thine  eye 
Once  more  the  fleeting  vision  die  ! 

—  The  gallant  knight  'gan  speed 
As  prompt  and  light  as,  when  the  hound 
Is  opening,  and  the  horn  is  wound. 

Careers  the  hunter's  steed. 
Down  the  steep  dell  his  course  amain 

Hath  rivall'd  archer's  shaft; 
But  ere  the  mound  he  could  attain. 
The  rocks  their  shapeless  form  regain. 
And,  mocking  loud  his  labor  vain. 

The  mountain  spirits  laugh'd. 


28o 


THE   BRIDAL    OF   TKIERMAIN. 


Canto  III. 


Far  up  the  echoing  dell  was  borne 
Their  wild  unearthly  shout  of  scorn. 


Wroth    wax'd    the   Warrior.  —  "Am    I 

then 
Fool'd  by  the  enemies  of  men, 
Like  a  poor  hind,  whose  homeward  way 
Is  haunted  by  malicious  fay  ! 
Is  Triermain  become  your  taunt, 
De    Vaux    your    scorn?     False    fiends, 

avaunt ! " 
A  weighty  curtal-axe  he  bare; 
The  baleful  blade  so  bright  and  square, 
And  the  tough  shaft  of  heben  wood. 
Were  oft  in  Scottish  gore  imbrued. 
Backward  his  stately  form  he  drew, 
And  at  the  rocks  the  weapon  threw, 
Just  where  one  crag's  projected  crest 
Hung  proudly  balanced  o'er  the  rest. 
Hurl'd  with  main   force,   the   weapon's 

shock 
Rent  a  huge  fragment  of  the  rock. 
If  by  mere  strength,  'twere  hard  to  tell, 
Or  if  the  blow  dissolved  some  spell. 
But  down  the  headlong  ruin  came. 
With  cloud  of  dust  and  flash  of  flame. 
Down  bank,   o'er  bush,  its  course  was 

borne, 
Crush'd  lay  the  copse,  the  earth  was  torn. 
Till  staid  at  length,  the  ruin  dread 
Cumber'd  the  torrent's  rocky  bed. 
And  bade  the  water's  high-swoln  tide 
Seek  other  passage  for  its  pride. 


When  ceased  that  thunder,  Triermain 
Survey'd  the  mound's  rude  front  again; 
And  lo !  the  ruin  had  laid  bare. 
Hewn  in  the  stone,  a  winding  stair, 
Whose  moss'd  and  fractured  steps  might 

lend 
The  means  the  summit  to  ascend; 
And  by  whose  aid  the  brave  De  Vaux 
BegJin  to  scale  these  magic  rocks, 

And  soon  a  platform  won. 
Where,  the  wild  witchery  to  close, 
Within  three  lances'  length  arose 

The  Castle  of  Saint  John. 
No  misty  phantom  of  the  air, 
No  meteor-blazon'd  show  was  there; 
In  morning  splendor,  full  and  fair, 

The  massive  fortress  shone. 


Embattled  high  and  proudly  tower 'd, 
Shaded  V)y  pond'rous  flankers,  lower'd 

The  portal's  gloomy  way. 
Though  for  six  hundred  years  and  more. 
Its  strength  had   brook'd  the  tempest's 

roar. 
The  scutcheon'd  emblems  which  it  bore 

Had  suffer'd  no  decay: 
But  from  the  eastern  battlement 
A  turret  had  made  sheer  descent, 
And,  down  in  recent  ruin  rent. 

In  the  mid  torrent  lay. 
Else,  o'er  the  Castle's  brow  sublime. 
Insults  of  violence  or  of  time 

Unfelt  had  pass'd  away. 
In  shapeless  characters  of  yore, 
The  gate  this  stern  inscription  bore:  — 


INSCRIPTION. 
"  Patience  waits  the  destined  day, 
Strength  can  clear  the  cumber'd  way. 
Warrior,  who  hast  waited  long. 
Firm  of  soul,  of  sinew  strong, 
It  is  given  to  thee  to  gaze 
On  the  pile  of  ancient  days. 
Never  mortal  builder's  hand 
This  enduring  fabric  plann'd; 
Sigh  and  sigil,  word  of  power, 
From  the  earth  raised  keep  and  tower. 
View  it  o'er,  and  pace  it  round. 
Rampart,  turret,  battled  mound. 
Dare  no  more !     To  cross  the  gate 
Were  to  tamper  with  thy  fate : 
Strength  and  fortitude  were  vain, 
View  it  o'er  —  and  turn  again." 


"That  would  I,"  said  the  Warrior  bold, 
"  If  that  my  frame  were  bent  and  old, 
And  my  thin  blood  dropp'd  slow  and  cold 

As  icicle  in  thaw; 
But  while  my  heart  can  feel  it  dance, 
Blithe  as  the  sparkling  wine  of  France, 
And  this  good  arm  wields  sword  or  lance, 

I  mock  these  words  of  awe:  " 
He  said !     The  wicket  felt  the  sway 
Of  his  strong  hand,  and  straight  gave  way, 
And,  with  rude  crash  and  jarring  bray. 

The  rusty  bolts  withdraw; 
But  o'er  the  threshold  as  he  strode, 
And  forward  took  the  vaulted  road, 


Canto  III. 


THE  BRIDAL    OF   TRIERMAIN. 


281 


All  unseen  arm,  with  force  amain, 
The  ponderous  gate  flun^  close  again. 

And  rusted  Ixilt  and  bar 
Spontaneous  took  their  place  once  more, 
While  the  deep  arch  with  sullen  roar 

Return'd  their  surly  jar. 
"  Now   closed    is   the  gin  and  the  prey 
within 

By  the  rood  of   Lanercost ! 
But  he  that  would  win  the  war-wolf 'sskin. 

May  rue  him  of  his  lioast." 
Thus  muttering,  on  the  Warrior  went, 
By  dubious  light  down  deep  descent. 


Unbarr'd,  unlock'd,  unwatch'd,  a  port 
Led  to  the  Castle's  outer  court: 
There  the  main  fortress,  broad  and  tall. 
Spread  its  long  range  of  bower  and  hall, 

And  towers  of  varied  size. 
Wrought  with  each  ornament  extreme, 
That  Gothic  art,  in  wildest  dream 

Of  fancy,  could  devise; 
But  full  between  the  Warrior's  way 
And  the  main  portal  arch,  there  lay 

An  inner  moat; 

Nor  bridge  nor  boat 
Affords  De  Vaux  the  means  to  cross 
The  clear,  profound,  and  silent  fosse. 
I  lis  arms  aside  in  haste  he  flings. 
Cuirass  of  steel  and  hauberk  rings. 
And  down  falls  helm,  and  down  the  shield, 
Rough  with  the  dints  of  many  a  field. 
Fair  was  his  manly  form,  and  fair 
His  keen  dark  eye,  and  close  curl'd  hair, 
When,  all  unarm'd,  save  that  the  brand 
Of  well-proved  metal  graced  his  hand. 
With  naught  to  fence  his  dauntless  breast 
But  the  close  gipon's*  under-vest. 
Whose  sullied  huff  the  salile  stains 
Of  haulierk  and  of  mail  retains,  — 
Roland  De  Vaux  upon  the  brim 
Of  the  broad  moat  stood  prompt  to  swim. 


Accoutred  thus  he  dared  the  tide, 
And  soon  he  reach'd  the  farther  side. 

And  cnter'd  soon  the  Hold, 
And  paced  a  hall,  whose  walls  so  wide 
Were  blazon'd  all  with  feats  of  pride, 

By  warriors  done  of  old. 

*  A  sort  of  doublet,  worn  beneath  the  armor. 


In  middle  lists  they  counter'd  here. 

While  trumpets  seem'd  to  blow; 
And  there,  in  den  or  desert  drear, 

They  quelled  gigantic  foe, 
Braved  the  fierce  griffon  in  his  ire. 
Or  faced  the  dragon's  breath  of  fire. 
Strange  in  their  arms",  and  strange  in  face, 
Heroes  they  seem'd  of  ancient  race. 
Whose  deeds  of  arms,  and  race,  and  name. 
Forgotten  long  by  later  fame. 

Were  here  depicted,  to  appal 
Those  of  an  age  degenerate. 
Whose  lx>ld  intrusion  braved  their  fate. 

In  this  enchanted  hall. 
For  some  short  space  the  venturous  Knight 
With  these  high  marvels  fed  his  sight. 
Then  sought  the  chamber's  upper  end. 
Where  three  broad  easy  steps  ascend 

To  an  arch'd  portal  door. 
In  whose  broad  folding  leaves  of  state 
Was  framed  a  wicket  window-grate. 

And,  ere  he  ventured  more. 
The  gallant  Knight  took  earnest  view 
The  grated  wicket-window  through. 


O,  for  his  arms  !     Of  martial  weed 
Had  never  mortal  Knight  such  need ! 
He  spied  a  stately  gallery;   all 
Of  snow-white  marble  was  the  wall. 

The  vaulting,  and  the  floor; 
And,  contrast  strange,  on  either  hand 
There  stood  array'd  in  sable  band 

Four  Maids  whom  Afric  bore: 
And  each  a  Libyan  tiger  led. 
Held  by  as  bright  and  frail  a  thread 

As  Lucy's  golden  hair,  — 
For  the  leash  that  bound  these  monsters 
dread 

Was  but  of  gossamer. 
Each  Maiden's  short  barbaric  vest 
Left  all  unclosed  the  knee  and  breast. 

And  limbs  of  shapely  jet; 
White  was  their  vest  and  turl)an'd  fold, 
On  arms  and  ankles  rings  of  gold 

In  savage  pomp  were  set; 
A  quiver  on  their  shoulders  lay, 
And  in  their  hand  an  assagay. 
Such  and  so  silent  stood  they  there, 

That  Roland  wellnigh  hoped 
He  saw  a  band  of  statues  rare, 
Station'd  the  gazer's  soul  to  scare: 

But  when  the  wicket  oped, 


282 


THE   BRIDAL    OF  TRIERMAIN. 


Canto  III. 


Each  grisly  beast  'gaii  upward  draw, 
Koll'd  his  grim  eye,  and  spread  his  claw, 
Scented  the  air,  and  lick'd  his  jaw; 
While    these  weird   maids,   in    Moorish 

tongue, 
A  wild  and  dismal  warning  sung:  — 


"  Rash  adventurer,  bear  thee  back ! 

Dread  the  spell  of  Dahomay  ! 
Fear  the  race  of  Zaharak,* 

Daughters  of  the  burning  day  ! 

"  When  the  whirlwind's  gusts  are  wheel- 
ing. 

Ours  it  is  the  dance  to  braid ; 
Zarah's  sands  in  pillars  reeling. 

Join  the  measure  that  we  tread. 
When  the  moon  has  donn'd  her  cloak. 

And  the  stars  are  red  to  see, 
Shrill  when  pipes  the  sad  Siroc, 

Music  meet  for  such  as  we. 

"Where  the  shatter'd  columns  lie, 

Showing  Carthage  once  had  been, 
If  the  wandering  Santon's  eye 

Our  mysterious  rites  hath  seen,  — 
Oft  he  cons  the  prayer  of  death. 

To  the  nations  preaches  doom, 
'  Azrael's  brand  hath  left  the  sheath  ! 

Moslems,  think  upon  the  tomb !  ' 

"  Ours  the  scorpion,  ours  the  snake, 

Ours  the  hydra  of  the  fen. 
Ours  the  tiger  of  the  brake, 

All  that  plagues  the  sons  of  men. 
Ours  the  tempest's  midnight  wrack, 

Pestilence  that  wastes  by  day  — 
Dread  the  race  of  Zaharak ! 

Fear  the  spell  of  Dahomay !  " 


Uncouth  and  strange  the  accents  shrill 

Rung  those  vaulted  roofs  among, 
I.'tng  it  was  ere,  faint  and  still, 
1  )iod  the  far  resounding  song. 
While  yet  the  distant  echoes  roll, 
The  Warrior  communed  with  his  soul :  — 
"  When  first  I  took  this  venturous  quest, 

I  swore  upon  the  rood. 
Neither  to  stop,  nor  turn,  nor  rest, 

For  evil  or  for  good. 

*  The  Arab  name  of  the  great  desert. 


My  forward  path  too  well  I  ween, 
Lies  yonder  fearful  ranks  between  ! 
For  man  unarmVl,  'tis  bootless  hope 
With  tigers  and  with  fiends  to  cope  — 
Yet,  if  I  turn,  what  waits  me  there. 
Save  famine  dire  and  fell  despair?  — 
Other  conclusion  let  me  try, 
Since,  choose  howe'er  I  list,  I  die. 
Forward,  lies  faith  and  knightly  fame; 
Behind,  are  perjury  and  shame, 
In  life  or  death  I  hold  my  word  !  " 
With  that  he  drew  his  trusty  sword, 
Caught  down  a  b.inner  from  the  wall. 
And  enter'd  thus  the  fearful  hall. 


On  high  each  wayward  Maiden  threw 
Her  swarthy  arm,  with  wild  halloo! 
On  either  side  a  tiger  sprung  — 
Against  the  leftward  foe  he  flung 
The  ready  banner,  to  engage 
With  tangling  folds  the  brutal  rage; 
The  right-hand  monster  in  mid-air 
He  struck  so  fiercely  and  so  fair, 
Through  gullet  and  through  spinal  bone, 
The  trenchant  blade  had  sheerly  gone. 
His  grisly  brethren  ramp'd  and  yell'd. 
But  the  slight  leash  their  rage  withheld. 
Whilst,  'twixt  their  ranks,  the  dangerous 

road 
Firmly,  though  swift,  the  champion  strode. 
Safe  to  the  gallery's  bound  he  drew, 
Safe  pass'd  an  open  portal  through; 
And  when  against  pursuit  he  flung 
The  gate,  judge  if  the  echoes  rung  ! 
Onward  his  daring  course  he  bore. 
While  mix'd  with  dying  growl  and  roar, 
Wild  jubilee  and  loud  hurra 
Pursued  him  on  his  venturous  way. 

XXIV. 

"  Hurra,  hurra!  Our  watch  is  done! 
We  hail  once  more  the  tropic  sun. 
Pallid  beams  of  northern  day. 
Farewell,  farewell!   Hurra,  hurra! 

"  Five  hundred  years  o'er  this  cold  glen 
Hath  the  pale  sun  come  round  agen; 
Foot  of  man,  till  now,  hath  ne'er 
Dared  to  cross  the  Hall  of  Fear. 

"  Warrior!  thou,  whose  dauntless  heart 
Gives  us  from  our  ward  lo  part, 


Canto  III. 


THE   BRIDAL    OF   TRIERMAIN. 


283 


I 


Be  as  strong  in  future  trial, 
Where  resistance  is  denial. 

•  Now  for  Afric's  glowing  sky, 
/wenga  wide  and  Atlas  high, 
/aharak  and  Dahoniay  !  — 
Mount  the  winds!     Hurra,  hurra!  " 


The  wizard  song  at  distance  died. 

As  if  in  ether  borne  astray. 
While  through  waste  halls  and  chambers 
wide 

The  Knight  pursued  his  steady  way. 
Pill  to  a  lofty  dome  he  came. 
That  flash'd  with  such  a  brilliant  flame. 
As  if  the  wealth  of  all  the  world 
Were  there  in  rich  confusion  hurl'd. 
P  or  here  the  gold,  in  sandy  heajis. 
With  duller  earth,  incorporate,  sleeps, 
Was  there  in  ingots  piled,  and  there 
Coin'd  badge  of  empery  it  bare: 
Yonder,  huge  bars  of  silver  lay, 
Dininvd   by  the  diamond's   neighboring 

ray, 
Like  the  pale  moon  in  morning  day; 
And  in  the  midst  four  Maidens  stand, 
The  daughters  of  some  distant  land. 
Their  hue  was  of  the  dark-red  dye, 
Thai  fringes  oft  a  thunder  sky; 
Their  hands  palmetto  baskets  bare, 
And  cotton  fillets  bound  their  hair; 
Slim   was    their    form,    their   mien    was 

shy. 
To  earth  they  bent  the  humbled  eye. 
Folded  their  arms,  and  suppliant  kneel 'd. 
And  thus  their  proffer'd  gifts  reveal'd. 

XXVI. 
CHORUS. 

"  See  the  treasures  Merlin  piled. 
Portion  meet  for  Arthur's  child. 
Bathe  in  Wealth's  unlxjunded  stream. 
Wealth  that  Avarice  ne'er  could  dream  !  " 

FIRST    MAIDEN. 

"  See  these  clots  of  virgin  gold ! 
Sever'd  from  the  sparry  mould. 
Nature's  mystic  alchemy 
In  the  mine  thus  bade  them  lie; 
And  their  orient  smile  can  win 
Kings  to  stoop,  and  saints  to  sin."  — 


SECOND    MAIDEN. 

"  See  these  pearls,  that  long  have  slept; 
These  were  tears  by  Naiads  wept 
For  the  loss  of  Marinel. 
Tritons  in  the  silver  shell 
Treasured  them,  till  hard  and  white 
As  the  teeth  of  Amphitrite."  — 

THIRD    MAIDEN. 

"  Does  a  livelier  hue  delight? 
Here  are  rubies  blazing  bright. 
Here  the  emerald's  fairy  green, 
And  the  topaz  glows  between; 
Here  their  varied  hues  unite. 
In  the  changeful  chrysolite."  — 

FOURTH    MAIDEN. 

"  Leave  these  gems  of  poorer  shine, 
Leave  them  all  and  look  on  mine ! 
While  their  glories  I  expand. 
Shade  thine  eye-brows  with  thy  hand. 
Mid-day  sun  and  diamond's  blaze 
Blind  the  rash  beholder's  gaze." 

CHORUS. 

"  Warrior,  seize  the  splendid  store; 
Would  'twere  all  our  mountains  bore  ! 
We  should  ne'er  in  future  story, 
Read,  Peru,  thy  perish'd  glory!  " 

XXVII. 

Calmly  and  unconcern'd,  the  Knight 
Waved  aside  the  treasures  bright :  — 
"  Gentle  Maidens,  rise,  I  pray! 
Bar  not  thus  my  destined  way. 
Let  these  boasted  brilliant  toys 
Braid  the  hair  of  girls  and  boys ! 
Bid  your  streams  of  gold  expand 
O'er  proud  London's  thirsty  land. 
De  Vaux  of  wealth  saw  never  need. 
Save  to  purvey  him  arms  and  steed. 
And  all  the  ore  he  deign'd  to  hoard 
Inlays  his  helm,  and  hilts  his  sword." 
Thus  gently  parting  from  their  hold. 
He  left,  unmoved,  the  dome  of  gold. 

XXVIII. 
And  now  the  morning  sun  was  high, 
De  Vaux  was  weary,  faint,  and  dry; 
When,  lo !  a  plashing  sound  he  hears, 
A  gladsome  signal  that  he  nears 
Some  frolic  water-run; 


284 


THE   BRIDAL    OF   TRIERMAIN. 


Canto  III. 


And  soon  he  reach 'd  a  court-yard  square; 
Where,  dancing  in  the  suhry  air, 
Toss'd  high  aloft,  a  fountain  fair 

Was  sparkhng  in  the  sun. 
On  right  and  left,  a  fair  arcade, 
In  long  perspective  view  display'd 
Alleys  and  bowers,  for  sun  or  shade: 

But,  full  in  front,  a  door, 
Low-brow'd  and  dark,  seeni'd  as  it  led 
To  the  lone  dwelling  of  the  dead. 

Whose  memory  was  no  more. 


Here  stopp'd  De  Vaux  an  instant's  space. 
To  bathe  his  parched  lips  and  face. 

And  mark'd  with  well-pleased  eye, 
Refracted  on  the  fountain  stream, 
In  rainbow  hues  the  dazzling  beam 

Of  that  gay  summer  sky. 
His  senses  felt  a  mild  control. 
Like  that  which  lulls  the  weary  soul. 

From  contemplation  high. 
Relaxing,  when  the  ear  receives 
The  music  that  the  greenwood  leaves 

Make  to  the  breezes'  sigh. 

XXX. 

And  oft  in  such  a  dreamy  mood, 

The  half-shut  eye  can  frame 
Fair  apparitions  in  the  wood. 
As  if  the  nymphs  of  field  and  flood 

In  gay  procession  came. 
Are  these  of  such  fantastic  mould. 

Seen  distant  down  the  fair  arcade. 
These  Maids  enlink'd  in  sister-fold. 

Who,  late  at  bashful  distance  staid. 

Now  tripping  from  the  greenwood 
shade, 
Nearer  the  musing  champion  draw, 
And,  in  a  pause  of  seeming  awe, 

Again  stand  doubtful  now  ?  — 
Ah,  that  sly  pause  of  witching  powers ! 
That  seems  to  say,  "To  please  be  ours. 

Be  yours  to  tell  us  how." 
Their  hue  was  of  the  golden  glow 
That  suns  of  Candahar  bestow. 
O'er  which  in  slight  suffusion  flows 
A  frequent  tinge  of  paly  rose; 
Their  limbs  were  fashion'd  fair  and  free, 
In  nature's  justest  symmetry; 
And,  wreath'd  with   flowers,  with  odors 

graced. 
Their  raven  ringlets  reach'd  the  waist, 


In  eastern  pomp,  its  gilding  pale 
The  hennah  lent  each  shapely  nail, 
And  the  dark  sumah  gave  the  eye 
More  liquid  and  more  lustrous  dye. 
The  spotless  veil  of  misty  lawn, 
In  studied  disarrangement,  drawn 

The  form  and  bosom  o'er. 
To  win  the  eye,  or  tempt  the  touch, 
For  modesty  show'd  all  too  much  — 

Too  much  —  yet  promised  more : 


"  Gentle  Knight,  a  while  delay," 
Thus  they  sung,  "  thy  toilsome  way, 
While  we  pay  the  duty  due 
To  our  Master  and  to  you. 
Over  Avarice,  over  Fear, 
Ix)ve  triumphant  led  thee  here; 
Warrior,  list  to  us,  for  we 
Are  slaves  to  Love,  are  friends  to  thee. 
Though  no  treasured  gems  have  we, 
To  proffer  on  the  bended  knee. 
Though  we  boast  nor  arm  nor  heart, 
For  the  assagay  or  dart. 
Swains  allow  each  simple  girl 
Ruby  lip  and  teeth  of  pearl; 
Or,  if  dangers  more  you  prize, 
Flatterers  find  them  in  our  eyes. 

"Stay,  then,  gentle  Warrior,  stay. 
Rest  till  evening  steal  on  day; 
Stay,  O,  stay !  in  yonder  bowers 
We  will  braid  thy  locks  with  flowers. 
Spread  the  feast  and  fill  the  wine, 
Charm  thy  ear  with  sounds  divine, 
Weave  our  dances  till  delight 
Yield  to  languor,  day  to  night. 

"  Then  shall  she  you  most  approve, 
Sing  the  lays  that  best  you  love. 
Soft  thy  mossy  couch  shall  spread, 
Watch  thy  pillow,  prop  thy  head. 
Till  the  weary  night  be  o'er  — 
Gentle  Warrior,  wouldst  thou  more? 
Wouldst    thou    more,    fair    Warrior,  - 

she 
Is  slave  to  Love,  and  slave  to  thee.' 

XXXII. 

O,  do  not  hold  it  for  a  crime 
In  the  bold  hero  of  my  rhyme. 

For  Stoic  look 

And  meet  rebuke, 


Canto  III. 


THE  BRIDAL    OF   TRIERMAIN. 


,285 


He  lack'd  the  heart  or  time; 
As  round  the  band  of  sirens  trip. 
He  kiss'd  one  damsel's  laughing  lip, 
And  press'd  another's  proffer'd  hand. 
Spoke  to  them  all  in  accents  bland, 
But  broke  their  magic  circle  through :  — 
"  Kind  Maids,"  he  said,  "  adieu,  adieu! 
My  fate,  my  fortune,  forward  lies." 
lie  said,  and  vanish'd  from  their  eyes; 
Hut,  as  he  dared  that  darksome  way, 
Still  heard  behind  their  lovely  lay:  — 
"  Fair  F'lower  of  Courtesy,  depart! 
Cio,  where  the  feelings  of  the  heart 
With  the  warm  pulse  in  concord  move; 
Go,  where  Virtue  sanctions  Love!  " 


Downward    De    Vaux    through   dark- 
some ways 

And  ruin'd  vaults  has  gone. 
Till  issue  from  their  wildcr'd  maze, 

Or  safe  retreat,  seem'd  none. 
And  e'en  the  dismal  path  he  strays 

Grew  worse  as  he  went  on. 
For  cheerful  sun,  for  living  air, 
Foul  vapors  rise  and  mine-fires  glare, 
Whose  fearful  light  the  dangers  show'd, 
Tliat  dogg'd  him  on  that  dreadful  road; 
Deep  pits,  and  lakes  of  waters  dun. 
They  show'd,  but    show'd  not    how  to 

shun. 
These  scenes  of  desolate  despair. 
These    smothering    clouds    of    poison'd 

air. 
How  gladly  had  De  Vaux  exchanged. 
Though  'twere  to  face  yon  tigers  ranged  ! 

Nay,  soothful  bards  have  said. 
So  perilous  his  state  seem'd  now 
He  wish'd  him  under  arbor  bough 

With  Asia's  willing  maid. 
When,  joyful  sound!  at  distance  near, 
A  trumpet  flourish'd  loud  and  clear, 
And  as  it  ceased,  a  lofty  lay 
Seem'd  thus  to  chide  his  lagging  way:  — 

XXXIV. 

"  Son  of  Honor,  theme  of  story. 
Think  on  the  reward  before  ye  ! 
Danger,  darkness,  toil,  despise; 
'Tis  Ambition  bids  thee  rise. 

"  He  that  would  her  heights  ascend. 
Many  a  weary  step  must  wend? 


Hand  and  foot  and  knee  he  tries; 
Thus  Ambition's  minions  rise. 

"  Lag  not  now,  though  rough  the  way. 
Fortune's  mood  brooks  no  delay; 
Grasp  the  boon  that's  spread  before  ye. 
Monarch's     power,     and      Conqueror's 
glory !  " 

It  ceased.     Advancing  on  the  sound, 
A  steep  ascent  the  Wanderer  found. 

And  then  a  turret  stair: 
Nor  climb'd  he  far  its  steepy  round 

Till  fresher  blew  the  air. 
And  next  a  welcome  glimpse  was  given, 
That  cheer'd  him  with  the  light  of  heaven. 

At  length  his  toil  had  won 
A  lofty  hall  with  trophies  dress'd. 
Where,  as  to  greet  imperial  guest. 
Four  Maidens  stood,  whose  crimson  vest 

Was  bound  with  golden  zone. 


Of  Europe  seem'd  the  damsels  all; 
The  first  a  nymph  of  lively  Gaul, 
Whose  easy  step  and  laughing  eye 
Her  borrow'd  air  of  awe  belie; 

The  next  a  maid  of  Spain, 
Dark-eyed,  dark-hair'd,  sedate,  yet  lx)ld : 
White  ivory  skin  and  tress  of  gold. 
Her  shy  and  bashful  comrade  told 

For  daughter  of  Almaine. 
These  njaidens  bore  a  royal  robe. 
With    crown,    with    sceptre,    and   with 
globe, 

Emblems  of  empery; 
The  fourth  a  space  behind  them  stood, 
And  leant  upon  a  harp,  in  mood 

Of  minstrel  ecstasy. 
Of  merry  England  she,  in  dress 
Like  ancient  British  Druidess. 
Her  hair  an  azure  fillet  bound. 
Her  graceful  vesture  swept  the  ground. 

And,  in  her  hand  display'd, 
A  crown  did  that  fourth  Maiden  hold. 
But  unadorn'd  with  gems  and  gold, 

Of  glossy  laurel  made. 

XXXVI. 

At  once  to  brave  De  Vaux  knelt  down 
These  foremost  Maidens  three. 

And  proffer'd  sceptre,  robe,  and  crown, 
Liegedom  and  seignorie, 


286 


THE  BRIDAL    OF   TRIERMAIN. 


Canto  IIT. 


O'er  many  a  region  wide  and  fair, 
Destined,  they  said,  for  Arthur's  heir; 

But  homage  would  he  none :  — 
"Rather,"   he  said,  "  De  Vaux  would 

ride, 
A  Warden  of  the  Border-side, 
In  plate  and  mail,  than,  robed  in  pride, 

A  monarch's  empire  own; 
Rather,  far  rather,  would  he  be 
A  free-born  knight  of  England  free. 

Than  sit  on  Despot's  throne." 
So  pass'd  he  on,  when  that  fourth  Maid, 

As  starting  from  a  trance. 
Upon  the  liarp  her  finger  laid; 
Her  magic  touch  the  chords  obey'd, 

Their  soul  awaked  at  once  ! 

SONG   OF   THE   FOURTH    MAIDEN. 

"  Quake  to  your  foundations  deep, 
Stately  Towers,  and  Bannerd  Keep, 
Bid  your  vaulted  echoes  moan. 
As  the  dreaded  step  they  own. 

"  Fiends,  that  wait  on  Merlin's  spell, 
Hear  the  foot-fall !  mark  it  well ! 
Spread  your  dusty  wings  abroad, 
Boune  ye  for  your  homeward  road ! 

•'It  is  His,  the  first  who  e'er 
Dared  the  dismal  Hall  of  Fear; 
His,  who  hath  the  snares  defied 
Spread  by  Pleasure,  Wealth  and  Pride. 

"  Quake  to  your  foundations  deep. 
Bastion  huge,  and  Turret  steep  ! 
Tremble,  Keep,  and  totter.  Tower ! 
This  is  Gyneth's  waking  hour." 


Thus    while    she     sung,    the    venturous 

Knight 
Has  reach'd  a  bower,  where  milder  light 

Through  crimson  curtains  fell; 
Such  soften 'd  shade  the  hill  receives. 
Her  purple  veil  when  twilight  leaves 

Upon  its  western  swell. 
That  bower,  the  gazer  to  bewitch. 
Hath  wondrous  store  of  rare  and  rich 

As  e'er  was  seen  with  eye; 
For  there  by  magic  skill,  I  wis. 
Form  of  each  thing  that  living  is 

Was  limn'd  in  proper  dye. 
All  seem'd  to  sleep  —  the  timid  hare 
On  form,  the  stag  upon  his  lair, 


The  eagle  in  her  eyry  fair 

Between  the  earth  and  sky. 
But  what  of  pictured  rich  and  rare 
Could      win     De     Vaux's     eye-glance, 

where. 
Deep  slumbering  in  the  fatal  chair. 

He  saw  King  Arthur's  child  ! 
Doubt,  and  anger,  and  dismay. 
From  her  brow  had  pass'd  away. 
Forgot  was  that  fell  tourney-day. 

For,  as  she  slept,  she  smiled: 
It  seem'd,  that  the  repentant  Seer 
Her  sleep  of  many  a  hundred  year 

With  gentle  dreams  beguiled. 


That  form  of  maiden  loveliness, 

'Twixt  childhood  and  'twixt  youth, 
That  ivory  chair,  that  sylvan  dress. 
The  arms  and  ankles  bare,  express  • 

Of  Lyulph's  tale  the  truth. 
Still  upon  her  garment's  hem 
Vanoc's  blood  made  purple  gem, 
And  the  warder  of  command 
Cumber'd  still  her  sleeping  hand; 
Still  her  dark  locks  dishevell'd  flow 
From  net  of  pearl  o'er  breast  of  snow  5 
And  so  fair  the  slumberer  seems. 
That  De  Vaux  impeach'd  his  dreams. 
Vapid  all  and  void  of  might. 
Hiding  half  her  charms  from  sight. 
Motionless  a  while  he  stands. 
Folds  his  arms  and  clasps  his  hands, 
Trembling  in  his  fitful  joy. 
Doubtful  how  he  should  destroy 

Ivong-enduring  spell; 
Doulitful,  too,  when  slowly  rise 
Dark-fringed  lids  of  Gyneth's  eyes, 

What  these  eyes  shall  tell.  — 
"St.  George  !   St.  Mary  !  can  it  be, 
That  they  will  kindly  look  on  me  !  " 


Gently,  lo !  the  Warrior  kneels. 
Soft  that  lovely  hand  he  steals. 
Soft  to  kiss,  and  soft  lo  clasp  — 
But  the  warder  leaves  her  grasp; 

Lightning  flashes,  rolls  the  thunder, 
Gyneth  startles  from  her  sleep, 
Totters  Tower,  and  trembles  Keep, 

Burst  the  Castle-walls  asunder! 
Fierce  and  frequent  were  the  shocks. 

Melt  the  magic  halls  away; 


ANTO    III. 


THE  BRIDAL   OF  TRIERMAIN. 


287 


But  beneath  their  mystic  rocks, 

III  the  arms  of  bold  De  Vaux, 

Safe  the  princess  lay; 
Safe  and  free  from  magic  power. 
Blushing  like  the  rose's  flower 

Opening  to  the  day; 
And  round  the  champion's  brows  were 

bound 
The  crown  that  Druidess  had  wound, 

Of  the  green  laurel-bay. 
And  this  was  what  remain'd  of  all 
The  wealth  of  that  enchanted  hall, 

The  Garland  and  the  Dame : 
But    where    should    Warrior    seek    the 

meed, 
Due  to  high  worth  for  daring  deed, 

Except  from  LovE  and  Fame! 

CONCLUSION. 


My  Lucy,  when  the  maid  is  won, 

The  Minstrel's  task,thouknow'st,  is  done; 

And  to  require  of  bard 
That  to  his  dregs  the  tale  should  run, 

Were  ordinance  too  hard. 
Our  lovers,  briefly  be  it  said. 
Wedded  as  lovers  wont  to  wed. 

When  tale  or  play  is  o'er; 
Lived  long  and  blest,  loved  fond  and  true. 
And  saw  a  numerous  race  renew 

The  honors  that  they  bore. 
Know,  too,  that  when  a  pilgrim  strays. 
In  morning  mist  or  evening  maze. 

Along  the  mountain  lone. 
That  fairy  fortress  often  mocks 
His  gaze  upon  the  castled  rocks 

Of  the  Valley  of  St.  John; 


But  never  man  since  brave  De  Vaux 
The  charmed  portal  won. 

"Tis  now  a  vain  illusive  show. 

That  melts  whene'er  the  sunbeams  glow 
Or  the  fresh  breeze  hath  blown. 


But  see,  my  love,  where  far  below 
Our  lingering  wheels  are  moving  slow. 

The  whiles,  up-gazing  still. 
Our  menials  eye  our  steepy  way, 
Marvelling,  perchance,  what  whira  can 

stay 
Our  steps,  when  eve  is  sinking  gray. 

On  this  gigantic  hill. 
So  think  the  vulgar —  Life  and  time 
Ring  all  their  joys  in  one  dull  chime 

Of  luxury  and  ease: 
And,  O !  lieside  these  simple  knaves. 
How  many  better  born  are  slaves 

To  such  coarse  joys  as  these,  — 
Dead  to  the  nobler  sense  that  glows 
When  Nature's  grander  scenes  unclose ! 
But,  Lucy,  we  will  love  them  yet. 
The  mountain's  misty  coronet. 

The  greenwood,  and  the  wold; 
And  love  the  more,  that  of  their  maze 
Adventure  high  of  other  days 

By  ancient  b.ards  is  told, 
Bringing,  perchance,  like  my  poor  tale. 
Some  moral  truth  in  fiction's  veil : 
Nor  love  them  less,  that  o'er  the  hill 
The  evening    breeze,    as    now,     comes 
chill;  — 

My  love  shall  wrap  her  warm. 
And,  fearless  of  the  slippery  way. 
While  safe  she  trips  the  heathy  brae. 

Shall  hang  on  Arthur's  arm. 


THE 

LORD  OF  THE  ISLES. 


IN    SIX    CANTOS, 


ADVERTISEMENT    TO    THE    FIRST    EDITION. 

The  scene  of  this  foem  lies,  at  first,  in  the  Castle  of  Artornish,  on  the  coast  of  Argyle- 
shire  ;  and,  afterwards,  in  the  Islands  of  Skye  and  Arran,  and  upon  the  coast  of  Ayrshire, 
finally,  it  is  laid  near  Stirling.  The  story  opens  in  the  spring  of  the  year  1307,  -when 
Bruce,  who  had  been  driven  out  of  Scotland  by  the  English,  and  the  Barons  who  adhered 
to  that  foreign  interest,  returned  front  the  Island  of  Rachrin,  on  the  coast  of  Ireland, again 
to  assert  his  claims  to  the  Scottish  crvwn.  Many  of  the  personages  and  incidents  intro- 
duced are  of  historical  celebrity.  The  authorities  used  are  chiefly  those  of  the  venerable 
Lord  Hailes,  as  well  entitled  to  be  called  the  restorer  of  Scottish  history,  as  Bruce  the  re- 
storer of  Scottish  monarchy  ;  and  of  Archdeacon  Barbour,  a  correct  edition  of  whose  Met- 
rical History  *  of  Robert  Bruce  will  soon,  I  trust,  appear  under  the  care  of  my  learned 
friend,  the  Rev.  Dr.  Jamieson. 

Abbotsford,  \oth  December,  1814. 


INTRODUCTION    TO    EDITION    1830. 

I  roiji.n  hardly  have  chosen  a  subject  more  popular  in  Scotland  than  anything  con- 
nected with  the  Rruce's  history,  unless  I  had  attempted  that  of  Wallace.  lUit  I  am  decidedly 
of  opinion,  that  a  popular,  or  what  is  called  a  taking  title,  though  well  qualified  to  ensure 
the  publishers  against  loss,  and  clear  their  shelves  of  the  original  impression,  is  rather 
apt  to  be  hazardous  than  otherwise  to  the  reputation  of  the  author.  He  who  attempts  a 
subject  of  distinguished  popularity,  has  not  the  privilege  of  awakening  the  enthusiasm  of 
his  audience ;  on  the  contrary,  it  is  already  awakened,  and  glows,  it  may  !«,  more  ardently 
than  that  of  the  author  himself.  In  this  case,  the  warmth  of  the  author  is  inferior  to  that 
of  the  party  whom  he  addresses,  who  has.  therefore,  little  chance  of  being,  in  Bayes's 
phrase,  "  elevated  and  surprised  "  by  what  he  has  thought  of  with  more  enthusi.asm  than 
the  writer.  The  sense  of  this  risk,  joined  to  the  consciousness  of  striving  against  wind 
and  tide,  made  the  task  of  composing  the  proposed  Poem  somewhat  heavy  and  hopeless; 

*  "  The  Bruce  and  Wallace."     2  vols.,  4to,  1820- 
288 


^ 


INTRODUCTION.  289 

but,  like  the  prize-fighter  in  "  As  You  Like  It,"  I  was  to  wrestle  for  my  reputation,  and  not 
neglect  any  advantage.  In  a  most  agreeable  pleasure-voyage,  which  1  have  tried  to  com 
memorate  in  the  Introduction  to  the  new  edition  of  the  "  Pirate,"  1  visited,  in  social  and 
friendly  company,  the  coasts  and  islands  of  Scotland,  and  made  myself  acquainted  with 
the  localities  of  which  I  meant  to  treat.  But  this  voyage,  which  was  in  every  otiier  effect 
so  delightful,  was  in  its  conclusion  saddened  by  one  of  those  strokes  of  fate  which  so  often 
mingle  themselves  with  our  pleasures.  The  accomplished  and  excellent  person*  who  had 
recommended  to  me  the  subject  for  "  The  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel,"  and  to  whom  1  pro- 
posed to  inscribe  what  I  already  suspected  might  be  the  close  of  my  poetical  labors,  was 
unexpectedly  removed  from  the  world,  which  she  seemed  only  to  have  visited  for  purposes 
of  kindness  and  benevolence.  It  is  needless  to  say  how  the  author's  feelings,  or  tiie  com- 
position of  his  trifling  work,  were  affected  by  a  circumstance  which  occasioned  so  many 
tears  and  so  much  sorrow.  True  it  is,  that  "  The  Lord  of  the  Isles  "  was  concluded,  un- 
willingly and  in  haste,  under  the  painful  feeling  of  one  who  has  a  task  which  must  be  fin- 
ished, rather  than  with  the  ardor  of  one  who  endeavors  to  perform  that  task  well.  Although 
the  Poem  cannot  be  said  to  have  made  a  favorable  impression  on  the  public,  the  sale  of 
fifteen  thousand  copies  enabled  the  author  to  retreat  from  the  field  with  the  honors  of  war. 

In  the  mean  time,  what  was  necessarily  to  be  considered  as  a  failure,  was  much  reconciled 
to  my  feelings  by  the  success  attending  my  attempt  in  another  species  of  composition. 
"  Waverley  "  had,  under  strict  incognito,  taken  its  flight  from  the  press,  just  before  1  set 
out  upon  the  voyage  already  mentioned  ;  it  had  now  made  its  way  to  popularity,  and  the 
success  of  that  work,  and  the  volumes  which  followed,  was  sufficient  to  have  satisfied  a 
greater  appetite  for  applause  than  I  have  at  any  time  possessed.! 

I  may  as  well  add  in  this  place,  that,  being  much  urged  by  my  intimate  friend,  now  un 
happily  no  more,  William  Erskine  (a  Scottish  judge,  by  the  title  of  Lord  Kinnedder),  I 
agreed  to  write  the  little  romantic  tale  called  the  "  Bridal  of  Triermain  ;  "  but  it  was  on 
the  condition  that  he  should  make  no  serious  effort  to  disown  the  composition,  if  report 
should  lay  it  at  his  door.  As  he  was  more  than  suspected  of  a  taste  for  poetry,  and  as  1 
took  care,  in  several  places,  to  mix  something  which  might  resemble  (as  far  as  was  in  my 
power)  my  friend's  feeling  and  manner,  the  train  easily  caught,  and  two  large  editions  were 
sold.  A  third  being  called  for.  Lord  Kinnedder  became  unwilling  to  aid  any  longer  a  de- 
ception which  was  going  further  than  he  expected  or  desired,  and  the  real  author's  name 
was  given.  Upon  another  occasion,  I  sent  up  another  of  these  trifles,  which,  like  school- 
boys' kites,  served  to  show  how  the  wind  of  popular  taste  was  setting.  The  manner  was 
supposed  to  be  that  of  a  rude  minstrel  or  Scald,  in  opposition  to  the  "  Bridal  of  Triermain," 
which  was  designed  to  belong  rather  to  the  Italian  school. 

This  new  fugitive  piece  was  called  "  Harold  the  Dauntless  ; "  and  I  am  still  astonished 
at  my  having  committed  the  gross  error  of  selecting  the  very  name  which  Lord  Byron  had 
made  so  famous.  It  encountered  rather  an  odd  fate.  My  ingenious  friend,  Mr.  James 
Hogg,  had  published  about  the  same  time,  a  work  called  the  "  Poetic  Mirror,"  containing 
imitations  of  the  principal  living  poets.  There  was  in  it  a  very  good  imitation  of  my  own 
style,  which  bore  such  a  resemblance  to  "  Harold  the  Dauntless,"  that  there  was  no  dis- 
covering the  original  from  the  imitation ;  and  I  believe  that  many  who  took  the  trouble  of 
thinking  upon  the  subject,  were  rather  of  the  opinion  that  my  ingenious  friend  was  the 
true,  and  not  the  fictitious  Simon  Pure.  Since  this  period,  which  was  in  the  year  1817, 
the  author  has  not  been  an  intruder  on  the  public  by  any  poetical  work  of  importance. 

Abbotsford,  April,  1830.  W.   S. 

*  Harriet,  Duchess  of  Buccleuch,  died  Aug.  24,  1814- 
t  The  first  edition  of  Waverley  appeared  in  July,  1814. 


THE  LORD  OF  THE  ISLES. 


CANTO   FIRST. 


Autumn  departs  —  but  still  his  mantle's 

fold 
Rests  on  the  groves  of  noble  Somer- 

ville,* 
Beneath  a  shroud  of  russet  dropp'd  with 

gold 
Tweed  and  his  tributaries  mingle  still; 
Hoarser  the  wind,  and  deeper  sounds 

the  rill, 
Yet   lingering   notes   of    sylvan   music 

swell, 
The  deep-toned  cushat,  and   the  red- 
breast shrill; 
And  yet  some  tints  of  summer  splendor 

tell 
When    the   broad    sun    sinks   down   on 

Ettrick's  western  fell. 

Autumn  departs  —  from  Gala's  fields  t 

no  more 
Come  rural  sounds  our  kindred  banks 

to  cheer; 
Blent  with  the  stream,  and  gale  that 

wafts  it  o'er. 
No  more  the  distant  reaper's  mirth  we 

hear. 
The  last  blithe  shout  hath  died  upon 

oar  ear, 

*  Tlie  Pavilion  was  a  frequent  residence  of 
Lord  Somerville,  who  was  the  intimate  friend 
and  almost  daily  companion  of  the  poet.  He 
died  in  1819.  It  was  situated  on  the  Tweed,  over 
against  Melrose,  and  in  sight  of  Abbotsford. 

t  The  river  Gala,  famous  in  song,  flows  into 
the  Tweed  a  few  hundred  yards  below  Abbots- 
ford  ;  but  probably  the  word  Gala  here  stands 
for  the  poet's  neighbor  and  kinsman,  John  Scott, 
Esq.,  of  Gala. 


And    harvest-home    hath    hush'd     the 
clanging  wain, 

On    the    waste    hill    no   forms  of    life 
appear. 

Save  where,  sad  laggard  of  the  autum- 
nal train. 
Some    age-struck    wanderer    gleans    few 
ears  of  scatter'd  grain. 

Deem'st    thou   these  sadden'd    scenes 

have  pleasure  still, 
Lovest  thou  through  Autumn's  fading 

realms  to  stray, 
To  sec  the   heath-flower  wither'd    on 

the  hill. 
To  listen  to  the  wood's  expiring  lay. 
To  note  the  red  leaf  shivering  on  the 

spray, 
To  mark  the  last  bright  tints  the  moun- 
tain stain. 
On  the  waste  fields  to  trace  the  gleaner's 

way, 
And     moralize     on    mortal     joy    and 

pain?  — 
O !  if  such  scenes  thou  lovest,  scorn  not 

the  minstrel  strain. 

No  !  do  not  scorn,  although  its  hoarser 

note 
Scarce  with  the  cushat's  homely  song 

can  vie, 
Though  faint  its  beauties  as  the  tints 

remote 
That  gleam  through  mist   in  autumn's 

evening  sky, 
And  few  as  leaves  that  tremble,  sear 

and  dry. 


290 


Canto  I. 


THE   LORD    OF  THE  ISLES. 


291 


When  wild   November  hath  his  bugle 

wound; 
Nor  mock  my  toil —  a  lonely  gleaner  I 
Through  fields  time-wasted,  on  sad  in- 
quest bound, 
Where  happier  bards  of  yore  have  richer 
harvest  found. 

So  shall  thou  list,  and  haply  not  un- 
moved, 

To  a  wild  tale  of  Albyn's  warrior  day; 

In  distant  lands,  by  the  rough  West 
reproved, 

Still  lives  some  relics  of  the  ancient  lay. 

For,  when  on  Coolin's  hills  the  lights 
decay, 

With  such  the  Seer  of  Skye  the  eve 
beguiles; 

'Tis  known  amidst  the  pathless  wastes 
of  Keay, 

In  Harries  known,  and  in  Zona's  piles. 
Where  rest  from  mortal  coil  the  Mighty 
of  the  Isles. 


"  Wake,  Maid  of  Lorn  !  "  the  Minstrels 

sung. 
Thy  rugged  halls,  Artornish  !   rung,^ 
And  the  dark  seas  thy  towers  that  lave, 
Heaved  on  the  beach  a  softer  wave. 
As  mid  the  tuneful  choir  to  keep 
The  diapason  of  the  Deep. 
Lull'd  were  the  winds  of  Inninmore, 
And  green  Loch-Alline's  woodland  shore, 
As  if  wild  woods  and  waves  had  pleasure 
In  listing  to  the  lovely  measure. 
And  ne'er  to  symphony  more  sweet 
Gave  mountain  echoes  answer  meet. 
Since,  met  from  mainland  and  from  isle, 
Ross,  Arran,  Hay,  and  Argyle, 
Each  minstrel's  tributary  lay 
Paid  homage  to  the  festal  day. 
Dull  and  dishonor'd  were  the  bard. 
Worthless  of  guerdon  and  regard, 
Deaf  to  the  hope  of  minstrel  fame. 
Or  lady's  smiles,  his  noblest  aim. 
Who  on  that  morn's  resistless  call 
Were  silent  in  Artornish  hall. 


"  Wake,  Maid  of  Lorn  !  "  'twas  thus  they 

sung. 
And  yet  more  proud  the  descant  rung. 


"Wake,  Maid  of  Lorn  !  high  right  is  ours, 
To  charm  dull  sleep  from  Beauty's  lx)wers. 
Earth,  Ocean,  Air,  have  naught  so  shy 
But  owns  the  power  of  minstrelsy. 
In  Lettermore  the  timid  deer 
Will  pause,  the  harp's  wild  chime  to  hear; 
Rude  Heiskar's  seal  through  surges  dark 
Will  long  pursue  the  minstrel's  bark;- 
To  list  his  notes,  the  eagle  proud 
Will  poise  him  on  Ben-Cailliach's  cloud; 
Then  let  not  Maiden's  ear  disdain 
The  summons  of  the  minstrel  train, 
But  while  our  harps  wild  music  make, 
Edith  of  Lorn,  awake,  awake ! 


"  O  wake,  while  Dawn,  with  dewy  shine, 
Wakes  Nature's  charms  to  vie  with  thine  ! 
She  bids  the  mottled  thrush  rejoice 
To  mate  thy  melody  of  voice; 
The  dew  that  on  the  violet  lies 
Mocks  the  dark  lustre  of  thine  eyes; 
But,  Edith,  wake,  and  all  we  see 
Of  sweet  and  fair  shall  yield  to  thee  !  "  — 
"She  comes  not  yet,"  gray  Ferrand  cried ; 
"  Brethren,  let  softer  spell  Ije  tried. 
Those    notes    prolong'd,    that    soothing 

theme 
Which  best  may  mix  with  Beauty's  dream. 
And  whisper,  with  their  silvery  tone, 
The  hope  she  loves,  yet  fears  to  own." 
He  spoke,  and  on  the  harp-strings  died 
The  strains  of  flattery  and  of  pride; 
More  soft,  more  low,  more  tender  fell 
The  lay  of  love  he  bade  them  tell. 


"  Wake,  Maid  of  Lorn !  the  momenis  fly. 

Which  yet  that  maiden-name  allow; 
Wake,  Maiden,  wake !  the  hour  is  nigh 

When  Love  shall  claim  a  plighted  vow. 
By  Fear,  thy  bosom's  fluttering  guest. 

By  Hope,  that  soon  shall  fears  remove. 
We  bid  thee  break  the  Iwnds  of  rest. 

And  wake  thee  at  the  call  of  Love ! 

"  Wake,  Edith,  wake!  in  yonder  bay 
Lies  many  a  galley  gayly  mann'd, 

We  hear  the  merry  pibrochs  play. 
We  see  the  streamers'  silken  ban<l. 

What   Chieftain's  praise  these  pibrochs 
swell. 
What  crest  is  on  these  banners  wove, 


292 


THE   LORD    OF   THE  ISLES. 


Canto  I. 


The  harp,  the  minstrel,  dare  not  tell  - 
The  riddle  must  be  read  by  Love." 


Retired  her  maiden  train  among, 

Edith  of  Lorn  received  the  song, 

But  tamed  the  minstrel's  pride  had  been 

That  had  her  cold  demeanor  seen; 

For  not  upon  her  cheek  awoke 

The  glow  of  pride  when  P'lattery  spoke, 

Nor  could  their  tenderest  numbers  bring 

One  sigh  responsive  to  the  string. 

As  vainly  had  her  maidens  vied 

In  skill  to  deck  the  princely  bride. 

Her  locks,  in  dark-brown  length  array'd, 

Cathleen  of  Ulne,  'twas  thine  to  braid; 

Young  Eva  with  meet  reverence  drew 

On  the  light  foot  the  silken  shoe. 

While  on  the  ankle's  slender  round 

Those  strings  of  pearl  fair  Kertha  wound. 

That,  bleach'd  Lochryan's  depths  within, 

Seem'd  dusky  still  on  Edith's  skin. 

But  Einion,  of  experience  old. 

Had  weightiest  task  —  the  mantle's  fold 

In  many  an  artful  plait  she  tied. 

To  show  the  form  it  seem'd  to  hide. 

Till  on  the  floor  descending  roH'd 

Its  waves  of  crimson  blent  with  gold. 


O !  lives  there  now  so  cold  a  maid. 
Who  thus  in  beauty's  pomp  array'd, 
In  beauty's  proudest  pitch  of  power, 
And  conquest  won  —  the  bridal  hour  — 
With  every  charm  that  wins  the  heart. 
By  Nature  given,  enhanced  by  Art, 
Could  yet  the  fair  reflection  view. 
In  the  bright  mirror  pictured  true, 
And  not  one  dimple  on  her  cheek 
A  tell-tale  consciousness  bespeak? 
Lives  still  such  maid? — Fair  damsels,  say, 
P'or  further  vouches  not  my  lay. 
Save  that  such  lived  in  Britain's  isle. 
When   Lorn's  bright    Edith    scorn'd   to 
smile. 


But  Morag,  to  whose  fostering  care 

Proud  Lorn  had  given  his  daughter  fair, 

Morag,  who  saw  a  mother's  aid 

By  all  a  daughter's  love  repaid, 

(  Strict  was  that  bond  —  most  kind  of  all — 

Inviolate  in  Highland  hall)  — 


Gray  Morag  sate  a  space  apart. 
In  Edith's  eyes  to  read  her  heart. 
In  vain  the  attendants'  fond  appeal 
To  Morag's  skill,  to  Morag's  zeal; 
She  mark'd  her  child  receive  their  care, 
Cold  as  the  image  sculptured  fair, 
(Form  of  some  sainted  patroness,) 
Which  cloister'd  maids  combine  to  dress; 
She  mark'd  —  and  knew  her  nursling's 

heart 
In  the  vain  pomp  took  little  part. 
Wistful  a  while  she  gazed  —  then  press'd 
The  maiden  to  her  anxif)us  breast 
In  finish'd  loveliness  —  and  led 
To  where  a  turret's  airy  head. 
Slender  and  steep,  and  battled  round, 
O'erlook'd,     dark     Mull !     thy    mighty 

Sound, ** 
Where  thwarting  tides, with  mingled  roar. 
Part  thy  swarth  hills  from  Morven's  shore. 


"Daughter,"  she  said,  "these  seas  be- 
hold. 
Round  twice  a  hundred  islands  roll'd. 
From    Hirt,    that    hears    their    northern 

roar. 
To  the  green  Hay's  fertile  shore;* 
Or  mainland  turn,  where  many  a  tower. 
Owns  thy  bold  brother's  feudal  power. 
Each  on  its  own  dark  cape  reclined. 
And  listening  to  its  own  wild  wind. 
From  where  Mingarry,  sternly  placed, 
O'erawes  the  woodland  and  the  waste, 
To  where  Dunstaffnagc  hears  the  raging 
Of  Connal  with  his  rocks  engaging. 
Think'st  thou,  amid  this  ample  round, 
A  single  V)row  but  thine  has  frown'd. 
To  sadden  this  auspicious  morn, 
That  bids  the  daughter  of  high  Lorn 
Impledge  her  spousal  faith  to  wed 
The  heir  of  mighty  Somerled  !  * 
Ronald,  from  many  a  hero  sprung. 
The  fair,  the  valiant,  and  the  young. 
Lord  of  the  Islks,  whose  lofty  name  ^ 
A  thousand  bards  have  given  to  fame, 

•  St.  Kilda  is  the  most  northerly  of  the  two 
luindred  or  more  Western  Islands.  It  was  an- 
ciently called  Hirth  or  Hirt,  probably  meaning 
F.arth  ;  l)eing,  in  fact,  the  whole  earth  to  its  in- 
habitants. Green  Hay  is,  if  not  the  largest,  yet 
the  most  fertile  and  important,  of  the  Hebrides, 
and  was  originally  the  principal  abode  of  the 
Lords  of  the  Isles. 


Canto  I. 


THE   LORD    OF   THE   ISLES. 


293 


The  mate  of  monarchs,  and  allied 

On  equal  terms  with  England's  pride.  — 

From  chieftain's    tower    to    bondsman's 

cot, 
Who  hears  the  tale,  and  triumphs  not? 
The  damsel  dons  her  best  attire, 
The  shepherd  lights  his  Ixiltane  fire, 
Joy,  joy !  each  warder's  horn  hath  sung, 
Joy,  joy !  each  matin  bell  hath  rung; 
The  holy  priest  says  grateful  mass. 
Loud  shouts  each  hardy  galla-glass. 
No  mountain  den  holds  outcast  boor. 
Of  heart  so  dull,  of  soul  so  poor. 
But  he  hath  flung  his  task  aside. 
And  claim'd  this  morn  for  holy-tide; 
Yet,  empress  of  this  joyful  day, 
Edith  is  sad  while  all  are  gay."  — 


Proud  Edith's  soul  came  to  her  eye, 
Resentment  check'd  the  struggling  sigh. 
Her  hurrying  hand  indignant  dried 
The  burning  tears  of  injured  pride :  — 
' '  Morag,  forbear !  or  lend  thy  praise 
To  swell  yon  hireling  harpers'  lays; 
Make  to  yon  maids  thy  boast  of  power, 
That  they  may  waste  a  wondering  hour. 
Telling  of  banners  proudly  borne, 
O  pealing  bell  and  bugle-horn. 
Or,  theme  more  dear,  of  robes  of  price, 
Crownlets  and  gauds  of  rare  device. 
But  thou,  experienced  as  thou  art, 
Think'st  thou  with  these  to  cheat  the  heart. 
That,  bound  in  strong  affection's  chain. 
Looks  for  return  and  looks  in  vain? 
No!  sum  thine  Edith's  wretched  lot 
In  these  brief  words  —  He  loves  her  not ! 


"  DeVjate  it  not  —  too  long  I  strove 
To  call  his  cold  observance  love, 
.Ml  blinded  by  the  league  that  styled 
Edith  of  Lorn  —  while  yet  a  child, 
She  tripp'd  the  heath  by  Morag's  side,  — 
The  brave  Lord  Ronald  s  destined  bride. 
Ere  yet  I  saw  him,  while  afar 
His  broadsword  blazed  in  Scotland's  war, 
Train'd  to  believe  our  fates  the  same. 
My  bosom  throbbed  when  Ronald's  name 
Came  gracing  Fame's  heroic  tale, 
Like  perfume  on  the  summer  gale. 
What  pilgrim  sought  our  halls,  nor  told 
Of  Ronald's  deeds  in  battle  bold? 


Who  touch'd  the  harp  to  heroes'  praise. 
But  his  achievements  swell'd  the  lays? 
Even  Morag  —  not  a  tale  of  fame 
Was  hers  but  closed  with  Ronald's  name. 
He  came  !  and  all  that  had  been  told 
Of  his  high  worth  seem'd  poor  and  cold. 
Tame,  lifeless,  void  of  energy. 
Unjust  to  Ronald  and  to  me  ! 


"  Since  then,  what  thought  had  Edith's 

heart 
And  gave  not  plighted  love  its  part !  — 
And  what  requital  ?  cold  delay  — 
Excuse  that  shunn'd  the  spousal  day.  — 
It  dawns,  and  Ronald  is  not  here  !  — 
Hunts  he  Bentalla's  nimble  deer, 
Or  loiters  he  in  secret  dell 
To  bid  some  lighter  love  farewell. 
And  swear,  that  though  he  may  not  scorn 
A  daughter  of  the  House  of  Lorn,*' 
Yet,  when  these  formal  rites  are  o'er. 
Again  they  meet,  to  part  no  more?  " 


—  "  Hush,  daughter,  hush?   thy  doubtr 

remove, 
More  nobly  think  of  Ronald's  love. 
Look,  where  beneath  the  castle  gray 
His  fleet  unmoor  from  Aros  bay ! 
See'st  not  each  galley's  topmast  bend. 
As  on  the  yards  the  sails  ascend? 
Hiding  the  dark-blue  land,  they  rise 
Like  the  white  clouds  on  April  skies; 
The  shouting  vassals  man  the  oars. 
Behind  them  sink  Mull's  mountain  shores. 
Onward  their  merry  course  they  keep. 
Through  whistling  breeze  and  foaming 

deep. 
And  mark  the  headmost,  seaward  cast, 
Stoop  to  the  freshening  gale  her  mast. 
As  if  she  veil'd  its  banner'd  pride, 
To  greet  afar  her  prince's  bride  ! 
Thy  Ronald  comes,  and  while  in  speed 
His  galley  mates  the  flying  steed. 
He   chides    her    sloth!"  — Fair    Edith 

sigh'd, 
Blushed,  sadly  smiled,  and  thus  replied : — 


"  Sweet  thought,  but  vain  !  — No,  Morag, 

mark. 
Type  of  his  course,  yon  lonely  bark. 


394 


THE  LORD   OF  THE  ISLES. 


Canto  I. 


That  oft  hath  shifted  helm  and  sail, 
To  win  its  way  against  the  gale. 
Since  peep  of  morn,  my  vacant  eyes 
Have  view'd  by  fits  the  course  she  tries; 
Now ,  though  the  darkening  scud  comes  on, 
And  dawn's  fair  promises  be  gone, 
And  though  the  weary  crew  may  see 
Our  sheltering  haven  on  their  lee. 
Still  closer  to  the  rising  wind 
They  strive  her  shivering  sail  to  bind, 
Still  nearer  to  the  shelves'  dread  verge 
At  every  tack  their  course  they  urge, 
As  if  they  fear'd  Artonish  more 
Than  adverse  winds  and  breakers'  roar. 


Sooth  spoke  the  maid.  • — •  Amid  the  tide 
The  skiff  she  mark'd  lay  tossing  sore. 
And  shifted  oft  her  stooping  side. 
In  weary  tack  from  shore  to  shore. 
Yet  on  her  destined  course  no  more 

She  gain'd,  of  forward  way, 
Than  what  a  minstrel  may  compare 
To  the  poor  meed  which  peasants  share. 

Who  toil  the  livelong  day; 
And  such  the  risk  her  pilot  braves, 

That  oft,  before  she  wore. 
Her  bowsprit  kiss'd  the  broken  waves, 
Where  in  white  foam  the  ocean  raves 

Upon  the  shelving  shore. 
Yet,  to  their  destined  purpose  true. 
Undaunted  toil'd  her  hardy  crew. 

Nor  look'd  where  shelter  lay, 
Nor  for  Artornish  Castle  drew, 

Nor  steer'd  for  Aros  bay. 


Thus  while  they  strove  with  wind  and  seas. 
Borne  onward  by  the  willing  breeze, 

Lord  Ronald's  fleet  swept  by, 
Streamer'd  with  silk,  and   trick'd  with 

gold, 
Mann'd  with  the  noble  and  the  bold 

Of  Island  chivalry. 
Around  their  prows  the  ocean  roars. 
And  chafes  beneath  their  thousand  oars, 

Vet  l)ears  them  on  their  way; 
So  chafes  the  war-horse  in  his  might. 
That  fieldward  bears  some  valiant  knight. 
Champs,  till  both  bit  and  boss  are  white, 

Hut,  foaming,  must  obey. 
On  each  gay  deck  they  might  behold 
Lances  of  steel  and  crests  of  cold. 


And  hauberks  with  their  burnish 'd  fold, 

That  shimmer'd  fair  and  free; 
And  each  proud  galley,  as  she  pass'd, 
To  the  wild  cadence  of  the  blast 

Gave  wilder  minstrelsy. 
Full  many  a  shrill  triumphant  note 
Saline  and  Scallastle  bade  float 

Their  misty  shores  around; 
And  Morven's  echoes  answer'd  well, 
And  Duart  heard  the  distant  swell 

Come  down  the  darksome  Sound. 


So  bore  they  on  with  mirth  and  pride. 
And  if  that  laboring  bark  they  spied, 

'Twas  with  such  idle  eye 
As  nobles  cast  on  lowly  boor. 
When,  toiling  in  his  task  obscure, 

They  pass  him  careless  by. 
Let  them  sweep  on  with  heedless  eyes ! 
But,  had  they  known  what  mighty  prize 

In  that  frail  vessel  lay. 
The  famish 'd  wolf,  that  prowls  the  wold, 
Had  scatheless  passed  the  unguarded  fold, 
Ere,  drifting  by  these  galleys  bold, 

Unchallenged  were  her  way  ! 
And    thou.    Lord    Ronald,    sweep   thou 

on. 
With  mirth,  and  pride,  and  minstrel  tone ! 
But  badst    thou   known    who   sail'd   sc 

nigh. 
Far  other  glance  were  in  thine  eye ! 
Far  other  flush  were  on  thy  brow. 
That,  shaded  by  the  bonnet,  now 
Assumes  but  ill  the  blithesome  cheer 
Of  bridegroom  when  the  bride  is  near ! 


Yes,  sweep  they  on  !  — We  will  not  leavf., 
For  them  that  triumjih,  those  who  grieve. 

With  that  armada  gay 
Be  laughter  loud  and  jocund  shout, 
An<l  bards  to  cheer  the  wassail  rout. 

With  tale,  romance,  and  lay; 
And  of  wild  mirth  each  clamorous  art, 
Which,  if  it  cannot  cheer  the  heart, 
May  stupify  and  stun  its  smart, 

For  one  loud  busy  day. 
Yes,  sweep  they  on  !  —  But  with  that  skiff 

Abides  the  minstrel  tale. 
Where  there  was  dread  of  surge  and  cliff, 
Labor  that  strained  each  sinew  stiff. 

And  one  sad  Maiden's  wail. 


Canto  I, 


THE   LORD    OF   THE   ISLES. 


295 


XVIII. 

All  day  with  fruitless  strife  they  toil'd. 
With  eve  the  ebbing  currents  boil'd 

More  fierce  from  strait  and  lake; 
And  midway  through  the  channel  met 
Conflicting  tides  that  foam  and  fret, 
And  high  their  mingled  billows  jet. 
As  spears,  that,  in  the  battle  set, 

Spring  upward  as  they  break. 
Then,  too,  the  lights  of  eve  were  past, 
And  louder  sung  the  western  blast 

On  rocks  of  Inninmore; 
Rent  was  the  sail,  and  strain'd  the  mast, 
And  many  a  leak  was  gaping  fast. 
And  the  pale  steersman  stood  aghast. 

And  gave  the  conflict  o'er 


'Twas  then  that  One,  whose  lofty  Iook 
Nor  labor  duH'd  nor  terror  shook. 

Thus  to  the  Leader  spoke:  — 
"  Brother,  how  hopest  thou  to  abide 
The  fury  of  this  wilder'd  tide. 
Or  how  avoid  the  rock's  rude  side. 

Until  the  day  has  broke? 
Didst  thou  not  mark  the  vessel  reel, 
With  quivering  planks,  and  groaning  keel, 

At  the  last  billow's  shock? 
Yet  how  of  better  counsel  tell. 
Though  here  thou  see'st  poor  Isabel 

Half  dead  with  want  and  fear; 
For  look  on  sea,  or  look  on  land. 
On  yon  dark  sky  —  on  every  hand 

Despair  and  death  are  near. 
For  her  alone  I  grieve,  —  on  me 
Danger  sits  light,  by  land  and  sea, 

I  follow  where  thou  wilt; 
Either  to  bide  the  tempest's  lour. 
Or  wend  to  yon  unfriendly  tower, 
Or  rush  amid  their  naval  power. 
With  war-cry  wake  their  wassail-hour, 

And  die  with  hand  on  hilt." 


That  elder  Leader's  calm  reply 

In  steady  voice  was  given: — 

"  In  man's  most  dark  extremity 

Oft  succor  dawns  from  Heaven. 
Edward,  trim  thou  the  shatter'd  sail. 
The  helm  be  mine,  and  down  the  gale 

Let  our  free  course  be  driven; 
So  shall  we  'scape  the  western  bay, 
The  hostile  fleet,  the  unequal  fray, 


So  safely  hold  our  vessel's  way 

Beneath  the  Castle  wall; 
For  if  a  hope  of  safety  rest, 
Tis  on  the  sacred  name  of  guest. 
Who  seeks  for  shelter,  storm-distress  d. 

Within  a  chieftain's  hall. 
If  not  —  it  best  beseems  our  worth. 
Our  name,  our  right,  our  lofty  birth. 

By  noble  hands  to  fall." 


The  helm,  to  his  strong  arm  consign'd, 
Gave  the  reef'd  sail  to  meet  the  wind, 

And  on  her  alter'd  way. 
Fierce  bounding,  forward  sprung  the  ship. 
Like  greyhound  starting  from  the  slip 

To  seize  his  flying  prey. 
Awaked  before  the  rushing  prow. 
The  mimic  fires  of  ocean  glow. 

Those  lightnings  of  the  wave;^ 
Wild  sparkles  crest  the  broken  tides. 
And,  flashing  round,  the  vessel's  sides 

With  elvish  lustre  lave, 
While,  far  behind,  their  livid  light 
To  the  dark  billows  of  the  night 

A  gloomy  splendor  gave. 
It  seems  as  if  old  Ocean  shakes 
From  his  dark  brow  the  lucid  flakes 

In  envious  pageantry, 
To  match  the  meteor-light  that  streaks 

Grim  Hecla's  midnight  sky. 


Nor  lack'd  they  steadier  light  to  keep 
Their  course  upon  the  darken'd  deep;— 
Artornish,  on  her  frowning  steep 

Twixt  cloud  and  ocean  hung. 
Glanced  with  a  thousand  lights  of  glee. 
And  landward  far,  and  far  to  sea. 

Her  festal  radiance  flung. 
By  that  blithe  beacon-light  they  stecr'd. 

Whose  lustre  mingled  well 
With  the  pale  beam  that  now  appear'd. 
As  the  cold  moon  her  head  uprear'd 

Above  the  eastern  fell. 

XXIII. 
Thus  guided,  on  their  course  they  bore. 
Until  they  near'd  the  mainland  shore. 
When  frequent  on  the  hollow  blast 
Wild  shouts  of  merriment  were  cast. 
And  wind  and  wave  and  sea-birds'  cry 
With  wassail  sounds  in  concert  vie. 


296 


THE  LORD    OF   THE  ISLES. 


Canto  I. 


Like  funeral  shrieks  with  revelry. 

Or  like  the  battle-shout 
By  peasants  heard  from  cliffs  on  high, 
When  Triumph,  Rage,  and  Agony, 

Madden  the  fight  and  rout. 
Now  nearer  yet,  through  mist  and  storm 
Dimly  arose  the  Castle's  form, 

And  deepen'd  shadow  made, 
Far  lengthen'd  on  the  main  below, 
Where,  dancing  in  reflected  glow, 

A  hundred  torches  play'd, 
Spangling  the  wave  with  lights  as  vain 
As  pleasures  in  this  vale  of  pain, 

That  dazzle  as  they  fade. 


Beneath  the  Castle's  sheltering  lee. 
They  staid  their  course  in  quiet  sea. 
Hewn  in  the  rock,  a  passage  there 
Sought  the  dark  fortress  by  a  stair, 

So  strait,  so  high,  so  steep, 
With  peasant's  staff  one  valiant  hand 
Might  well  the  dizzy  pass  have  mann'd, 
'Gainst  hundreds  arm'd  with  spear  and 
brand. 

And  plunged  them  in  the  deep. 
His  bugle  then  the  helmsman  wound; 
Loud  answer'd  every  echo  round. 

From  turret,  rock,  and  bay, 
The  postern's  hinges  crash  and  groan. 
And  soon  the  warder's  cresset  shone 
On  those  rude  steps  of  slippery  stone, 

To  light  the  upward  way. 
"  Thrice  welcome,  holy  Sire !  "  he  said; 
"  Full  long  the  spousal  train  have  staid. 

And,  vex'd  at  thy  delay, 
Fear'd  lest,  amidst  these  wildering  seas, 
The  darksome  night  and  freshening  breeze 

Had  driven  thy  bark  astray." 


"  Warder,"  the  younger  strangtT  said, 
' '  Thine  erring  guess  some  mirth  had  made 
In  mirthful  hour;  but  nights  like  these. 
When  the  rough  winds  wake  western  seas. 
Brook  not  of  glee.     We  crave  some  aid 
And  needful  shelter  for  this  maid 

Until  the  Vjreak  of  day; 
For,  to  ourselves,  the  deck's  rude  plank 
Is  easy  as  the  mossy  bank 

That's  breath'd  upon  by  May. 
And  for  our  storm-toss'd  skiff  we  seek 
Short  shelter  in  this  leeward  creek. 


Prompt   when   the  dawn  the  east  shall 
streak 

Again  to  bear  away."  — 
Answer'd  the  Warder : —  "  In  what  namo 
Assert  ye  hospitable  claim? 

Whence  come,  or  whither  bound? 
Hath  Erin  seen  your  parting  sails? 
Or  come  ye  on  Norweyan  gales? 
And  seek  ye  England's  fertile  vales, 

Or  Scotland's  mountain  ground?  "  — 


"  Warriors—  for  other  title  none 
For  some  brief  space  we  list  to  own, 
Bound  by  a  vow  —  warriors  are  we; 
In  strife  by  land,  and  storm  Vjy  sea, 

We  have  been  known  to  fame; 
And    these    brief     words    have    import 

dear, 
When  sounded  in  a  noble  ear. 
To  harl)or  safe,  and  friendly  cheer, 

That  gives  us  rightful  claim. 
Grant  us  the  trivial  boon  we  seek. 
And  we  in  other  realms  will  speak 

Fair  of  your  courtesy; 
Deny  —  and  Ije  your  niggard  Hold 
Scorn'd  by  the  noble  and  the  bold, 
Shunn'd  by  the  pilgrim  on  the  wold. 

And  wanderer  on  the  lea!  "  — 


"  Bold  stranger,  no  —  'gainst  claim  like 

thine, 
No  bolt  revolves  by  hand  of  mine, 
Though  urged  in  tone  that  more  express'd 
A  monarch  than  a  suppliant  guest. 
Be  what  ye  will,  Artornish  Hall 
On  this  glad  eve  is  free  to  all. 
Though  ye  had  drawn  a  hostile  sword 
'Gainst  our  ally,  great  England's  Lord, 
Or  mail  upon  your  shoulders  borne, 
To  battle  with  the  I^jrd  of  Lorn, 
Or,  outlaw'd,  dwelt  by  greenwood  tree 
With  the  fierce  Knight  of  Ellerslie,* 
Or  aided  even  the  murderous  strife. 
When  Comyn  fell  beneath  the  knife 
Of  that  fell  homicide  The  Bruce, t 
This  night  had  been  a  term  of  truce.  — 
Ho,  vassals  !  give  these  guests  your  care, 
And  show  the  narrow  postern  stair." 

•  Sir  William  Wallace, 
t  See  Note  12. 


Canto  II, 


THE  LORD    OF   THE  ISLES. 


297 


XXVIH. 

To  land  these  two  bold  brethren  leapt, 
(The  weary  crew  their  vessel  kept,) 
And,  lijjhted  by  the  torches'  flare, 
That  seaward  flung  their  smoky  glare, 
The  younger  knight  that  maiden  bare 

Half  lifeless  up  the  rock; 
On  his  strong  shoulder  lean'd  her  head, 
And  down  her  long  dark  tresses  shed. 
As  the  wild  vines  in  tendrils  spread. 

Droops  from  the  mountain  oak. 
Him  follow'd  close  that  elder  Lord, 
And  in  his  hand  a  sheathed  sword. 

Such  as  few  arms  could  wield; 
Rut  when  he  boun'tl  him  to  such  task. 
Well  could  it  cleave  the  strongest  casque, 

And  rend  the  surest  shield. 

XXI.X. 

The  raised  portcullis'  arch  they  pass. 
The  wicket  with  its  bars  of  brass. 

The  entrance  long  and  low, 
I'lank'd  at  each  turn  by  loop-holes  strait, 
Where  bowmen  might  in  ambush  wait, 
(If  force  or  fraud  should  burst  the  gate,) 

To  gall  an  entering  foe. 
But  every  jealous  post  of  ward 
Was  now  defenceless  and  unbarr'd, 

And  all  the  passage  free 
To  one  low-brow'd  and  vaulted  room. 
Where    squire    and    yeoman,    page    and 
groom. 

Plied  their  loud  revelry. 


ye 


XXX. 

here," 


the     Warder 


And     "  Rest 

bade, 

"  Till  to  our  L«ird  your  suit  is  said.  — 
And,  comrades,  gaze  not  on  the  maid. 
And  on  these  men  who  ask  our  aid, 

As  if  ye  ne'er  had  seen 
A  damsel  tired  of  midnight  bark. 
Or  wanderers  of  a  moulding  stark. 

And  I'Kjaring  martial  mien." 
But  not  for  Eachin's  reproof 
Would  page  or  vassal  stand  aloof. 

But  crowded  on  to  stare. 
As  men  of  courtesy  untaught. 
Till  fiery  Edward  roughly  caught. 

From  one  the  foremost  there, 
His  checker'd  plaid,  and  in  its  shroud, 
To  hide  her  from  the  vulgar  crowd. 

Involved  his  sister  fair. 


His  brother,  as  the  clansman  l^ent 
His  sullen  brow  in  discontent. 

Made  brief  and  stern  excuse :  — 
"  Vassal,  were  thine  the  cloak  of  pall 
That  decks  thy  lord  in  bridal  hall, 

'Twere  honor'd  by  her  use." 


Proud  wa?his  tone,  but  calm;  his  eye 

Had  that  compelling  dignity. 

His  mien  that  bearing  haught  and  high. 

Which  common  spirits  fear  ! 
Needed  nor  word  nor  signal  more. 
Nod,     wink,    and    laughter,     all     were 

o'er; 
Upon  each  other  back  they  bore. 

And  gazed  like  startled  deer. 
But  now  appear'd  the  Seneschal, 
Commission'd  by  his  Lord  to  call 
The  strangers  to  the  Baron's  hall. 

Where  feasted  fair  and  free 
That  Island  Prince  in  nuptial  tide, 
With  Edith  there  his  lovely  bride. 
And  her  l>old  brother  by  hei  side. 
And  many  a  chief,  the  flower  and  pride 

Of  Western  land  and  sea. 

Here  pause  we,  gentles,  for  a  space; 
And  if  our  tale  hath  won  your  grace, 
Grant  us  V>rief  patience,  and  again 
We  will  renew  the  minstrel  strain. 


CANTO  SECOND. 
I. 
Fill  the  bright  goblet,  spread  the  fes- 
tive board ! 
Summon  the  gay,  the  noble,  and  the 

fair! 
Through  the  loud  hall  in  joyous  concert 

pour'd, 
IvCt  mirth  and  music  sound  the  dirge  of 

Care  ! 
But  ask  thou  not  if  Happiness  be  there, 
If  the  loud  laugh  disguise  convulsive 

throe. 
Or  if  the  brow  the  heart's  true  livery 

wear ; 
Lift  not  the  festal  mask  !  —enough  to 
know. 
No  scene  of  mortal  life  but  teems  with 
mortal  woe. 


298 


THE   LORD    OF  THE  ISLES. 


Canto  II. 


With  beakers'  clang,  with  harpers'  lay, 
With  all  that  olden  time  deem'd  gay, 
The  Island  Chieftain  feasted  high; 
But  there  was  in  his  troubled  eye 
A  gloomy  fire,  and  on  his  brow. 
Now  sudden  flush'd,  and  faded  now. 
Emotions  such  as  draw  their  birth 
From  deeper  source  than  festal  mirth. 
By  fits  he  paused,  and  harper's  strain 
And  jester's  tale  went  round  in  vain. 
Or  fell  but  on  his  idle  ear 
Like  distant  sounds  which  dreamers  hear. 
Then  would  he  rouse  him,  and  employ 
Each  art  to  aid  the  clamorous  joy, 

And  call  for  pledge  and  lay, 
And,  for  brief  space,  of  all  the  crowd, 
As  he  was  loudest  of  the  loud, 

Seem  gayest  of  the  gay. 


Yet  naught  amiss  the  bridal  throng 
Mark'd  in  brief  mirth,  or  musing  long; 
The  vacant  brow,  the  unlistening  ear. 
They  gave  to  thoughts  of  raptures  near. 
And  his  fierce  starts  of  sudden  glee 
Seem'd  bursts  of   bridegroom's  ecstasy. 
Nor  thus  alone  misjudged  the  crowd, 
Since  lofty  Lorn,  suspicious,  proud. 
And  jealous  of  his  honor'd  line, 
And  that  keen  knight,  De  Argentine,* 
(From  England  sent  on  errand  high, 
The  western  league  more  firm  to  tie,) 
Both  deem*^  in  Ronald's  mood  to  find 
A  lover's  transport-troubled  mind. 
But  one  sad  heart,  one  tearful  eye. 
Pierced  deeper  through  the  mystery, 
And  watch'd,  with  agony  and  fear. 
Her  wayward  bridegroom's  varied  cheer. 


She   watch'd — yet    fear'd  to  meet   his 

glance, 
Andheshunn'dhers; — till  whenby  chance 
They  met,  the  point  of  foeman's  lance 

Had  given  a  milder  pang! 
Beneath  the  intolerable  smart 
He  writhed; — then  sternly  mann'd  his 

heart 
To  play  his  hard  but  destined  part, 

And  from  the  table  sprang. 
"  Fill  me  the  mighty  cup!  "  he  said, 
*'  Erst  own'd  by  royal  Somerled :  ® 


Fill  it,  tiH  on  the  studded  brim 
In  burning  gold  the  bubbles  swim, 
And  every  gem  of  varied  shine 
Glow  doubly  bright  in  rosy  wine  ! 

To  you,  brave  lord,  and  brother  mine. 

Of  Lorn,  this  pledge  I  drink  — 
The  union  of  Our  House  with  thine, 
By  this  fair  bridal-link  !  " 


"  Let  it  pass  round !"  quoth  he  of  Lorn, 
"  And  in  good  time :  —  that  winded  horn 

Must  of  the  Abbot  tell; 
The  laggard  monk  is  come  at  last." 
Lord  Ronald  heard  the  bugle-blast. 
And  on  the  floor  at  random  cast. 

The  untasted  goblet  fell. 
But  when  the  warder  in  his  ear 
Tells  other  news,  his  blither  cheer 

Returns  like  sun  of  May, 
When      through      a     thunder-cloud     it 

beams !  — - 
L<3rd  of  two  hundred  isles,  he  seems 

As  glad  of  brief  delay. 
As  some  poor  criminal  might  feel. 
When,  from  the  gibbet  or  (he  wheel, 

Respited  for  a  day. 


"  Brother  of  Lorn,"  with  hurried  voice 
He  said,  "  and  you,  fair  lords,  rejoice  ! 

Here,  to  augment  our  glee, 
Come  wandering  knights  from  travel  far, 
Well  proved,  they  say,  in  strife  of  war, 

And  tempest  on  the  sea.  — 
Ho  !  give  them  at  your  board  such  place 
As  best  their  presences  may  grace, 

And  bid  them  welcome  free !  " 
With  solemn  step,  and  silver  wand, 
The  Seneschal  the  presence  scann'd 
Of  these  strange  guests;  and  well  he  knew 
How  to  assign  their  rank  its  due; 

For  though  the  costly  furs 
That  erst  had  deck'd  their  caps  were  torn, 
And  their  gay  robes  were  over-worn, 

And  soil'd  their  gilded  spurs. 
Yet  such  a  high  commanding  grace 
Was  in  their  mien  and  in  their  face, 
As  suited  best  the  princely  dais,* 

And  royal  canopy; 

*  Dais  —  the  great  hall-table  —  elevated  a  steji 
or  two  above  the  rest  of  the  room. 


Canto  II. 


THE  LORD    OF  THE  ISLES. 


299 


And  there  he  inarshall'd  them  their  place. 
First  of  that  company. 


Then  lords  and  ladies  spake  aside, 
And  angry  looks  the  error  chide. 
That  gave  to  guests  unnamed,  unknown, 
A  place  so  near  their  prince's  throne; 

But  Owen  Erraught  said :  — 
•'  I'or  forty  years  a  seneschal, 
To  marshal  guests  in  bower  and  hall 

Mas  been  my  honor'd  trade. 
Worship  and  birth  to  me  are  known, 
Uy  look,  by  bearing,  and  V>y  tone. 
Not  by  furr'd  robe  or  broider'd  zone; 

Anil  'gainst  an  oaken  lx>ugh 
111  gage  my  silver  wand  of  state. 
That  these  three  strangers  oft  have  sate 

In  higher  place  than  now."  — 


"I,  too,"  the  aged  Ferrand  said, 
"  Am  qualified  by  minstrel  trade 

(Jf  rank  and  place  to  tell;  — 
.Mark'd  yc  the  younger  stranger's  eye. 
My    mates,  how  quick,  how  keen,  how 
high, 

How  fierce  its  flashes  fell. 
Glancing  among  the  noble  rout 
As  if  to  seek  the  noblest  out, 
Because  the  owner  might  not  brook 
On  any  save  his  peers  to  look  ? 

And  yet  it  moves  me  more, 
That  steady,  calm,  majestic  brow, 
With  which  the  elder  chief  even  now 

Scann'd  the  gay  presence  o'er. 
Like  being  of  superior  kind. 
In  whose  high-toned  impartial  mind 
Degrees  of  mortal  rank  and  state 
Seem  objects  of  indifferent  weight. 

The  lady  too  —  though  closely  tied 
The  mantle  veil  both  face  and  eye. 

Her  motion's  grace  it  could  not  hide. 
Nor  cloud  Rer  form's  fair  symmetry." 


Suspicious  doubt  and  lordly  scorn 
Lour'd  on  the  haughty  front  of  Lorn. 
From  underneath  his  brows  of  pride. 
The  stranger  guests  he  sternly  eyed, 
And  whisper'd  closely  what  the  ear 
Of  Argentine  alone  might  hear; 
Then  question'd,  high  and  brief, 


If,  in  their  voyage,  aught  they  knew 
Of  the  rebellious  Scottish  crew. 
Who  to  Rath-Erin's  shelter  drew. 

With  Carrick's  outlaw'd  Chief !  >'J 
And  if,  their  winter's  exile  o'er. 
They  harbor'd  still  by  Ulster's  shore. 
Or  launch'd  their  galleys  on  the  main, 
To  vex  their  native  land  again? 


That  younger  stranger,  fierce  ar^d  high. 
At  once  confronts  the  Chieftain's  eye 

With  look  of  equal  scorn :  — • 
"  Of  rebels  have  we  naught  to  show; 
But  if  of  Royal  Bruce  thou'dst  know, 

I  warn  thee  he  has  sworn. 
Ere  thrice  three  days  shall  come  and  go. 
His  banner  Scottish  winds  shall  blow, 
Despite  each  mean  or  mighty  foe, 
From  England's  every  bill  and  bow. 

To  Allaster  of  Lorn." 
Kindled  the  mountain  Chieftain's  ire. 
But  Ronald  quench'd  the  rising  fire: — 
"  Brother,  it  better  suits  the  time 
To  chase  the  night  with  Ferrand's  rhyme. 
Than  wake,  midst  mirth  and  wine,  the  jars 
That  flow  from  these  unhappy  wars."  — 
"  Content,"  said  Lorn;    and  spoke  apart 
With  Ferrand,  master  of  his  art. 

Then  whisper'd  Argentine :  — 
"The  lay  I  named  will  carry  smart 
To  these  bold  strangers'  haughty  heart. 

If  right  this  guess  of  mine." 
He  ceased,  and  it  was  silenct  all. 
Until  the  minstrel  waked  the  hall. 


THE  BROOCH   OF   I.ORN.'* 
"  Whence  the  brooch  of  burning  gold, 
That  clasps  the  Chieftain's  mantle-fold. 
Wrought  and  chased  with  rare  device. 
Studded  fair  with  gems  of  price. 
On  the  varied  tartans  beaming. 
As,  through  night's  pale  rainbow  gleam- 
ing, 
Fainter  now,  now  seen  afar, 
Fitful  shines  the  northern  star? 

"Gem!    ne'er   wrought    on    Highland 

mountain. 
Did  the  fairy  of  the  fountain, 
Or  the  mermaid  of  the  wave. 
Frame  thee  in  some  coral  cave? 


3O0 


THE  LORD    OF   THE  ISLES. 


Canto  IL 


Did,  in  Iceland's  darksome  mine, 
Dwarf's  swart  hands  thy  metal  twine? 
Or,  mortal-moulded,  comest  thou  here. 
From  England's  love,  or  France's  fear? 

XII. 

SONG   CONTINUED. 

"  No  !  —  thy  splendors  nothing  tell 
Foreign  art  or  faery  spell, 
Moulded  thou  for  monarch's  use, 
By  the  overweening  Bruce, 
When  the  royal  robe  he  tied 
O'er  a  heart  of  wrath  and  pride; 
Thence  in  triumph  wert  thou  torn. 
By  the  victor  hand  of  Lorn ! 

"  When  the  gem  was  won  and  lost. 
Widely  was  the  war-cry  toss'd ! 
Rung  aloud  Bendourish  Fell, 
Answer'd  Douchart's  sounding  dell, 
Fled  the  deer  from  wild  Teyndrum, 
When  the  homicide,  o'crcome, 
Hardly  'scaped  with  scathe  and  scorn. 
Left  the  pledge  with  conquering  Lorn ! 

xin. 

SONG   CONCLUED. 
•'  Vain  was  then  the  Douglas'  brand,* 
Vain  the  Campbell's  vaunted  hand, 
Vain  Kirkpatrick's  bloody  dirk, 
Making  sure  of  murderer's  work:  ^'^ 
Barendown  fled  fast  away, 
P'led  the  fiery  De  la  Hayc,i^ 
When  this  brooch,  triumphant  borne, 
Beam'd  upon  the  breast  of  Lorn. 

"  Farthest  fled  its  former  Lord, 
Left  his  men  to  brand  and  cord. 
Bloody  brand  of  Highland  steel, 
English  gibbet,  axe,  and  wheel. 
Let  him  fly  from  coast  to  coast, 
Dogg'd  by  Comyn's  vengeful  ghost. 
While  his  spoils,  in  triumph  worn, 
Long  shall  grace  victorious  Lorn!  " 

XIV. 

As  glares  the  tiger  on  his  foes, 
Hemm'd  in  by  hunters,  spears,  and  bows, 

*  Sir  James,  called  the  good  Lord  Douglas, 
who  was  wounded  at  the  battle  of  Dairy,  and 
Sir  Nigel  or  Niel  Campbell,  who  married  Mar- 
jorie,  sister  to  Robert  Bruce,  were  among  his 
most  faitliful  adherents. 


And,  ere  he  bounds  upon  the  ring. 
Selects  the  object  of  his  spring,  — 
Now  on  the  Bard,  now  on  his  Lord, 
So  EdwHrd  glared  and  grasp'd  his  sword — 
But  stern  his  brother  spoke :  —  "  Be  still. 
What !   art  thou  yet  so  wild  of  will. 
After  high  deeds  and  sufferings  long. 
To  chafe  thee  for  a  menial's  song?  — 
Well   hast  thou   framed.   Old  Man,  thy 

strains 
To  praise  the  hand  that  pays  thy  pains ! 
Yet  something  might  thy  song  have  told 
Of  Lorn's  three  vassals,  true  and  tx>ld. 
Who  rent  their  Lord  from  Bruce's  hold, 
As  underneath  his  knee  he  lay. 
And  died  to  save  him  in  the  fray. 
I've  heard  the  Bruce's  cloak  and  clasp 
Was  clench'd  within  their  dying  grasp. 
What  time  a  hundred  foemen  more 
Rush'd  in,  and  back  the  victor  bore. 
Long  after  Lorn  had  left  the  strife, 
Full  glad  to  'scape  with  limb  and  life.  — 
Enough  of  this  —  And,  Minstrel,  hold, 
As  minstrel  hire,  this  chain  of  gold, 
For  future  lays  a  fair  excuse, 
To  speak  more  nobly  of  the  Bruce." 


"  Now,  by  Columba's  shrine,  I  swear, 
And  every  saint  that's  buried  there, 
'Tis  he  himself!  "  Lorn  sternly  cries, 
"  And  for  my  kinsman's  death  he  dies." 
As  loudly  Ronald  calls  —  "  Forbear  ! 
Not  in  my  sight  while  brand  I  wear, 
O'ermatched    by    odds,     shall     warrior 

fall, 
Or  blood  of  stranger  stain  my  hall ! 
This  ancient  fortress  of  my  race 
Shall  be  misfortune's  resting-place, 
Shelter  and  shield  of  the  distress'd. 
No     slaughter-house     for     shipwreck'd 

guest."  — 
"Talk  not  to  me,"  fierce  .Lorn  replied, 
"  Of  odds  or  match  !  —  when  Comyn  died, 
Three  daggers  clash'd  within  his  side  ! 
Talk  not  to  me  of  sheltering  hall, 
The  Church  of  God  saw  Comyn  fall ! 
On  God's  own  altar  streamed  his  blood. 
While  o'er  my  prostrate  kinsman  stood 
The  ruthless  murderer-^ e'en  as  now  — 
With  armed  hand  and  scornful  brow!  — 
Up,  all  who  love  me !  blow  on  blow ! 
And  lay  the  outlaw'd  felons  low  !  " 


Canto  II. 


THE  LORD    OF   THE  ISLES. 


301 


Then  up  sprang  many  a  niainlantl  Lord, 
Obedient  to  their  Chieftain's  word. 
Barcaldine's  arm  is  high  in  air, 
And  KinUich-AUine's  blade  is  bare, 
Black  Murthok's  dirk  has  left  its  sheath. 
And  clench'd  is  Dermid's  hand  of  deatii. 
Their  nuitter'd  tlireats  of  vengeance  swell 
Into  a  wild  and  warlike  yell; 
Onward  they  press  with  weapons  high. 
The  affrighted  females  shriek  and  (ly. 
And,  Scotland,  then  thy  brightest  ray 
Had  darken'd  ere  its  noon  of  day,  — 
Hut  every  chief  of  birth  and  fame, 
That  from  the  Isles  of  Ocean  came, 
At  Ronald's  side  that  hour  withstood 
Fierce  Lorn's  relentless  thirst  for  blood. 


Hrave  Torquil  from  Dunvegan  high, 
Lord  of  the  misty  hills  of  Skye, 
Mac-Niel,  wild  Hara's  ancient  thane, 
Duart,  of  bold  Clan-Gillian's  strain, 
Fergus  of  Canna's  castled  bay, 
Mac-Daflith,  Lord  of  Colonsay, 
Soon  as  they  saw  the  broadswords  glance. 
With  ready  weapons  rose  at  once. 
More  prompt,  that  many  an  ancient  feud. 
Full  oft  suppress'd,  full  oft  renew'd, 
Glow'd  'twixt  the  chieftains  of  Argyle, 
And  many  a  lortl  of  ocean's  isle. 
Wild  was  thescene — eachsword  was  bare. 
Back    stream'd    each   chieftain's    shaggy 

hair. 
In  gloomy  opposition  set. 
Eyes,   hands,    and    brandish'd    weapons 

met; 
Blue  gleaming  o'er  the  social  board, 
Flash'd  to  the  torches  many  a  sword; 
And  soon  those  bridal  lights  may  shine 
On  purple  blood  for  rosy  wine. 


While  thus  for  VjIows  and  death  prepared. 
Each  heart  was  up,  each  weapon  bared. 
Each  foot  advanced,  —  a  surly  pause 
Still  reverenced  hospitable  laws. 
All  menaced  violence,  but  alike 
Reluctant  each  the  first  to  strike, 
(For  aye  accursed  in  minstrel  line 
Is  he  who  brawls  mid  song  and  wine,) 
And,  match'd  in  numbers  and  in  might, 
Doubtful  and  desperate  seem'd  the  fight,  i 


Thus  threat  and  murmur  died  away. 
Till  on  the  crowded  hall  there  lay 
Such  silence,  as  the  deadly  still. 
Ere  bursts  the  thunder  on  the  hill. 
With  blade  advanced,  each  chieftain  bold 
Show'd  like  the  Sworder's  form  of  old, 
As  wanting  still  the  torch  of  life, 
To  wake  the  marble  into  strife. 


That  awful  pause  the  stranger  maid, 

And  Edith,  seized  to  pray  for  aid. 

As  to  De  Argentine  she  clung, 

Away  her  veil  the  stranger  flung. 

And,  lovely  mid  her  wild  despair, 

Fast  stream'd  her  eyes,  wide  flow'd  her 

hair:  — 
"  O  thou,  of  knighthood  once  the  flower. 
Sure  refuge  in  distressful  hour. 
Thou,  who  in  Judah  well  hast  fought 
For  our  dear  faith,  and  oft  hast  sought 
Renown  in  knightly  exercise. 
When  this  poor  hand  h.is  dealt  the  prize. 
Say,  can  thy  soul  of  honor  brook 
On  the  unequal  strife  to  look. 
When,  butcher'd  thus  in  peaceful  hall. 
Those    once    thy    friends,  my    brethren, 

fall!" 
To  Argentine  she  turn'd  her  word, 
But  her  eye  sought  the  Island  Lord. 
A  flush  like  evening's  setting  flame 
Glow'd  on  his  cheek;  his  hardy  frame. 
As  with  a  brief  convulsion,  shook : 
With  hurried  voice  and  eager  look,  — ■ 
"  Fear  not,"  he  said,  "  my  Isabel ! 
What  said  I,  —  Edith  !  —  all  is  well  — 
Nay,  fear  not — I  will  well  provide 
The  safety  of  my  lovely  bride  — 
My  bride?"  but  there  the  accents  clung 
In  tremor  to  his  faltering  tongue. 


Now  rose  De  Argentine,  to  claim 
The  prisoners  in  his  sovereign's  name. 
To  England's  crown,  who,  vassals  sworn, 
'Gainst    their    liege    lord    had    weapon 

borne  — 
(Such  speech,  I  ween,  was  but  to  hide 
His  care  their  safety  to  provide; 
For  knight  more  true  in  thought  and  deed 
Than  Argentine  ne'er  spurr'd  a  steed)  — - 
And  Ronald,  who  his  meaning  guess'd, 
Seem'd  half  to  sanction  the  request. 


302 


THE  LORD    OF  THE  ISLES, 


Canto  II 


This  purpose  fiery  Torquil  broke :  — 
"Somewhat  we've  heard   of  England's 

yoke," 
He  said,  "  and,  in  our  islands.  Fame 
Hath  whisper'd  of  a  lawful  claim. 
That    calls    the     Bruce    fair    Scotland's 

Lord, 
Though  dispossess'd  by  foreign  sword. 
This  craves  reflection  — but  though  right 
And  just  the  charge  of  England's  Knight, 
Let  England's  crown  her  rebels  seize 
Where  she  has  power;  — in  towers  like 

these, 
Midst  Scottish  Chieftains  summon'd  here 
To  bridal  mirth  and  bridal  cheer, 
Be  sure,  with  no  consent  of  mine, 
Shall  either  Lorn  or  Argentine 
With  chains  or  violence,  in  our  sight. 
Oppress  a  brave  and  banish'd  Knight." 


Then  waked  the  wild  debate  again. 
With  brawling  threat  and  clamor  vain. 
Vassals  and  menials,  thronging  in. 
Lent  their  brute  rage  to  swell  the  din; 
When,  far  and  wide,  a  Ijugle-clang 
From  the  dark  ocean  upward  rang. 

"  The  Abbot  comes  !  "  they  cry  at  once, 

"The  holy  man,  whose  favor'd  glance 
Hath  sainted  visions  known; 

Angels  have  met  him  on  the  way, 

Beside  the  blessed  martyrs'  bay. 
And  by  Columba's  stone. 

His  monks  have  heard  their  hymnings 
high 

Sound  from  the  summit  of  Dun-Y, 

To  cheer  his  penance  lone, 

When  at  each  cross,  on  girth  and  wold, 

(Their  number  thrice  a  hundred-fold,) 

His  prayer  he  made,  his  beads  he  told, 

With  Aves  many  a  one  — 
He  comes  our  feuds  to  reconcile, 
A  sainted  man  from  sainted  isle; 
We  will  his  holy  doom  abide, 
The  Abbot  shall  our  strife  decide." 


Scarcely  this  fair  accord  was  o'er. 
When  through  the  wide  revolving  door 

The  black-stoled  brethren  wind; 
Twelve  sandall'd  monks,  who  relics  bore. 
With  many  a  torch-bearer  before. 

And  many  a  cross  behind, 


Then  sunk  each  fierce  uplifted  hand. 
And  dagger  bright  and  flashing  brand 

Dropp'd  swiftly  at  the  sight; 
They  vanish'd  from  the  Churchman's  eye, 
As  shooting  stars,  that  glance  and  die. 

Dart  from  the  vault  of  night. 

XXIII. 

The  Abbot  on  the  threshold  stood. 

And  in  his  hand  the  holy  rood; 

Back  on  his  shoulders  tlow'd  his  hood,/ 

The  torch's  glaring  ray 
Show'd,  in  its  red  and  flashing  light. 
His  wither'd  cheek  and  amice  white. 
His  blue  eye  glistening  cold  and  bright. 

His  tresses  scant  and  gray. 
"  Fair    Lords,"   he    said,    "  our   Lady's 

love, 
And  peace  be  with  you  from  above. 

And  Benedicite  ! 
—  But  what  means  this  ?  no  peace  is  here  ! 
Do  dirks  unsheathed  suit  bridal  cheer  ? 

Or  are  these  naked  brands 
A  seemly  show  for  Churchman's  sight. 
When  he  comes  summon'd  to  unite 

Betrothed  hearts  and  hands?  " 


Then  cloaking  hate  with  fiery  zeal. 
Proud  Lorn  first  answer'd  the  appeal:  — 

"Thou  comest,  O  holy  Man, 
True  sons  of  blessed  Church  to  greet, 
But  little  deeming  here  to  meet 

A  wretch,  beneath  the  ban 
Of  Pope  and  Church,  for  murder  done 
Even  on  the  sacred  altar-stone  !  — 
Well  mayest  thou  wonder  we  should  know 
Such  miscreant  here,  nor  lay  him  low, 
Or  dream  of  greeting,  peace,  or  truce, 
With  excommunicated  Bruce  ! 
Yet  well  I  grant,  to  end  debate. 
The  sainted  voice  decide  his  fate." 


Then  Ronald  pled  the  stranger's  cause. 
And  knighthood's  oath  and  honor's  laws; 
And  Isabel,  on  bended  knee. 
Brought  pray'rs  and  tears  to  back  her 

plea; 
And  Edith  lent  her  generous  aid. 
And  wept,  and  Lorn  for  mercy  pray'd. 
Hence,"  he  exclaim'd,  "degenerate  maid  ! 
Was't  not  enough  to  Ronald's  bower 


Canto  II. 


JHh    LUkD    OF    THE   ISLES. 


l^l 


I  brought  thee,  like  a  paramour, ** 
Or  bond-maid  at  her  master's  gate. 
His  careless  cold  approach  to  wait?  — 
But  the  bold  Lord  of  Cumberland, 
The  gallant  Clifford,  seeks  thy  hand; 
His  it  shall  be  — Nay,  no  reply! 
Hence !  till  those  rebel  eyes  be  dry." 
With  grief  the  Abbot  heard  and  saw. 
Yet  naught  relax'd  his  brow  of  awe. 

XXVI. 

Then  Argentine,  in  England's  name. 
So  highly  urged  his  sovereign's  claim. 
He  waked  a  spark,  that,  long  suppress'd, 
Hadsmoulder'd  inl^^rd  Ronald's  breast; 
And  now,  as  from  the  flint  the  fire, 
Flash'd  forth  at  once  his  generous  ire:  — 
"  Enough  of  noble  blood,"  he  said, 
"  By  English  Edward  had  been  shed. 
Since  matchless  Wallace  first  had  lieen 
In    mock'ry    crown'd    with    wreaths    of 

green,  1* 
And  done  to  death  by  felon  hand. 
For  guarding  well  his  father's  land. 
Where's  Nigel   Bruce?  and  De  la  Haye, 
And  valiant  Seton  —  where  are  they? 
Where  Somerville,  the  kind  and  free? 
And  Eraser,  flower  of  chivalry? 
Have  they  not  been  on  gibbet  lx)und. 
Their  quarters  flung  to  hawk  and  hound, 
And  hold  we  here  a  cold  debate. 
To  yield  more  victims  to  their  fate? 
What !  can  the  English  Leopard's  mood 
Never  be  gorged  with  northern  blood  ? 
Was  not  the  life  of  Athole  shed. 
To  soothe  the  tyrant's  sicken'd  bed?  ^^ 
And  must  his  word,  till  dying  day, 
Be  naught  l>ut  quarter,  hang,  and  slay  !  — ■ 
Thou  frown'st,  De  Argentine,  —  My  gage 
Is  prompt  to  prove  the  strife  I  wage."  — 

XXVII. 

"Nor    deem,"    said    stout    Dunvegan's 

knight, 
*'  That  thou  shall  brave  alone  the  fight ! 
By  saints  of  isle  and  mainland  lx)th. 
By  Woden  wild  (my  grandsire's  oath),* 
Let  Rome  and  England  do  their  worst, 
Howe'er  attainted  or  accursed, 

*  The  Macleods  and  most  other  distinguished 
Hebridean  families  were  of  Scandinavian  descent. 
The  family  names,  Torquil,  Thormod,  etc.,  are 
all  Norwegian. 


If  Bruce  shall  e'er  find  friends  again, 
Once  more  to  brave  a  battle-plain. 
If  Douglas  couch  again  his  lance. 
Or  Randolph  dare  another  chance. 
Old  Torquil  will  not  lie  to  lack. 
With  twice  a  thousand  at  his  back. — 
Nay,  chafe  not  at  my  bearing  bold. 
Good  Abbot !  for  thou  know'st  of  old, 
Torquil's  rude  thought  and  stublx)rn  will 
Smack  of  the  wild  Norwegian  still : 
Nor  will  I  barter  Freedom's  cause 
For    England's  wealth,  or  Rome's    ap- 
plause." 


The  Abbot  seem'd  with  eye  severe 
The  hardy  Chieftain's  speech  to  hear; 
Then  on  King  Robert  turn'd  the  Monk, 
But  twice  his  courage  came  and  sunk. 
Confronted  with  the  hero's  look; 
Twice  fell  his  eye,  his  accents  shook; 
At  length,  resolved  in  tone  and  brow. 
Sternly  he  question'd  him : —  "And  thou. 
Unhappy !  what  hast  thou  to  plead. 
Why  I  denounce  not  on  thy  deed 
That  awful  doom  which  canons  tell 
Shuts  paradise,  and  opens  hell ! 
Anathema  of  power  so  dread. 
It  blends  the  living  with  the  dead, 
Bids  each  good  angel  soar  away. 
And  every  ill  one  claim  his  prey; 
Expels  thee  from  the  Church's  care. 
And  deafens  Heaven  against  thy  prayer; 
Arms  every  hand  against  thy  life, 
Bans  all  who  aid  thee  in  the  strife. 
Nay,  each  whose  succor,  cold  and  scant. 
With  meanest  alms  relieves  thy  want; 
Hauntsthee  while  living — and,whendead. 
Dwells  on  thy  yet  devoted  head. 
Rends     Honor's    scutcheon     from     thy 

hearse. 
Stills  o'er  thy  bier  the  holy  verse. 
And  spurns    thy  corpse    from    hallow "d 

ground. 
Flung  like  vile  carrion  to  the  hound; 
Such  is  the  dire  and  desperate  doom 
For  sacrilege,  decreed  by  Rome; 
And  such  the  well -deserved  meed 
Of  thine  unhallow'd,  ruthless  deed." 


"Abbot !"  the  Bruce  replied,"  thy  charge 
It  boots  not  to  dispute  at  large. 


304 


THE  LORD    OF   THE  ISLES. 


Canto  II. 


This  much,  howe'er,  I  bid  thee  know, 
No  selfish  vengeance  dealt  the  blow, 
For  Comyn  died  his  country's  foe. 
Nor  blame  I  friends  whose  ill-timed  speed 
Fulfilled  my  soon-repented  deed. 
Nor  censure  those  from  whose  stern  tongue 
The  dire  anathema  has  rung. 
I  only  blame  mine  own  wild  ire. 
By  Scotland's  wrongs  incensed  to  fire. 
Heaven  knows  my  purpose  to  atone. 
Far  as  I  may,  the  evil  done. 
And  hears  a  penitent's  appeal 
From  papal  curse  and  prelate's  zeal. 
My  first  and  dearest  task  achieved, 
Fair  Scotland  from  her  thrall  relieved. 
Shall  many  a  priest  in  cope  and  stole 
Say  requiem  for  Red  Comyn's  soul. 
While  I  the  blessed  cross  advance. 
And  expiate  this  unhappy  chance 
In  Palestine,  with  sword  and  lance.*" 
But,  while   content    the  church  should 

know 
My  conscience  owns  the  debt  I  owe. 
Unto  De  Argentine  and  Lorn 
The  name  of  traitor  I  return. 
Bid  them  defiance  stern  and  high. 
And  give  them  in  their  throats  the  lie ! 
These   brief  words   spoke,   I  sjieak   no 

more. 
Do  what  thou  wilt;  my  shrift  is  o'er." 


Like  man  Vjy  prodigy  amazed. 
Upon  the  King  the  Al>bot  gazed; 
Then  o'er  hLs  pallid  features  glance 
Convulsions  of  ecstatic  trance. 
His  breathing  came  more  thick  and  fast. 
And  from  his  pale  blue  eyes  were  cast 
Strange  rays  of  wild  and  wandering  light; 
Uprise  his  locks  in  silver  white, 
Flush'd  is  his  brow,  through  every  vein 
In  azure  tide  the  currents  strain, 
And  undistinguish'd  accents  broke 
1  he  awful  stillness  ere  he  spoke: — 


"  De  Bruce  \  I  rose  with  pnirpose  dread 
To  speak  my  curse  upon  thy  head,^* 
And  give  thee  as  an  outcast  o'er 
To  him  who  burns  to  shod  thy  gore; 
But,  like  the  Midianitc  of  old. 
Who    stood    on    Zophim,    heaven-con- 
troU'd, 


I  feel  within  mine  aged  breast 

A  power  that  will  not  l>e  repress'd. 

It  prompts  my  voice,  it  swells  my  veins, 

It  burns,  it  maddens,  it  constrains !  — 

De  Bruce,  thy  sacrilegious  blow 

Hath  at  God's  altar  slain  thy  foe: 

()'crmaster'd  yet  by  high  Ix-hest, 

I  bless  thee,  and  thou  shalt  l)e  bless'd,' 

He  spoke,  and  o'er  the  astonish'd  throng 

Was  silence,  awful,  deep,  and  long. 


Again  that  light  has  fired  his  eye. 
Again  his  form  swells  bold  and  high. 
The  broken  vftice  of  age  is  gone, 
'Tis  vigorous  manhood's  lofty  tone:  — 
"  Thrice  vanquish'd  on  the  battle-plain, 
Thy  followers  slaughter'd,  fled,  orta'en, 
A  hunted  wanderer  on  the  wild. 
On  foreign  shores  a  man  exiled,*® 
Disown'd,  deserted,  and  distress'd, 
I  bless  thee,  and  thou  shalt  Ik-  bless'd ! 
Bless'd  in  the  hall  and  in  the  field. 
Under  the  mantle  as  the  shield. 
Avenger  of  thy  country's  shame. 
Restorer  of  her  injured  fame, 
Bless'd  in  thy  sceptre  and  thy  sword, 
De  Bruce,  fair  Scotland's  rightful  Lord, 
Bless'd  in  thy  deeds  and  in  thy  fame, 
What  lengthen'd  honors  wait  thy  name ! 
In  distant  ages,  sire  to  son 
Shall  tell  thy  talc  of  freedom  won, 
And  teach  his  infants,  in  the  use 
Of  earliest  speech,  to  falter  Bruce. 
Go,  then,  triumphant !  sweep  along 
Thy  course,  the  theme  of  many  a  song ! 
The    Power,    whose    dictates    swell    my 

breast. 
Hath   bless'd   thee,  and   thou   shalt  be 

bless'd !  — 
Enough  —  my   short-lived   Strength    de- 
cays, 
And  sinks  the  momentary  blaze.  — 
Heaven  hath  our  destined  purpose  broke. 
Not  here  must  nuptial  vow  be  spoke; 
Brethren,  our  errand  here  is  o'er. 
Our    task    discharged.  —  Unmoor,    un- 
moor ! " 
His  priests  received  the  exhausted  Monk, 
As  breathless  in  their  arms  he  sunk. 
Punctual  his  orders  to  obey, 
I  The  train  refused  all  longer  stay, 
1  Embark'd,  raised  sail,  and  bore  away. 


Canto  III. 


THE   LORD   OF  THE  ISLES. 


305 


CANTO   THIRD. 
I. 
Hast  thou  not  mark'd,  when  o'er  thy 

startled  head 
Sudden  and  deep  the  thunder-peal  has 

roird, 
How,  when  its  echoes  fell,  a  silence 

dead 
Sunk  on  the  wood,  the  raeadow,  and 

the  wold  } 
The  rye-grass  shakes   not  on  the  sod- 
built  fold. 
The  rustling  aspen's  leaves  are  mute 

and  still, 
The  wall-flower  waves  not  on  the  ruin'd 

hold. 
Till,  murmuring  distant  first,  then  near 

and  shrill. 
The  savage  whirlwind  wakes,  and  sweeps 

the  groaning  hill. 


Artornish  !  such  a  silence  sunk 
Upon  thy  h.ills,  when  that  gray  Monk 

His  prophet  speech  had  spoke; 
And  his  obedient  brethren's  sail 
Was  stretch'd  to  meet  the  southern  gale 

Before  a  whisper  woke. 
Then   murmuring  sounds  of  doubt  and 

fear. 
Close  pour'd  in  many  an  anxious  ear. 

The  solemn  stillness  broke; 
And  still  they  gazed  with  eager  guess. 
Where,  in  an  oriel's  deep  recess. 
The  Island  Prince  seem'd  bent  to  press 
What  Lorn,  by  his  impatient  cheer. 
And  gesture  fierce,  scarce  deign'd  to  hear. 


Starting  at  length,  with  frowning  look, 
His  hand  he  clench'd,  his  head  he  shook, 

And  sternly  flung  apart :  — 
"  And  deem'st  thou  me  so  mean  of  mood, 
-Vs  to  forget  the  mortal  feud. 
And  clasp  the  hand  with  blood  imbrued 

From  my  dear  Kinsman's  heart.? 
Is  this  thy  rede  ?  —  a  due  return 
For  ancient  league  and  friendship  sworn  ! 
But  well  our  mountain  proverb  shows 
The  faith  of  Islesmen  ebbs  and  flows. 
Be  it  even  so  —  believe,  ere  long. 
He    that    now    bears    shall    wreak    the 
wrong. — 


Call  Edith  —  call  the  Maid  of  Lorn ! 
My  sister,  slaves !  —  for  further  scorn. 
Be  sure  nor  she  nor  I  will  stay.  — 
Away,  De  Argentine,  away !  — 
We  nor  ally  nor  brother  know. 
In  Bruce's  friend,  or  England's  foe." 


But  who  the  Chieftain's  rage  can  tell. 
When,  sought  from  lowest  dungeon  cell 
To  highest  tower  the  castle  round. 
No  Lady  Edith  was  there  found ! 
He    shouted :  —  "  Falsehood  !  —  treach- 
ery !  — 
Revenge  and  blood !  —  a  lordly  meed 
To  him  that  will  avenge  the  deed  ! 
A  Baron's  lands !  "  —  His  frantic  mood 
Was  scarcely  by  the  news  withstood. 
That  Morag  shared  his  sister's  flight. 
And  that,  in  hurry  of  the  night, 
'Scaped  noteless,  and  without  remark. 
Two  strangers  sought  the  Abbot's  bark.  — 
"  Man  every  galley  !  —  fly —  pursue  ! 
The  priest  his  treachery  shall  rue! 
.'\y,  and  the  time  shall  quickly  come. 
When  we  shall  hear  the  thanks  that  Rome 
Will  pay  his  feigned  prophecy  !  " 
Such  was  fierce  Lorn's  indignant  cry; 
And  Cormac  Doil  in  haste  obey'd. 
Hoisted  his  sail,  his  anchor  weigh'd, 
(For,  glad  of  each  pretext  for  spoil,        ' 
A  pirate  sworn  was  Cormac  Doil.) 
But  others,  lingering,  spoke  apart : — 
"  The  Maid  has  given  her  maiden  heart 

To  Ronald  of  the  Isles, 
.\nd,  fearful  lest  her  brother's  word 
Bestow  her  on  that  English  Lord, 

She  seeks  lona's  piles. 
And  wisely  deems  it  best  to  dwell 
A  votaress  in  the  holy  cell. 
Until  these  feuds  so  fierce  and  fell 

The  Abbot  reconciles." 


As,  impotent  of  ire,  the  hall 

Echo'd  to  Lorn's  impatient  call, 

"  My  horse,  my  mantle,  and  my  train  ! 

Let  none  who  honors  Lorn  remain  !  "  — 

Courteous,  but  stern,  a  bold  request 

To  Bruce  De  Argentine  express'd :  — 

"Lord   Earl,"    he    said, — "I    cannot 

chuse 
But  yield  such  title  to  the  Bruce, 


3o6 


THE  LORD   OF   THE  ISLES. 


Canto  III. 


Though  name  and  earldom  Ixjth  arc  gone, 
Since  he  braced  rebel's  armor  on  — 
But,  Earl  or  Serf — rude  phrase  was  thine 
Of  late,  and  launch"d  at  Argentine; 
Such  as  compels  me  to  demand 
Redress  of  honor  at  thy  hand. 
We  need  not  to  each  other  tell. 
That  both  can  wield  their  weapons  well; 
Then  do  me  but  the  soldier  grace, 
This  glove  uj)on  thy  helm  to  place 

Where  we  may  meet  in  fight; 
.\nd  I  will  say,  as  still  I've  said. 
Though  by  ambition  far  misled, 
Thou  art  a  noble  knight."  — 


"  And  I,"  the  princely  Bruce  replied, 
"  Might  terra  it  stain  on   knighthood's 

pride 
That  the  bright  sword  of  Argentine 
Should  in  a  tyrant's  quarrel  shine; 

But,  for  your  brave  request. 
Be  sure  the  honor 'd  pledge  you  gave 
In  every  battle-field  shall  wave 

Upon  my  helmet-crest: 
Believe,  that  if  my  hasty  tongue 
Hath  done  thine  honor  causeless  wrong. 

It  shall  be  well  redress'd. 
Not  dearer  to  my  soul  was  glove, 
Bestow'd  in  youth  by  lady's  love, 

llian  this  which  thou  hast  given  ! 
Thus,  then,  my  noble  foe  I  greet; 
Health  and  high  fortune  till  we  meet. 

And  then  —  what  pleases  Heaven." 


Thus  parted  they  —  for  now,  with  sound 
Like    waves    roll'd     back    from    rocky 
ground. 

The  friends  of  Lorn  retire; 
Each  mainland  chieftain,  with  his  train, 
Draws  to  his  mountain  towers  again. 
Pondering   how    mortal    schemes   prove 
vain. 

And  mortal  hopes  expire. 
But  through  the  castle  double  guard. 
By  Ronald's  charge,  kept  wakeful  ward. 
Wicket  and  gate  were  trebly  barr'd. 

By  beam  and  bolt  and  chain; 
Then  of  the  guests,  in  courteous  sort. 
He  pray'd  excuse  for  mirth  broke  short. 
And  bade  them  in  Artonish  fort 

lu  confidence  remain. 


Now  torch  and  menial  tendance  led 
Chieftain  and  knight  to  bower  and  bed. 
And  beads  were  told,  and  Aves  said, 

And  soon  they  sunk  away 
Into  such  sleep,  as  wont  to  shed 
Oblivion  on  the  weary  head. 

After  a  toilsome  day. 


But  soon  uproused,  the  Monarch  cried 
To  Edward  slumbering  by  his  side :  — 

"  Awake,  or  sleep  for  aye  ! 
Even  now  there  jarr'd  a  secret  door  — 
A  taper-light  gleams  on  the  floor  — 

Up,  Edward,  up,  I  say ! 
Some  one  glides  in  like  midnight  ghost  — 
Nay,  strike  not !   'tis  our  noble  Host.' 
Advancing  then  his  taper's  flame, 
Ronald  stept  forth,  and  with  him  came 

Dunvegan's  chief-^each  bent  the  knee 

To  Bruce  in  sign  of  fealty. 
And  proffer'd  him  his  sword. 

And  hail'd  him  in  a  monarch's  style. 

As  king  of  mainland  and  of  isle. 
And  Scotland's  rightful  lord. 
"And   O,"    said    Ronald,  "  Own'd   of 

Heaven ! 
Say,  is  my  erring  youth  forgiven. 
By  falsehood's  arts  from  duty  driven. 

Who  rebel  falchion  drew. 
Yet  ever  to  thy  deeds  of  fame. 
Even  while  I  strove  against  thy  claim. 

Paid  homage  just  and  true?  "  — 
"Alas!  dear  youth,  the  unhappy  time," 
Answer'd   the   Bruce,   "  must    bear   the 
crime. 

Since,  guiltier  far  than  you, 
Even   I" — he   paused;     for   Falkirk's 

woes 
Upon  his  conscious  soul  arose  .^ 
The  Chieftain  to  his  V>reast  he  press'd. 
And  in  a  sigh  conceal'd  the  rest. 


They  proffer'd  aid,  by  arms  and     -ght. 
To  repossess  him  in  his  right ; 
But  well  their  counsels  must  be  weigh'd, 
Ere  banners  raised  and  musters  made. 
For  English  hire  and  Lorn's  intrigues 
Bound  many  chiefs  in  southern  leagues. 
In  answer,  Bruce  his  purpose  bold 
To  his  new  vassals  frankly  told :  — 
"The  winter  worn  in  exile  o'er. 


Canto  III. 


THE  LORD    OF  THE  ISLES. 


307 


I  long'd  for  Carrick's  kindred  shore. 
I  tliought  upon  my  native  Ayr, 
Ami  long'd  to  see  the  burly  fare 
That  Clifford  makes,  whose  lordly  call 
Now  echoes  through  my  father's  hall. 
But  first  my  course  to  Arran  led. 
Where  valiant  Lennox  gathers  head, 
And  on  the  sea,  by  tempest  toss'd, 
Our  barks  dispersed,  our  purpose  cross'd, 
Mine  own,  a  hostile  sail  to  shun, 
Far  from  her  destined  course  had  run. 
When    that    wise    will,    which    masters 

ours, 
CompcU'd  us  to  your  friendly  towers." 


Then  Torquil  spoke :  —  "  The  timecraves 

speed ! 
We  must  not  linger  in  our  deed. 
Hut  instant  pray  our  Sovereign  Liege, 
To  shun  the  perils  of  a  siege. 
The  vengeful  Lorn,  with  all  his  powers, 
Lies  but  too  near  Artornish  towers, 
And  England's  light-arm'd  vessels  ride. 
Not  distant  far,  the  waves  of  Qyde, 
Prompt  at  these  tidings  to  unmoor. 
And  sweep  each  strait,  and  guard  each 

shore. 
Then,  till  this  fresh  alarm  pass  by. 
Secret  and  safe  my  Liege  must  lie 
In  the  far  Ixjunds  of  friendly  Skye, 
Torquil  thy  pilot  and  thy  guide."  — 
"  Not  so,  brave  Chieftain,"  Ronald  cried; 
"  Myself  will  on  my  Sovereign  wait, 
And  raise  in  arms  the  men  of  Sleate, 
Whilst  thou,  renown'd  where  chiefs  de- 
bate, 
Shalt  sway  their  souls  by  counsel  sage. 
And  awe  them  by  thy  locks  of  age." 
—  "  And  if  my  words  in  weight  shall  fail. 
This  ponderous  sword  shall  turn  the  scale." 


"The  scheme,"  said  Bruce,   "contents 

me  well; 
Meantime,  'twere  best  that  Isaliel, 
For  safety,  with  my  bark  and  crew. 
Again  to  friendly  Erin  drew. 
There  Edward,  too,  shall  with  her  wend, 
In  need  to  cheer  her  and  defend, 
And  muster  up  each  scatter'd  friend."  — 
Here  seem'd  it  as  Lord  Ronald's  ear 
Would  other  counsel  gladlier  hear; 


But,  all  achieved  as  soon  as  plann'd. 
Both  barks,  in  secret  arm'd  and  mann'd. 

From  out  the  haven  bore; 
On  different  voyage  forth  they  ply, 
This  for  the  coast  of  winged  Skye, 

And  that  for  Erin's  shore. 


With  Bruce  and  Ronald  bides  the  tale.  — 
To  favoring  winds  they  gave  the  sail, 
Till  Mull's  dark   headlands  scarce  they 

knew. 
And  Ardnamurchan's  hills  were  blue. 
But  then  the  squalls  blew  close  and  hard. 
And,  fain  to  strike  the  galley's  yard, 

And  take  them  to  the  oar, 
With  these  rude  seas  in  weary  plight. 
They  strove  the  livelong  day  and  night, 
Nor  till  the  dawning  had  a  sight 

Of  Skye's  romantic  shore. 
Where  Coolin  stoops  him  to  the  west. 
They  saw  upon  his  shiver'd  crest 

The  sun's  arising  gleam; 
But  such  the  labor  and  delay. 
Ere  they  were  moor'd  in  Scavigh  bay, 
(For  calmer  heaven  compell'd  to  stay,) 

He  shot  a  western  beam. 
Then  Ronald  said :  —  "If  true  mine  eye, 
These  are  the  savage  wilds  that  lie 
North  of  Strathnardill  and  Dunskye;  ^ 

No  human  foot  comes  here. 
And,  since  these  adverse  breezes  blow, 
If  my  good  Liege  love  hunter's  bow, 
What  hinders  that  on  land  we  go. 

And  strike  a  mountain-deer? 
Allan,  my  page,  shall  with  us  wend; 
A  bow  full  deftly  can  he  bend, 
And,  if  we  meet  a  herd,  may  send 

A  shaft  shall  mend  our  cheer." 
Then  each  took  bow  and  lx)lts  in  hand. 
Their  row-boat  launch'd  and  leapt  to  land. 

And  left  their  skiff  and  train. 
Where  awild  stream, withheadlongshock, 
Came  brawling  down  its  bed  of  rock. 

To  mingle  with  the  main. 


A  while  their  route  they  silent  made. 
As  men  who  stalk  for  mountain-deer, 

Till  the  good  Bruce  to  Ronald  said :  — 
"St.  M.ary  !  what  a  scene  is  here  ! 

I've  traversed  many  a  mountain-strand. 
Abroad  and  in  my  native  land. 


3o8 


THE  LORD    OF   THE   ISLES. 


Canto  III. 


And  it  has  lieen  my  lot  to  tread 
Where  safety  more  than  pleasure  led; 
Thus,  many  a  waste  I've  wander'd  o'er, 
Clomb   many    a  crag,    cross'd    many    a 
moor. 

But,  by  my  halidome, 
A  scene  so  rude,  so  wild  as  this, 
Yet  so  sublime  in  barrenness, 
Ne'er  did  my  wandering  footsteps  press, 

Where'er  I  happ'd  to  roam." 


No  marvel  thus  the  Monarch  spake; 

For  rarely  human  eye  has  known 
A  scene  so  stern  as  that  dread  lake, 

With  its  dark  ledge  of  barren  stone. 
Seems  that  primeval  earthquake's  sway 
Hath  rent  a  strange  and  shatter'd  way 

Through  the  rude  bosom  of  the  hill, 
And  that  each  naked  precipice. 
Sable  ravine,  and  dark  abyss, 

Tells  of  the  outrage  still. 
The  wildest  glen,  but  this,  can  show 
Some  touch  of  Nature's  genial  glow; 
■  On  high  Benmore  green  mosses  grow, 
And  heath-bells  bud  in  deep  Glencroe, 

And  copse  on  Cruchan-Ben; 
But  here,  —  above,  around,  below, 

On  mountain  or  in  glen. 
Nor  tree,  nor  shrub,  nor  plant,  nor  flower. 
Nor  aught  of  vegetative  power. 

The  weary  eye  may  ken. 
For  all  is  rocks  at  random  thrown, 
Black  waves,  bare  crags,  and  banks  of 
stone; 

As  if  were  here  denied 
The  summer  sun,  the  spring's  sweet  dew. 
That  clothe  with  many  a  varied  hue 

The  bleakest  mountain-side. 


And  wilder,  forward  as  they  wound, 
Were  the  proud  cliffs  and  lake  profound. 
Huge  terraces  of  granite  black 
Afforded  rude  and  cumber'd  track; 

For  from  the  mountain  hoar, 
Hurl'd  headlong  in  some  night  of  fear, 
When  yell'd  the  wolf  and  fled  the  deer. 

Loose  crags  had  toppled  o'er; 
And  some,  chance-poised  and  balanced, 

lay, 
So  that  a  stripling  arm  might  sway 

A  mass  no  host  could  raise, 


In  Nature's  rage  at  random  thrown. 
Yet  trembling  like  the  Druid's  stone 

On  its  precarious  base. 
The  evening  mists,  with  ceaseless  change, 
Now  clothed  the  mountains'  lofty  range, 

Now  left  their  foreheads  bare, 
And  round  the  skirts  their  mantle  furl'd, 
Or  on  the  sable  waters  curl'd, 
Or  on  the  eddying  breezes  whirl'd. 

Dispersed  in  middle  air. 
And  oft,  condensed,  at  once  they  lower. 
When,  brief  and   fierce,    the  mountain 
shower 

Pours  like  a  torrent  down, 
And  when  return  the  sun's  glad  V)eams, 
Whiten'd  with  foam  a  thousand  streams 

Leap  from  the  mountain's  crown. 


"This  lake,"  said  Bruce,   "  whose  bar- 
riers drear 
Are  precipices  sharp  and  sheer, 
Yielding  no  track  for  goat  or  deer. 

Save  the  black  shelves  we  tread, 
How  term  you  its  dark  waves  ?  and  how 
Yon  northern  mountain's  pathless  brow. 

And  yonder  peak  of  dread, 
That  to  the  evening  sun  uplifts 
The  grisly  gulfs  and  slaty  rifts, 

Which  seam  its  shiver'd  head?  "  — 
"  Coriskin  call  the  dark  lake's  name, 
Coolin  the  ridge,  as  bards  proclaim. 
From  old  Cuchullin,  chief  of  fame. 
But  bards,  familiar  in  our  isles 
Rather  with  Nature's  frowns  than  smiles, 
Full  oft  their  careless  humors  please 
By  sportive  names  from  scenes  like  these. 
I  would  old  Torquil  were  to  show 
His  maidens  with  their  breasts  of  snow. 
Or  that  my  noble  Liege  were  nigh 
To  hear  his  nurse  sing  lullaby  ! 
(The   Maids  —  tall    cliffs   with   breakers 

white. 
The  Nurse  —  a  torrent's  roaring  might, ) 
Or  that  your  eye  could  see  the  mood 
Of  Corryvrekin's  whirlpool  rude. 
When  dons  the  Hag  her  whiten'd  hood  — 
'Tis  thus  our  islesnien's  fancy  frames, 
For  scenes  so  stern,  fantastic  names." 


Answer'dtheBruce:— "Andmusinj  mind 
Might  here  a  graver  moral  find. 


Canto  lit. 


THE  LORD   OF  THE  ISLES. 


309 


These  mighty  cliffs,  that  heave  on  high 
Their  naked  brows  to  middle  sky, 
Indifferent  to  the  sun  or  snow, 
Where  naught  can  fade,  and  naught  can 

blow. 
May  they  not  mark  a  Monarch's  fate,  — 
Raised  high  mid  storms  of  strife  and  state, 
Beyond  life's  lowlier  pleasures  placed, 
His  soul  a  rock,  his  heart  a  waste? 
O'er  hope  and  love  and  fear  aloft 
High  rears  his  crowned  head  —  But  soft ! 
Look,  underneath  yon  jutting  crag 
Are  hunters  and  a  slaughter'd  stag. 
Who  may  they  be  ?     But  late  you  said 
No  steps  these  desert  regions  tread."  — 


"  So  said  I  —  and  believed  in  sooth," 
Ronald  replied,  "  I  spoke  the  truth. 
Yet  now  I  spy,  by  yonder  stone, 
Five  men  —  they  mark  us,  and  come  on; 
And  by  their  badge  on  bonnet  borne, 
I  guess  them  of  the  land  of  Lorn, 
Foes  to  my  Liege."  —  "So  let  it  be; 
I've  faced  worse  odds  than  five  to  three  — 
—  But  the  poor  page  can  little  aid; 
Then  be  our  battle  thus  array'd. 
If  our  free  passage  they  contest; 
Cope   thou   with    two,    I'll    match    the 

rest."  — 
"  Not  so,  my  Liege  —  for,  by  my  life. 
This  sword  shall  meet  the  treble  strife; 
My    strength,    my    skill    in    arms,  more 

small, 
And  less  the  loss  should  Ronald  fall. 
But  islemen  soon  to  soldiers  grow, 
Allan  has  sword  as  well  as  bow. 
And  were  my  Monarch's  order  given. 
Two    shafts    should    make    our    number 

even." — 
"  No !   not  to  save  my  life  !"  he  said; 
"  Enough  of  blood  rests  on  my  head. 
Too  rashly  spill'd  —  we  soon  shall  know. 
Whether  they  come  as  friend  or  foe." 


Nigh    came    the    strangers,    and    more 

nigh;  — 
Still  less  they  pleased  the  Monarch's  eye. 
Men  were  they  all  of  evil  mien, 
J  )own-look'd,  unwilling  to  be  seen; 
They  moved  with  half-resolved  pace. 
And  bent  on  earth  each  gloomy  face. 


The  foremost  two  were  fair  array'd. 
With  brogue  and  bonnet,  trews  and  plaid, 
And  bore  the  arms  of  mountaineers. 
Daggers   and    broadswords,    bows    and 

spears. 
The  three,  that  lagg'd  small  space  behind, 
Seem'd  serfs  of  more  degraded  kind; 
Goat-skins  or  deer-hides  o'er  them  cast. 
Made  a  rude  fence  against  the  blast; 
Their  arms  and  feet  and  heads  were  bare. 
Matted  their  beards,  unshorn  their  hair; 
For  arms,  the  caitiffs  bore  in  hand, 
A  club,  an  axe,  a  rusty  brand. 


Onward, still  mute, they  kept  the  track; — 
"  Tell  who  ye  be,  or  else  stand  back," 
Said  Bruce;  "  in  deserts  when  they  meet. 
Men  pass  not  as  in  peaceful  street." 
Still,  at  his  stern  command,  they  stood. 
And  proffer'd  greeting  brief  and  rude. 
But  acted  courtesy  so  ill. 
As  seem'd  of  fear,  and  not  of  will. 
"  Wanderers  we  are,  as  you  may  be; 
Men  hither  driven  by  wind  and  sea. 
Who,  if  you  list  to  taste  our  cheer. 
Will  share  with  you  this  fallow  deer." — 
"  If    from    the    sea,    where    lies    your 

bark?"  — 
"  Ten  fathom  deep  in  ocean  dark  ! 
Wreck'd  yesternight :  but  we  are  men, 
Who  little  sense  of  peril  ken. 
The    shades    come   down  —  the    day   is 

shut  — 
Will  you  go  with  us  to  our  hut?  "  — 
"  Our  vessel  waits  us  in  the  bay; 
Thanks    for   your    proffer  —  have  good- 
day."  — 
"  Was  that  your  galley,  then,  which  rode 
Not     far     from     shore     when     evening 

glow'd?  "  — 
"  It  was."  —  "  Then  spare  your  needless 

pain, 
There  she  will  now  be  sought  in  vain. 
We  saw  her  from  the  mountain-head. 
When,  with  St.  George's  blazon  red, 
A  southern  vessel  bore  in  sight. 
And    yours    raised    sail,    and    took    to 
flight."  — 


"  Now,  by  the  rood,  unwelcome  news  ! " 
Thus  with  Lord  Ronald  communed  Bruce; 


THE   LORD    OF   THE   ISLES. 


Canto  III. 


'  Nor  rests  there  light  enough  to  show 
If  this  their  tale  be  true  or  no. 
Tlie  men  seem  bred  of  churlish  kind, 
Yet  mellow  nuts  have  hardest  rind; 
We  will  go  with  them  —  food  and  fire 
And  sheltering  roof  our  wants  require. 
Sure  guard  'gainst  treachery  will  we  keep, 
And    watch    by    turns     our    comrades' 

sleep.  — 
Good  fellows,  thanks;  your  guests  we'll 

be, 
And  well  will  pay  the  courtesy. 
Come,  lead  us  where  your  lodging  lies,  — 
• —  Nay,  soft,  we  mix  not  companies.  — 
Show  us  the  path  o'er  crag  and  stone, 
And  we  will  follow  you;  —  lead  on." 


They  reach'd  the  dreary  cabin,  made 
Of  sails  against  a  rock  display'd. 

And  there,  on  entering,  found 
A  slender  boy,  whose  form  and  mien 
III  suited  with  such  savage  scene, 
In  cap  and  cloak  of  velvet  green. 

Low  seated  on  the  ground. 
Jlis  garb  was  such  as  minstrels  wear. 
Dark  was  his  hue,  and  dark  his  hair. 
His  youthful  cheek  was  marr'd  by  care, 

His  eyes  in  sorrow  drown'd. 
"  Whence  this  poor  boy?  "  —  As  Ron- 
ald spoke, 
The  voice  his  trance  of  anguish  broke; 
As  if  awaked  from  ghastly  dream, 
I  le  raised  his  head  with  start  and  scream, 

And  wildly  g.azed  around; 
Then  to  the  wall  his  face  he  turn'd, 
And  his  dark  neck  with  blushes  burn'd. 

xxm. 

"  Whose  is  the  boy?"  again  .he  said.  — 
"  By  chance  of  war  our  captive  made; 
He  may  be  yours,  if  you  should  hold 
Tiiat  music  has  more  charms  than  gold; 
For,    though    from     earliest    childhood 

mute. 
The  lad  can  deftly  touch  the  lute. 
And  on  the  rote  and  viol  play. 
And  well  can  drive  the  time  away 

For  those  who  love  such  glee; 
For    me,    the    favoring   breeze,   when 

loud 
It  pipes  upon  the  galley's  shroud. 
Makes  blither  melody."  — 


"  Hath  he,  then,  sense  of  spoken  sound?" 

"  Ay;   so  his  mother  bade  us  know, 
A  crone  in  our  late  shipwreck  drown'd, 

And  hence  the  silly  stripling's  woe. 
More  of  the  youth  I  cannot  say, 
Our  captive  but  since  yesterday; 
W^hen  wind  and  weather  wax'd  so  grim. 
We  little  listed  think  of  him.  — 
But  why  waste  time  in  idle  words? 
Sit  to  your  cheer  —  unbelt  your  swords." 
Sudden  the  captive  turn'd  his  head. 
And  one  quick  glance  to  Ronald  sped. 
It  was  a  keen  and  warning  look, 
And  well  the  Chief  the  signal  took. 

XXIV. 

"Kind  host,"  he  said,  "our  needs  re- 
quire 
A  separate  board  and  separate  fire; 
For  know,  that  on  a  pilgrimage 
Wend  I,  my  comrade,  and  this  page. 
And,  sworn  to  vigil  and  to  f.ast. 
Long  as  this  hallow'd  task  shall  last, 
We  never  doff  the  plaid  or  sword. 
Or  feast  us  at  a  stranger's  board; 
And  never  share  one  common  sleep, 
But  one  must  still  his  vigil  keep. 
Thus,  for  our  separate  use,  good  friend, 
We'll  hold  this  hut's  remoter  end."  — 
"  A  churlish  vow,''  the  eldest  said, 
"  And  hard,  methinks,  to  be  obey'd. 
How  say  you,  if,  to  wreak  the  scorn 
That  pays  our  kindness  harsh  return, 
We  should  refuse  to  share  our  meal  ?  " 
"  Then  say  we,  that  our  swords  are  steel ! 
And  our  vow  binds  us  not  to  fast. 
Where  gold  or  force  may  buy  repast."  — 
Their  host's  dark  brow  grew  keen  and 

fell. 
His  teeth  are  clench'd,  his  features  swell; 
Yet  sunk  the  felon's  moody  ire 
Before  Lord  Ronald's  glance  of  fire. 
Nor  could  his  craven  courage  brook 
The  Monarch's  calm  and  dauntless  look. 
With    laugh  constrain'd,  —  "Let  every 

man 
Follow  the  fashion  of  his  clan. 
Each  to  his  separate  quarters  keep. 
And  feed  or  fast,  or  wake  or  sleep." 

XXV. 

Their  fire  at  separate  distance  burns, 
By  turns  they  eat,  keep  guard  by  turns; 


Canto  HI. 


THE   LORD    OF   THE  ISLES. 


3" 


For  evil  .seem'd  that  old  man's  eye, 

Dark  and  designing,  fierce  yet  shy. 

Still  he  avoided  forward  look. 

But  slow  and  circumspectly  took 

A  circling,  never-ceasing  glance. 

By  doubt  and  cunning  mark'd  at  once, 

Which  shot  a  mischief-boding  ray. 

From  under  eyebrows  shagg'd  and  gray. 

The  younger,  too,  who  seemed  his  son, 

Had  that  dark  look  the  timid  shun; 

rho  half-clad  serfs  behind  them  sate. 

And  scowl'd  a  glare  'twixt  fear  and  hate  — 

Till  all,  as  darkness  onward  crept, 

( 'i)Uch'ddown,andseem'dtosleeporslept. 

-\or  he,  that  boy,  whose  powerless  tongue 

Must  trust  his  eyes  to  wail  his  wrong, 

A  longer  watch  of  sorrow  made. 

But  stretch'd  his  limbs  to  slumber  laid. 


Not  in  his  dangerous  host  confides 
The  King,  but  wary  watch  provides. 
Roland  keeps  ward  till  midnight  past. 
Then  wakes  the  King,  young  Allan  last; 
Thus  rank'd,  to  give  the  youthful  page 
The  rest  required  by  tender  age. 
What  is  Lord  Ronald's  wakeful  thought. 
To  chase  the  languor  toil  had  brought  ?  — 
(  P'or  deem  not  that  he  deign'd  to  throw 
Much  care  upon  such  coward  foe,)  — 
He  thinks  of  lovely  Isabel, 
When  at  her  foeman's  feet  she  fell. 
Nor  less  when,  placed  in  princely  selle. 
She  glanced  on  him  with  favoring  eyes, 
At  Woodstock  when  he  won  the  prize. 
Nor,  fair  in  joy,  in  sorrow  fair. 
In  pride  of  place  as  mid  despair. 
Must  she  alone  engross  his  care. 
His  thoughts  to  his  l)etrothed  bride. 
To  Edith,  turn.  — O  how  decide, 
When  here  his  love  and  heart  are  given. 
And    there    his    faith    stands    plight    to 

Heaven ! 
No  drowsy  ward  'tis  his  to  keep. 
For  seldom  lovers  long  for  sleep. 
Till  sung  his  midnight  hymn  the  owl, 
Answer'd  the  dog-fox  with  his  howl. 
Then  waked  the  King;  —  at  his  request, 
Lxjrd  Ronald  stretch'd  himself  to  rest. 

XXVII. 
What  spell  was  good  King  Robert's,  say. 
To  drive  the  weary  night  away? 


His  was  the  patriot's  burning  thought. 
Of  Freedom's  batlle  bravely  fought, 
Of  castles  storm'd,  of  cities  freed, 
Of  deep  design  and  daring  deed. 
Of  England's  roses  reft  and  torn, 
And  Scotland's  cross  in  triumph  worn. 
Of  rout  and  rally,  war  and  truce, — 
As  heroes  think,  so  thought  the  Bruce. 
No  marvel,  mid  such  musings  high. 
Sleep  shuiin'd  the  Monarch's  thoughtful 

eye. 
Now  over  Coolin's  eastern  head 
The  grayish  light  begins  to  spread, 
The  otter  to  his  cavern  drew, 
And  clamor'd  shrill  the  wakening  mew; 
Then  watch'd  the  page; —  to  needful  rest 
The  King  resign'd  his  anxious  breast. 


To  Allan's  eyes  was  harder  task, 
The  weary  watch  their  safeties  ask. 
He  trimm'd  the  fire,  and  gave  to  shine 
With  bickering  light  the  splinter'd  pine; 
Then  gazed  awhile,  where  silent  laid 
Their  hosts  were  shrouded  by  the  plaid. 
But  little  fear  waked  in  his  mind, 
For  he  was  bred  of  martial  kind. 
And,  if  to  manhood  he  arrive. 
May  match  the  boldest  knight  alive. 
Then  thought  he  of  his  mother's  tower. 
His  little  sisters'  greenwood  bower. 
How  there  the  Easter-gambols  pass, 
And  of  Dan  Joseph's  lengthen'd  mass. 
But  still  before  his  weary  eye 
In  rays  prolong' d  the  blazes  die.  — 
Again  he  roused  him  ;  —  on  the  lake 
Look'd   forth,   where    now  the    twilight 

flake 
Of  pale  cold  dawn  began  to  wake. 
On  Coolin's  cliffs  the  mists  lay  furl'd, 
The  morning  breeze  the  lake  had  curl'd. 
The  short  dark  waves,  heaved  to  the  land, 
With  ceaseless  splash  kiss'd  cliff  or  sand; 
It  was  a  slumbrous  sound; —  he  turn'd 
To  tales  at  which  his  youth  had  burn'd, 
Of  pilgrim's  path  by  demon  cross'd, 
Of  sprightly  elf  or  yelling  ghost, 
Of  the  wild  witch's  baneful  cot. 
And  mermaid's  alabaster  grot. 
Who  bathes  her  limbs  in  sunless  well 
Deep  in  Strathaird's  enchanted  cell.** 
Thither  in  fancy  wrapt  he  flies. 
And  on  his  sight  the  vaults  arise; 


THE  LORD    OF   THE   ISLES. 


Canto  III. 


That  hut's  dark  walls  he  sees  no  more. 

His  foot  is  on  the  marble  floor. 

And  o'er  his  head  the  dazzling  spars 

Gleam  like  a  firmament  of  stars ! 

—  Hark !    hears  he   not   the  sea-nymph 

speak 
Her  anger  in  that  thrilling  shriek  !  — 
No !  all  too  late,  with  Allan's  dream 
Mingled  the  captive's  warning  scream. 
As  from  the  ground  he  strives  to  start, 
A  ruffian's  dagger  finds  his  heart ! 
Upward  he  casts  his  dizzy  eyes,   .   .   . 
Murmurs   his  master's  name,  .  .  .  and 

dies ! 


Not  so  awoke  the  King !  his  hand 
Snatch'd  from  the  flame  a  knotted  brand, 
The  nearest  weapon  of  his  wrath; 
With  this  he  cross'd  the  murderer's  path, 

And  venged  young  Allan  well ! 
The  spatter'd  brain  and  bubbling  blood 
Hiss'd  on  the  half-extinguish'd  wood, 

The  miscreant  gasp'd  and  fell ! 
Nor  rose  in  peace  the  Island  Lord; 
One  caitiff  died  upon  his  sword, 
And  one  beneath  his  grasp  lies  prone, 
In  mortal  grapple  overthrown. 
But  while  Lord  Ronald's  dagger  drank 
The  life-blood  from  his  panting  flank. 
The  Father-ruffian  of  the  band 
Behind  him  rears  a  coward  hand ! 

—  O  for  a  moment's  aid. 
Till  Bruce,  who  deals  no  double  blow. 
Dash  to  the  earth  another  foe. 

Above  his  comrade  laid  !  — 
And  it  is  gain'd  — the  captive  sprung 
On  the  raised  arm,  and  closely  clung. 

And,  ere  he  shook  him  loose. 
The  master'd  felon  press'd  the  ground. 
And  gasp'd  beneath  the  mortal  wound, 

While  o'er  him  stands  the  Bruce. 


"  Miscreant !    while    lasts    thy    flitting 

spark. 
Give  me  to  know  the  purpose  dark. 
That   arm'd    thy   hand  with  murderous 

knife, 
Against  offenceless  stranger's  life?  " — 
"No  stranger  thou!  "  with  accent  fell, 
Murmur'd  the  wretch;    "  I    know  thee 

well; 


And  know  thee  for  the  foeman  sworn 
Of  my  high  Chief,  the  mighty  Lorn."  — 
"  Speak  yet  again,  and  speak  the  truth 
For  thy  soul's  sake  !  —  from  whence  this 

youth  ? 
His  country,  birth,  and  name  declare. 
And  thus  one  evil  deed  repair."  — 
—  "Vex  me  no  more!    .   .   .  my  blood 

runs  cold.   .    .   . 
No  more  I  know  than  I  have  told. 
We  found  him  in  a  bark  we  sought 
With    different    purpose     .     .     .     and    I 

thought  "... 
Fate  cut  him  short;  in  blood  and  broil. 
As  he  had  lived,  died  Cormac  Doil. 


Then  resting  on  his  bloody  blade, 
The  valiant  Bruce  to  Roland  said: — 
"  Now  shame  upon  us  both  !  —  that  boy 

Lifts  his  mute  face  to  heaven. 
And  clasps  his  hands  to  testify 
His  gratitude  to  God  on  high, 

For  strange  deliverance  given. 
His  speechless  gesture  thanks  hath  paid. 
Which    our   free    tongues  have  left  un- 
said ! ' ' 
He  raised  the  youth  with  kindly  word. 
But  mark'd  him  shudder  at  the  sword: 
He  cleansed  it  from  its  hue  of  death. 
And  plunged  the  weapon  in  its  sheath. 
'■  Alas,  poor  child  !   unfitting  part 
Fate  doom'd,  when  with  so  soft  a  heart. 

And  form  so  slight  as  thine. 
She  made  thee  first  a  pirate's  slave. 
Then,  in  his  stead,  a  patron  gave 

Of  wayward  lot  like  mine; 
A  landless  prince,  whose  wandering  life 
Is  but  one  scene  of  blood  and  strife  — 
Yet  scant  of  friends  the  Bruce  shall  be, 
But  he'll  find  resting-place  for  thee. — 
Come,  noble  Ronald!  o'er  the  dead 
Enough  thy  generous  grief  is  paid. 
And  well  has  Allan's  fate  been  wroke; 
Come,  wend  we  hence — the  day  has  broke. 
Seek  we  our  bark  —  I  trust  the  tale 
Was  false,  that  she  had  hoisted  sail." 

XXXII. 
Yet,  ere  they  left  that  charnel-cell. 
The  Island  Lord  bade  sad  farewell 
To  Allan :  —  "  Who  shall  tell  this  talc," 
He  said,  "  in  halls  of  Donagaile ! 


Canto  IV. 


THE  LORD    OF   THE  ISLES. 


313 


Oh,  who  his  widow'd  mother  tell, 
That,  ere  his  bloom,  her  fairest  fell !  — 
Rest  thee,   poor  youth !    and   trust    my 

care 
For  mass  and  knell  and  funeral  prayer; 
While  o'er  those  caitiffs,  where  they  lie, 
The  wolf  shall  snarl,  the  raven  cry  !" 
And  now  the  eastern  mountain's  head 
<  )n  the  dark  laka  threw  lustre  red; 
Bright  gleams  of  gold  and  purple  streak 
Kavinc  and  precipice  and  peak — ■' 
(So  earthly  power  at  distance  shows; 
Reveals  his  splendor,  hides  his  woes.) 
O'er  sheets  of  granite  dark  and  l)road, 
Rent  and  unequal,  lay  the  road. 
In  sad  discourse  the  warriors  wind. 
And  the  mute  captive  moves  behind. 


CANTO   FOURTH. 
I. 
Stranger  !  if   e'er  thine  ardent  step 

hath  traced 
The  northern  realms   of    ancient  Cal- 

edon, 
Where  the  proud  Queen  of  Wilderness 

hath  placed. 
By  lake  and  cataract,  her  lonely  throne; 
Sublime  Init  sad  delight  thy.  soul    hath 

known, 
Gazing  on  pathless  glen  and  mountain 

high. 
Listing  where   from  the  cliffs  the   tor- 
rents thrown 
Mingle  their  echoes  with  the  eagle's 

cry, 
And  with  the  sounding  lake,  and  with 

the  moaning  sky. 

Yes !  'twas  sublime  ,  but  sad.  —  The 
loneliness 

Loaded  thy  heart,  the  desert  tired  thine 
eye; 

And  strange  and  awful  fears  began  to 
press 

Thy  bosom  with  a  stern  solemnity. 

Then  hast  thou  wish'd  some  wood- 
man's cottage  nigh, 

Something  that  show'd  of  life,  though 
low  and  mean : 

Glad  sight,  its  curling  wreath  of  smoke 
to  spy, 


Glad   sound,    its   cock's   blithe  carol 
would  have  Ijeen, 
Or  children  whooping  wild  beneath  the 
willows  green. 

Such   are   the   scenes,   where   savage 

grandeur  wakes 
An  awful  thrill  that  softens  into  sighs; 
Such  feelings  rouse  them  Ijy  dim  Ran- 

noch's  lakes. 
In  dark  Glencoe  such  gloomy  raptures 

rise; 
Or  farther,  where,  beneath  the   north- 
ern skies, 
Chides  wild  Loch-Eribol  his  caverns 

hoar  — 
But,  be  the  minstrel  judge,   they  yield 

the  prize 
Of  desert  dignity  to  that  dread  shore. 
That   sees  grim  Coolin  rise,  and  hears 

Coriskin  roar. 


Through  such  wild  scenes  the  champiop 

pass'd. 
When  bold  halloo  and  bugle  blast 
Upon  the  breeze  came  loud  and  fast. 
"There,"  said  the   Bruce,    "rung  Ed- 
ward's horn  ! 
What  can  have  caused  such  brief  return? 
And  see,  brave  Ronald,  —  see  him  dart 
O'er  stock  and  stone  like  hunted  hart. 
Precipitate,  as  is  the  use. 
In  war  or  sport,  of  Edward  Bruce. 
— •  He  marks  us,  and  his  eager  cry 
Will  tell  his  news  ere  he  be  nigh." 


Loud   Edward  shouts:  —  "  Wh-it  make 

ye  here. 
Warring  upon  the  mountain-deer. 

When  Scotland  wants  her  king? 
A  bark  from  Lennox  cross'd  our  track. 
With  her  in  speed  I  hurried  back. 

These  joyful  news  to  bring  — 
The  Stuart  stirs  in  Teviotdale, 
And  Douglas  wakes  his  native  vale; 
Thy    storm-toss'd    fleet    hath    won    its 

way 
With  little  loss  to  Brodick-Bay, 
And  Lennox,  with  a  gallant  band, 
Waits  but  thy  coming  and  command 
To  waft  them  o'er  to  Carrick  strand. 


3U 


THE  LORD    OF  THE   ISLES. 


Canto  IV. 


There  are  blithe  news!  — but  mark  the 

close ! 
Edward,  the  deadliest  of  our  foes, 
As  with  his  host  he  northward  pass'd. 
Hath  on  the  Borders  breathed  his  last." 


Still  stood  the  Bruce  — his  steady  cheek 
Was  little  wont  his  joy  to  speak, 

But  then  his  color  rose : — 
"  Now,  Scotland  !  shortly  shalt  thou  see, 
With  God's  high  will,  thy  children  free, 

And  vengeance  on  thy  foes ! 
Yet  to  no  sense  of  selfish  wrongs. 
Bear  witness  with  me.  Heaven,  belongs 

My  joy  o'er  Edward's  bier;^ 
I  took  my  knighthood  at  his  hand, 
And  lordship  held  of  him,  and  land, 

And  well  may  vouch  it  here, 
That,  blot  the  story  from  his  page, 
Of  Scotland  ruin'd  in  his  rage. 
You  read  a  monarch  brave  and  sage, 

And  to  his  people  dear."  — 
"  Let     London's    burghers    mourn    her 

Lord, 
And  Croydon  monks  his  praise  record," 

The  eager  Edward  said:  — 
"  Eternal  as  his  own,  my  hate 
Surmounts  the  bounds  of  mortal  fate. 

And  dies  not  with  the  dead  ! 
Such  hate  was  his  on  Solway's  strand. 
When    vengeance    clench 'd   his   palsied 

hand. 
That  pointed  yet  to  Scotland's  land, 

As  his  last  accents  pray'd 
Disgrace  and  curse  upon  his  heir. 
If  he  one  Scottish  head  should  spare. 
Till  stretch'd  upon  the  bloody  lair 

Each  rebel  corpse  was  laid  ! 
Such  hate  was  his,  when  his  last  breath 
Renounced  the  peaceful  house  of  death, 
And  bade  his  bones  to  Scotland's  coast 
Be  borne  by  his  remorseless  host. 
As  if  his  dead  and  stony  eye 
Could  still  enjoy  her  misery !  ~ 

Such  hate  was  his  —  dark,  deadly,  long! 
Mine,  —  as  enduring,  deep,  and  strong  !" 


"Let  women,  Edward,  war  with  words, 
With  curses  monks,  but  men  with  swords : 
Nor  doubt  of  living  foes,  to  sate 
Deepest  revenge  and  deadliest  hate. 


Now,  to  the  sea!  behold  the  beach. 
And  see  the  galleys'  pendants  stretch 
Their  fluttering  length  down  favoring  gale  ! 
Aboard,  alward  !   and  hoist  the  sail. 
Hold  we  our  way  for  Arran  first. 
Where  meet  in  arms  our  friends  dispersed : 
Lennox  the  loyal,  De  la  Haye, 
And  Boyd  the  bold  in  battle  fray. 
I  long  the  hardy  band  to  head, 
And  see  once  more  my  standard  spread. — 
Does  noble  Ronald  share  our  course. 
Or  stay  to  raise  his  island  force?  "  — 
"Come  weal, come  woe,  by  Bruce'sside,' 
Replied  the  Chief,  "  will  Ronald  bide. 
And  since  two  galleys  yonder  ride. 
Be  mine,  so  please  my  liege,  dismiss'd 
To  wake  tr  irms  the  clans  of  Uist, 
And  all  who  hear  the  Minch's  roar. 
On  the  Long  Island's  lonely  shore. 
The  nearer  Isles,  with  slight  delay. 
Ourselves  may  summon  in  our  way; 
And  soon  on  Arran 's  shore  shall  meet, 
With  Torquil's  aid,  a  gallant  fleet. 
If  aught  avails  their  Chieftain's  best 
Among  the  islesmen  of  the  west." 


Thus  was  their  venturous  council  said. 
But,  ere  their  sails  the  galleys  spread, 
Coriskin  dark  and  Coolin  high 
Echoed  the  dirge's  doleful  cry. 
Along  that  sable  lake  pass'd  slow,  — 
F'it  scene  for  such  a  sight  of  woe. 
The  sorrowing  islesmen,  as  they  Ixjre 
The  murder'd  Allan  to  the  shore. 
At  every  pause,  with  dismal  shout. 
Their  coronach  of  grief  rung  out. 
And  ever,  when  they  moved  again. 
The  pipes  resumed  their  clamorous  strain, 
And,  with  the  pibroch's  shrilling  wail, 
Mourn'd  the  young  heir  of  Donagaile. 
Roimd  and  around,  from  cliff  and  cave, 
His  answer  stern  old  Coolin  gave. 
Till  high  upon  his  misty  side 
Languish'd  the  mournful  notes,  and  died; 
For  never  sounds,  by  mortal  made, 
Attain'd  his  high  and  haggard  head. 
That  echoes  but  the  tempest's  moan. 
Or  the  deep  thunder's  rending  groan. 


Merrily,  merrily  bounds  the  bark. 
She  bounds  before  the  gale. 


Ca.nto  IV. 


THE  LORD    OF  THE  ISLES. 


315 


Tlie  mountain  breeze  from  Ben-na-darch 

Is  joyous  in  her  siiil ! 
SN'ith  fluttering  sound  likelaugliter  hoarse. 

The  cords  and  canvas  strain. 
The  waves,  divided  by  her  force. 
In  rippling  eddies  chased  her  course, 

As  if  they  laugh'd  again. 
\ot    down    the    breeze    more    blithely 

Hew, 
Skimming  the  wave,  the  light  sea-mew. 

Than  the  gay  galley  bore 
Her  course  upon  that  favoring  wind, 
•\nd  Coolin's  crest  has  sunk  behind, 

And  Slapin's  cavern'd  shore. 
■  Fwas  then  that  warlike  signals  wake 
Dunscaith's    dark    towers    and    Eisord's 

lake, 
And  soon,  from  Cavilgarrigh's  head. 
Thick  wreaths  of    eddying  smoke  were 

spread ; 
A  summons  these  of  war  and  wrath 
To  the  brave  clans  of  Skat  and  Strath. 

And,  ready  at  the  sight. 
Each  warrior  to  his  weapons  sprung. 
And  targe  upon  his  shoulder  Hung, 

Impatient  for  the  fight. 
Mac-Kinnon's  chief,  in  warfare  gray. 
Had  charge  to  muster  their  array, 
And  guide  their  barks  to  Brodick-lJay. 


Signal  of  Ronald's  high  command, 
A  beacon  gleam'd  o'er  sea  and  land, 
From   Canna's   tower,    that,    steep   and 

gray, 
Like  falcon-nest  o'erhangs  the  bay. 
Seek  not  the  giddy  crag  to  climb, 
To  view  the  turret  scathed  by  time; 
It  is  a  task  of  doubt  and  fear 
To  aught  but  goat  or  mountain-deer. 
But  rest  thee  on  the  silver  beach, 
And  let  the  aged  herdsman  teach 

His  tale  of  former  day; 
His  cur's  wild  clamor  he  shall  chide. 
And  for  thy  seat  by  ocean's  side. 

His  varied  plaid  display; 
Then    tell,  how  with    their   Chieftain 

came. 
In  ancient  times  a  foreign  dame 
To  yonder  turret  gray. 
Stern  was  her  Lord's  suspicious  mind. 
Who  in  so  rude  a  jail  confined 
So  soft  and  fair  a  thrall ! 


And  oft,  when  moon  on  ocean  slept. 
That  lovely  lady  sate  and  wept 

Upon  the  castle  wall. 
And  turn'd  her  eye  to  southern  climes. 
And  thought  perchance  of  happier  times. 
And  touch'd  her  lute  by  fits,  and  sung 
Wild  ditties  in  her  native  tongue. 
And  still,  when  on  the  cliff  and  bay. 
Placid  and  pale  the  moonbeams  play. 

And  every  breeze  is  mute, 
Upon  the  lone  Hebridean's  ear 
Steals  a  strange  pleasure  mix'd  with  fear. 
While  from  that  cliff  he  seems  to  hear 

The  murmur  of  a  lute. 
And  sounds,  as  of  a  captive  lone. 
That  mourns   her    woes   in    tongue    un- 
known. — 
Strange  is  the  tale — but  all  too  long 
Already  hath  it  staid  the  song  — 

Yet  who  may  pass  them  by. 
That  crag  and  tower  in  ruins  gray. 
Nor  to  their  hapless  tenant  pay 

The  tribute  of  a  sigh ! 


Merily,  merrily  bounds  the  bark 

O'er  the  broad  ocean  driven. 
Her  path  by  Ronin's  mountains  dark 

The  steersman's  hand  hath  given. 
And  Ronin's  mountains  dark  have  sent 

Their  hunters  to  the  shore, ^ 
And  each  his  ashen  bow  unbent, 

And  gave  his  pastime  o'er, 
And  at  the  Island  Lord's  command, 
For  hunting  spear  took  warrior's  brand. 
On  Scooreigg  next  a  warning  light 
Summon'd  her  warriors  to  the  fight; 
A  numerous  race,  ere  stern  MacLeod 
O'er   thdr   bleak    shores  in   vengeance 

strode,'^ 
When  all  in  vain  the  ocean-cave 
Its  refuge  to  his  victims  gave. 
The  Chief,  relentless  in  his  wrath, 
With  blazing  heath  blockades  the  path ; 
In  dense  and  stifling  volumes  roll'd, 
The  vapor  fiU'd  the  cavern'd  hold ! 
The  warrior-threat,  the  infant's  plain, 
The  mother's  screams,  were  heard  in  vain ! 
The  vengeful  Chief  maintains  his  fires. 
Till  in  the  vault  a  tribe  expires ! 
The   bones   which    strew   that   cavern's 

gloom 
Too  well  attest  their  dismal  doom. 


3i6 


THE   LOKD    OF   THE  ISLES. 


Canto  IV. 


Merrily,  merrily  goes  the  bark 

On  a  breeze  from  the  northward  free, 
So  shoots  through  the  morning  sky  the 
lark, 

Or  the  swan  through  the  summer  sea. 
The  shores  of  Mull  on  the  eastward  lay, 
And  Ulva  dark  and  Colonsay, 
And  all  the  group  of  islets  gay 

That  guard  famed  Staffa  round. 
Then  all  unknown  its  columns  rose, 
Where  dark  and  un<listurl>'d  repose 

The  cormorant  had  found. 
And  the  shy  seal  had  quiet  home. 
And  welter'd  in  that  wondrous  dome. 
Where,  as  to  shame  the  temples  deck 'd 
By  skill  of  earthly  architect, 
Nature  herself,  it  seem'd,  would  raise 
A  Minster  to  her  ^Taker's  praise  ! 
Not  for  a  meaner  use  ascend 
Her  columns,  or  her  arches  bend; 
Nor  of  a  theme  less  solemn  tells 
That  mighty  surge  that  ebbs  and  swells. 
And  still,  lietween  each  awful  pause. 
From  the  high  vault  an  answer  draws. 
In  varied  tone  prolong'd  and  high. 
That  mocks  the  organ's  melody. 
Nor  doth  its  entrance  front  in  vain 
To  old  lona's  holy  fane. 
That  Nature's  voice  might  seem  to  say : — • 
"  Well  hast  thou  done,  frail  child  of  clay  ! 
Thy  humble  powers  that  stately  shrine 
Task'd    high    and    hard — but    witness 
mine !  " 


Merrily,  merrily  goes  the  liark, 

Before  the  gale  she  bounds; 
So  darts  the  dolphin  from  the  shark, 

Or  the  deer  Ijefore  the  hounds. 
They  left  Locli-Tua  on  their  lee. 
And  they  waken'd  the  men  of  the  wild 
Tiree, 

And  the  Chief  of  the  sandy  Coll; 
They  paused  not  at  Columba's  isle. 
Though  peal'd  the  bells  from  the   holy 
pile 

With  long  and  measured  toll; 
No  time  for  matin  or  for  mass. 
And  the  sounds  of  the  holy  summons  pass 

Away  in  the  billows'  roll. 
Lochbuie's  tierce  and  warlike  Lord 
Their  signal  saw,  and  grasp'd  his  sword. 


And  verdant  Islay  call'd  her  host, 
And  the  clans  of  Jura's  rugged  coast 

Lord  Ronald's  call  obey, 
And  Scarba's  isle,  whose  tortured  shore 
Still  rings  to  Corrievreken's  roar. 

And  lonely  Colonsay; 
• — ^Scenes  sung   by   him    who   sings   no 

more  !  ^ 
His  bright  and  brief  career  is  o'er. 

And  mute  his  tuneful  strains; 
Quench'd  is  his  lamp  of  varied  lore. 
That  loved  the  light  of  song  to  pour; 
A  distant  and  a  deadly  shore 

Has  Leyden's  cold  remains! 


Ever  the  breeze  blows  merrily. 
But  the  galley  ploughs  no  more  the  sea. 
I^st,  rounding  wild  Cantire,  they  meet 
The  southern  foemen's  watchful  fleet, 

They  held  unwonted  way;  — 
Up  Tarbat's  western  lake  they  bore, 
Then    dragg'd    their    bark    the    isthmus 

o'er,'^'' 
As  far  as  Kilmaconnel's  shore. 

Upon  the  eastern  bay. 
It  was  a  wondrous  sight  to  see 
Topmast  and  pennon  glitter  free, 
High  raised  above  the  greenwood  tree, 
As  on  dry  land  the  galley  moves. 
By  cliff  and  copse  and  alder  groves. 
Di-ep  import  from  that  selcouth  sign, 
Did  irany  a  mountain  Seer  divine. 
For  ancient  legends  told  the  Gael, 
That  when  a  royal  bark  should  sail 

O'er  Kilniaconnel  moss, 
Old  Albyn  should  in  fight  prevail. 
And  every  foe  should  faint  and  quail 

Before  her  silver  Cross. 

XIII. 

Now    launch'd    once    more,    the    inland 

sea 
They  furrow  with  fair  augury, 

And  steer  for  Arran's  isle; 
The  sun,  ere  yet  he  sunk  behind 
Ben-Ghoil,  "the  Mountain  of  the  Wind," 
Gave  his  grim  peaks  a  greeting  kind, 

And  bade  Loch  Ranza  smile.'* 
Thither  their  destined  course  they  drew; 
It  seem'd  the  isle  her  monarch  knew. 
So  brilliant  was  the  landward  view. 

The  ocean  so  serene; 


Canto  IV. 


THE   LORD    OF  THE  ISLES. 


317 


Each  puny  wave  in  diamonds  roll'd 
O'er  the  calm  deep,  where  hues  of  gold 

With  azure  strove  and  green. 
The  hill,  the  vale,  the  tree,  the  tower, 
Glow'd  with  the  tint  of  evening's  hour, 

The  beach  was  silver  sheen. 
The  wind  breathed  soft  as  lover's  sigh, 
And,  oft  renew'd,  seem'd  oft  to  die. 

With  breathless  pause  between. 
()  who,  with  speech  of  war  and  woes. 
Would  wish  to  break  the  soft  repose 

Of  such  enchanting  scene  ! 


1>  it  of  war  Lord  Ronald  speaks? 
The  blush  that  dyes  his  manly  cheeks. 
The  timid  look  and  downcast  eye. 
And  faltering  voice  the  theme  deny. 
And  good  King  Robert's hrowexpress'd. 
He  ponder'd  o'er  some  high  request. 

As  doubtful  to  approve; 
Vet  in  his  eye  and  lip  the  while. 
Dwelt  the  half-pitying  glance  and  smile, 
Which  manhood's  graver  mood  beguile. 
When  lovers  talk  of  love. 
Anxious  his  suit  Lord  Ronald  pled: — • 
"  And    for    my    bride    betrothed,"    he 

said, 
'  My  Liege  has  heard  the  rumor  spread, 
t  )f  Edith  from  Artornish  fled. 
Too  hard  her  fate —  I  claim  no  right 
To  blame  her  for  her  hasty  flight; 
He  joy  and  happiness  her  lot !  — 
But  she  hath  fled  the  bridal  knot. 
And  Lorn  recall'd  his  promised  plight. 
In  the  assembled  chieftains'  sight.  — 
When,  to  fulfil  our  fathers'  band, 
I  proffer'd  all  I  could  — -  my  hand  — 

I  was  repulsed  with  scorn; 

Mine  honor  I  should  ill  assert. 

And  worse  the  feelings  of  my  heart, 

If  I  should  play  a  suitor's  part 

Again,  to  pleasure  Lorn." 


"  Young  Lord,"  the  royal  Bruce  replied, 
"  That  question  must  the  Church  decide; 
Vet  seems  it  hard,  since  rumors  state 
Edith  takes  Clifford  for  her  mate, 
The  very  tie,  which  she  hath  broke. 
To  thee  should  still  be  binding  yoke. 
But,  for  my  sister  Isabel  — 
The  mood  of  woman  who  can  tell? 


I  guess  the  Champion  of  the  Rock, 
Victorious  in  the  tourney  shock. 
That  knight  unknown,  to  whom  the  prize 
She  dealt,  —  had  favor  in  her  eyes; 
But  since  our  brother  Nigel's  fate. 
Our  ruin'd  house  and  hapless  state, 
From  worldly  joys  and  hopes  estranged. 
Much  is  the  hapless  mourner  changed. 
Perchance,"  here  smiled  the  noble  King, 
"  This  tale  may  other  musings  bring. 
Soon  shall  we  know  —  yon  mountains  hide 
The  little  convent  of  Saint  Bride; 
There,  sent  by  Edward,  she  must  stay. 
Till  fate  shall  give  more  prosperous  day: 
And  thither  will  I  bear  thy  suit. 
Nor  will  thine  advocate  be  mute." 


As  thus  they  talk'd  in  earnest  mood. 
That  speechless  boy  beside  them  stood. 
He  stoop'd  his  head  against  the  mast, 
And  bitter  sobs  came  thick  and  fast, 
A  grief  that  would  not  be  repress'd, 
But  seem'd  to  burst  his  youthful  breast. 
1  lis  hands,  against  his  forehead  held. 
As  if  by  force  his  tears  repell'd. 
But  through  his  fingers,  long  and  slight, 
Fast  trill'd  the  drops  of  crystal  bright. 
Edward,  who  walk'd  the  deck  apart. 
First  spied  this  conflict  of  the  lieart. 
Thoughtless  as  brave,  with  bluntness  kind 
He  sought  to  cheer  the  sorrower's  mind; 
By  force  the  slender  hand  he  drew 
From  those  poor  eyes  that  stream'd  with 

dew. 
As  in  his  hold  the  stripling  strove,  — 
('Twas  a  rough  grasp,  though  meant  in 

love, ) 
Away  his  tears  the  warrior  swept. 
And  bade  shame  on  him  that  he  wept: — 
"I  would  to  Heaven,  thy  helpless  tongue 
Could  tell   me  who   hath  wrought  thee 

wrong ! 
For,  were  he  of  our  crew  the  best. 
The  insult  went  not  unredress'd. 
Come,  cheer  thee;  thou  art  now  of  age 
To  be  a  warrior's  gallant  page; 
Thou  shalt  be  mine  !  — a  palfrey  fair 
O'er  hill  and  holt  my  boy  shall  bear. 
To  hold  my  bow  in  hunting  grove. 
Or  speed  on  errand  to  my  love; 
For  well  I  wot  thou  wilt  not  tell 
The  temple  where  my  wishes  dwell." 


3i8 


THE  LORD    OF    THE  ISLES. 


Canto  IV. 


Bruce  interposed: — "Gay  Edward,  no, 

This  is  no  youth  to  hold  thy  bow, 

To  fill  thy  goblet,  or  to  bear 

Thy  message  light  to  lighter  fair. 

Thou  art  a  patron  all  too  wild 

And  thoughtless,  for  this  orphan  child. 

See'st  thou  not  how  apart  he  steals. 

Keeps  lonely  couch,  and  lonely  meals? 

Fitter  by  far  in  yon  calm  cell 

To  tend  our  sister  Isabel, 

With  Father  Augustin  to  share 

The  peaceful  change  of  convent  prayer. 

Than  wander  wild  adventures  through, 

With  such  a  reckless  guide  as  you." — 

"Thanks,  Vjrother !  "  Edward  answer'd 

gay. 

"  For  the  high  laud  thy  words  convey ! 
But  we  may  learn  some  future  day. 
If  thou  or  I  can  this  poor  boy 
Protect  the  best,  or  best  employ. 
Meanwhile,  our  vessel  nears  the  strand; 
Launch  we  the  boat  and  seek  the  land. ' ' 

XVIII. 

To  land  King  Robert  lightly  sprung. 

And  thrice  aloud  his  bugle  rung 

With  note  prolong'd  and  varied  strain, 

Till  bold  Ben  Ghoil  replied  again. 

Good  Douglas  then,  and  De  la  Haye, 

Had  in  a  glen  a  hart  at  bay. 

And  Lennox  cheer'd  the  laggard  hounds. 

When  waked   that  horn  the  greenwood 

bounds. 
"It  is  the  foe  !  "  cried  Boyd,  who  came 
In  breathless  haste  with  eye  of  flame,  — 
"  It  is  the  foe  !  —  Each  valiant  lord 
Fling  by  hisbow,  and  grasp  his  sword  !  " — 
"  Not  so,"  replied  the  good  Lord  James, 
"  That  blast  no  English  bugle  claims. 
Oft  have  I  heard  it  fire  the  fight, 
Cheer  the  pursuit,  or  stop  the  flight. 
Dead   were   my   heart,    and    deaf   mine 

ear. 
If  Bruce  should  call,  nor  Douglas  hear  ! 
Each  to  Loch  Ranza's  margin  spring; 
That  blast  was  winded  by  the  King !  "  29 


Fast  to  their  mates  the  tidings  spread, 
And  fast  to  shore  the  warriors  sped. 
Bursting  from  glen  and  greenwood  tree, 
High  waked  their  loyal  jubilee  ! 


Around  the  royal  Bruce  they  crowd. 
And  clasp'd  his  hands,  and  wept  aloud. 
Veterans  of  early  fields  were  there, 
Whose  helmets  press'd  their  hoary  hair, 
Whose  swords  and  axes  bore  a  stain 
From  life-blood  of  the  red-hair"d  Dane; 
And  boys,  whose  hands  scarce  brook'd 

to  wield 
The  heavy  sword  or  Ixissy  shield. 
Men  too  were  there,  that  bore  the  scars 
Impress'd  in  Albyn's  woeful  wars, 
At  Falkirk's  fierce  and  fatal  fight, 
Teyndrum's  dread  rout,  and  Methven's 

flight; 
The  might  of  Douglas  there  was  seen, 
There  Lennox  with  his  graceful  mien; 
Kirkpatrick,Closeburn's dreaded  Knight; 
The  Lindsay,  fiery,  fierce,  and  light; 
The  Heir  of  murder'd  De  la  Haye, 
And  Boyd  the  grave,  and  Seton  gay. 
Around  their  King  regain'd  they  press'd, 
Wept,  shouted,  clasp'd  him  to  their  breast, 
And  young  and  old,  and  serf  and  lord. 
And  he  who  ne'er  unsheathed  a  sword, 
And  he  in  many  a  peril  tried. 
Alike  resolved  the  brunt  to  bide, 
And  live  or  die  by  Bruce's  side ! 


Oh,  War !  thou  hast  thy  fierce  delight, 
Thy  gleams  of  joy,  intensely  bright ! 
Such  gleams,  as  from  thy  polish'd  shield 
Fly  dazzling  o'er  the  battle-field  ! 
Such  transports  wake,  severe  and  high. 
Amid  the  pealing  conquest-cry; 
Scarce  less,  when,  after  battle  lost. 
Muster  the  remnants  of  a  host. 
And  as  each  comrade's  name  they  tell. 
Who  in  the  well-fought  conflict  fell. 
Knitting  stern  brow  o'er  flashing  eye. 
Vow  to  avenge  them  or  to  die  !  — 
Warriors  ! — and  where  are  warriorsifound. 
If  not  on  martial  Britain's  ground? 
And  who,  when  waked  with  note  of  fire. 
Love  more  than  they  the  British  lyre?  — 
Know  ye  not,  — hearts  to  honor  dear  ! 
That  joy,  deep-thrilling,  stern,  severe, 
At  which  the  heart-strings  vibrate  high, 
And  wake  the  fountains  of  the  eye  ? 
And  blame  ye,  then,  the  Bruce,  if  trace 
Of  tear  is  on  his  manly  face, 
When,  scanty  relics  of  the  train 
That  hail'd  at  Scone  his  early  reign, 


;anto  I\'. 


THE  LORD    OF   THE  ISLES. 


319 


This  patriot  band  around  him  hung. 
And  to  his  knees  and  bosom  clung?  — 
Blame    ye    the     Bruce  ?  —  his     brother 

blamed, 
But  shared  the  weakness,  while  ashamed. 
With  haughty  laugh  his  head  he  turn'd, 
And  dash'd  away  the  tear  he  scorn 'd.-* 


'Tis  morning,  and  the  Convent  bell 
Long  time  had  ceased  its  matin  knell,  ^ 

Within  thy  walls.  Saint  Bride ! 
An  aged  Sister  sought  the  cell 
Assign'd  to  Lady  Isabel, 

And  hurriedly  she  cried: — 
■•  Haste,  gentle  Lady,  haste — there  waits 
A  noble  stranger  at  the  gates; 
Saint  Bride's  poor  vot'ress  ne'er  has  seen 
A  Knight  of  such  a  princely  mien; 
His  errand,  as  he  bade  me  tell, 
Is  with  the  Lady  Isabel." 
The  princess  rose,  —  for  on  her  knee 
Low  bent  she  told  her  rosary: — 
"  Let  him  by  thee  his  purpose  teach; 
I  may  not  give  a  stranger  speech."  — 
"Saint  Bride  forefend,  thou  royal  Maid  !" 
The  portress  cross'd  herself,  and  said: — 
"  Not  to  be  prioress  might  I 
Debate  his  will,  his  suit  deny."  — 
"  Has  earthly  show  then,  simple  fool. 
Power  o'er  a  sister  of  thy  rule? 
And  art  thou,  like  the  worldly  train. 
Subdued  by  splendors  light  and  vain  ?  "  — 

XXII. 

"  No,  Lady!  in  old  eyes  like  mine, 
Gauds  have  no  glitter,  gems  no  shine; 
Nor  grace  his  rank  attendants  vain. 
One  youthful  page  is  all  his  train. 
It  is  the  form,  the  eye,  the  word. 
The  bearing  of  that  stranger  Lord; 
His  stature,  manly,  bold,  and  tall, 
P.uilt  like  a  castle's  battled  wall, 
W't  moulded  in  such  just  degrees, 
I  lis  giant  strength  seems  lightsome  ease. 
Close  as  the  tendrils  of  the  vine 
His  locks  upon  his  forehead  twine. 
Jet-black,  save  where  some  touch  of  gray 
Has  ta'en  the  youthful  hue  away. 
Weather  and  war  their  rougher  trace 
Have  left  on  that  majestic  face;  — 
But  'tis  his  dignity  of  eye  ! 
There,  if  a  suppliant,  would  I  fly. 


Secure  mid  danger,  wrongs,  and  grief. 
Of  sympathy,  redress,  relief  — 
That  glance,  if  guilty,  would  I  dread 
More    than    the    doom    that   spoke    me 

dead!  "  — 
"  Enough,  enough,"  the  princess  cried, 
'  'Tis  Scotland's  hope,  her  joy,  her  pride  ! 
To  meaner  front  was  ne'er  assign'd 
Such  mastery  o'er  the  common  mind  — 
Bestow'd  thy  high  designs  to  aid. 
How  long,   O  Heaven !    how  long  de- 

lay'd !  — 
Haste,  Mona,  haste,  to  introduce 
My  darling  brother,  royal  Bruce !  " 


They  met  like  friends  who  part  in  pain. 
And  meet  in  doubtful  hope  again. 
But  when  subdued  that  fitful  swell. 
The  Bruce  survey'd  the  humble  cell :  — 
"  And  this  is  thine,  poor  Isabel !  — 
That  pallet-couch,  and  naked  wall. 
For  room  of  state,  and  bed  of  pall ; 
For  costly  robes  and  jewels  rare, 
A  string  of  beads  and  zone  of  hair; 
And  for  the  trumpet's  sprightly  call 
To  sport  or  banquet,  grove  or  hall. 
The  bell's  grim  voice  divide  thy  care, 
'Twixt  hours  of  penitence  and  prayer  !  — 
O  ill  for  thee,  my  royal  claim 
From  the  First  David's  sainted  name  ! 
O  woe  for  thee,  that  while  he  sought 
His  right,  thy  brother  feebly  fought !  "  — 


"  Now  lay  these  vain  regrets  aside. 
And  be  the  unshaken  Bruce  !  "  she  cried. 
"  For  more  I  glory  to  have  shared 
The  woes  thy  venturous  spirit  dared, 
When  raising  first  thy  valiant  band 
In  rescue  of  thy  native  land. 
Than  had  fair  P'ortune  set  me  down 
The  partner  of  an  empire's  crown. 
And  grieve  not  that  on  Pleasure's  stream 
No  more  I  drive  in  giddy  dream. 
For  Heaven  the  erring  pilot  knew, 
And  from  the  gulf  the  vessel  drew. 
Tried  me  with  judgments  stern  and  great. 
My  house's  ruin,  thy  defeat. 
Poor  Nigel's  death,  till,  tamed,  I  own. 
My  hopes  are  fix'd  on  Heaven  alone; 
Nor  e'er  shall  earthy  prospects  win 
My  heart  to  this  vain  world  of  sin."  — 


320 


THE   LORD    OF   THE   ISLES. 


Canto  IV. 


"  Nay,  Isalx;!,  for  such  stern  choice, 
First  wilt  thou  wait  thy  brother's  voice; 
Then  ponder  if  in  convent  scene 
No  softer  thoughts  might  intervene  — 
Say  they  were  of  that  unknown  Knight, 
Victor  in  Woo<lstock's  tourney-fight  — 
Nay,  if  his  name  such  blush  you  owe. 
Victorious  o'er  a  fairer  foe  !  " 
Truly  his  penetrating  eye 
Hath  caught  that  blush's  passing  dye,  — 
Like  the  last  beam  of  evening  thrown 
On  a  white  cloud,  —  just  seen  and  gone. 
Soon  with  calm  cheek  and  steady  eye, 
The  princess  made  composed  reply :  — • 
"  I  guess  my  brother's  meaning  well; 
For  not  so  silent  is  the  cell, 
Hut  we  have  heard  the  islesmen  all 
Arm  in  tliy  cause  at  Ronald's  call, 
And    mine   eyes  prove   that   Knight  un- 
known 
And  the  brave  Island  Lord  are  one.  — 
Had  then  his  suit  been  earlier  made. 
In  his  own  name,  with  thee  to  aid, 
(But  that  his  plighted  faith  forbade,) 
I  know  not.   .   .   .  But  thy  page  so  near? — - 
This  is  no  tale  for  menial's  ear." 


Still  stood  that  page,  as  far  apart 

As  the  small  cell  would  space  afford; 
With  dizzy  eye  and  bursting  heart. 

He  leant  his  weight  on  Bruce's  sword; 
The  monarch's  mantle  too  he  bore, 
And  drew  the  fold  his  visage  o'er. 
"Fear  not  forhim : —  in  murderous  strife," 
Said    Bruce,    "  his    warning    saved    my 

life; 
Full  seldom  parts  he  from  my  side. 
And  in  his  silence  I  confide, 
•Since  he  can  tell  no  tale  again. 
He  is  a  boy  of  gentle  strain. 
And  I  have  purposed  he  shall  dwell 
In  Augustin  the  chaplain's  cell. 
And  wait  on  thee,  my  Isabel.  — 
Mind  not  his  tears;  I've  seen  them  flow, 
As  in  the  thaw  dissolves  the  snow. 
'TIS  a  kind  youth,  but  fanciful, 
Unfit  against  the  tide  to  pull. 
And  those  that  with  the  Bruce  would  sail. 
Must  learn  to  strive  with  stream  and  gale. 
But  forward,  gentle  Isabel  — 
My  answer  for  Lord  Ronajd  tell."  — 


"  This  answer  be  to  Ronald  given  — 
The  heart  he  asks  is  fix'd  on  heaven. 
My  love  was  like  a  summer  flower. 
That  wither'd  in  the  wintry  hour. 
Born  but  of  vanity  and  pride. 
And  with  these  sunny  visions  died. 
If  further  press  his  suit  —  then  say. 
He  should  his  plighted  troth  oViey, 
Troth  plighted  both  with  ring  and  word, 
And  sworn  on  crucifix  and  sword.- — 
Oh,  shame  thee,  Robert !   I  have  seen 
Thou  hast  a  woman's  guardian  been  ! 
Even  in  extremity's  dread  hour. 
When  press'd  on  thee  the  Southern  power. 
And  safety,  to  all  human  sight. 
Was  only  found  in  rapid  flight. 
Thou  heard'st  a  wretched  female  plain 
In  agony  of  travail-pain. 
And  thou  didst  bid  thy  little  band 
Upon  the  instant  turn  and  stand. 
And  dare  the  worst  the  foe  might  do, 
Rather  than,  like  a  knight  untrue. 
Leave  to  pursuers  merciless 
A  woman  in  her  last  distress. '^^ 
And  wilt  thou  now  deny  thine  aid 
To  an  oppress'd  and  injured  maid. 
Even  plead  for  Ronald's  perfidy. 
And  press  his  fickle  faith  on  me?  — 
So  witness  Heaven,  as  true  I  vow, 
Had  I  those  earthly  feelings  now. 
Which  could  my  former  bosom  move 
Ere  taught  to  set  its  hopes  above, 
I'd  spurn  each  proffer  he  could  bring. 
Till  at  my  feet  he  laid  the  ring. 
The  ring  and  spousal  contract  both. 
And  fair  acquittal  of  his  oath. 
By  her  who  brooks  his  perjured  scorn. 
The  ill-requited  Maid  of  Lorn  !  " 


With  sudden  impulse  forward  sprung 
The  page,  and  on  her  neck  he  hung; 
Then,  recollected  instantly. 
His  head  he  stoop'd,  and  bent  his  knee, 
Kiss'd  twice  the  hand  of  Isabel, 
Arose,  and  sudden  left  the  cell.  — 
The  princess,  loosen'd  from  his  hold, 
Blushed  angry  at  his  l)earing  bold; 

But  good  King  Robert  cried: — 
"  Chafe  not — by  signs  he  speaks  his  mind. 
He  heard  the  plan  my  care  design'd. 

Nor  could  his  transports  hide.  — 


Can'iO  v. 


THE  LORD   OF   THE  ISLES. 


32< 


But,  sister,  now  bethink  thee  well; 
No  easy  chnice  the  convent  cell ! 
Trust,  I  shall  play  no  tyrant  part. 
Either  to  force  thy  hand  or  heart. 
Or  suffer  that  Lord  Ronald  scorn. 
Or  wrong  for  thee,  the  Maid  of  Lorn. 
But  think,  —  not  long  the  time  has  been, 
Tiiat  thou  wert  wont  to  sigh  unseen. 
And  wouldst  the  ditties  best  approve, 
That  told  some  lay  of  hapless  love. 
Now  are  thy  wishes  in  thy  power. 
Anil  thou  art  bent  on  cloister  bower ! 
O !  if  our  Edward  knew  the  change. 
How  would  his  busy  satire  range. 
With  many  a  sarcasm  varied  still 
On  woman's  wish,  and  woman's  will !" — • 


"  Brother,  I  well  l>elieve,"  she  said, 

"  Even  so  would  Edward's  part  be  play'd. 

Kindly  in  heart,  in  word  severe, 

A  foe  to  thought,  and  grief,  and  fear. 

He  holds  his  humor  uncontroll'd; 

But  thou  art  of  another  mould. 

Say  then  to  Ronald,  as  I  say. 

Unless  before  my  feet  he  lay 

The  ring  which  bound  the  faith  he  swore, 

By  E^ith  freely  yielded  o'er. 

He  moves  his  suit  to  me  no  more. 

Nor  do  I  promise,  even  if  now 

He  stood  absolved  of  spousal  vow. 

That  I  would  change  my  purpose  made 

To  shelter  me  in  holy  shade. — 

Brother,  for  little  space,  farewell ! 

To  other  duties  warns  the  bell !  "  — 


"  Lost  to  the  world,"  King  Robert  said. 
When  he  had  left  the  royal  maid, 
"  Lost  to  the  world  by  lot  severe, 
O  what  a  gem  lies  buried  here, 
Nipp'd  by  misfortune's  cruel  frost. 
The  buds  of  fair  affection  lost ! 
But  what  have  I  with  love  to  do? 
Far  sterner  cares  my  lot  pursue. 

—  Pent  in  this  isle  we  may  not  lie. 
Nor  would  it  long  our  wants  supply. 
Right  opposite,  the  mainland  towers 

Of  my  own  Turnberry  court  our  powers. 

—  Might  not  my  father's  beadsman  hoar, 
Cuthbert,  who  dwells  upon  the  shore. 
Kindle  a  signal-flame,  to  show 

The  time  propitious  for  the  blow? 


It  shall  be  so  —  some  friend  shall  bear 
Our  mandate  with  despatch  and  care; 
—  Edward  shall  find  the  messenger. 
That  fortress  ours,  the  island  fleet 
May  on  the  coast  of  Carrick  meet.  — 
O  Scotland  !  shall  it  e'er  be  mine 
To  wreak  thy  wrongs  in  battle-line. 
To  raise  my  victor-head,  and  see 
Thy  hills,  thy  dales,  thy  people  free,  — 
That  glance  of  bliss  is  all  I  crave ! 
Betwixt  my  labors  and  my  gravq !  " 
Then  down  the  hill  he  slowly  went. 
Oft  pausing  on  the  steep  descent. 
And  reach'd  the  spot  where  his  bold  train 
Held  rustic  camp  upon  the  plain. 


CANTO   FIFTH. 
I. 

On  fairLoch-Ranzastream'd  the  eaxly 
day. 

Thin  wreaths  of  cottage  smoke  are  up- 
ward curl'd 

From  the  lone  hamlet,  which  her  in- 
land bay 

And  circling  mountains  sever  from  the 
world. 

And     there     the    fisherman    his    sail 
unfurl'd. 

The  goat-herd  drove  his  kids  to  steep 
Ben-Ghoil, 

Before  the  hut  the  dame  her  spindle 
twirl'd, 

Courting  the  sunbeam  as  she  plied  her 
toil,  — 
For,  wake  where'er  he  may,  Man  wakes 
to  care  and  coil. 

But  other  duties  call'd  each  convent 
maid. 

Roused  by  the  summons  of  the  moss- 
grown  bell; 

Sung   were  the  matins,  and  the  mass 
was  said, 

Andevery sister  sought  herseparatecell. 

Such  was  the  rule,  —  her  rosary  to  tell. 

And  Isaliel  has  knelt  in  lonely  prayer: 

The  sunbeam,  through  the  narrow  lat- 
tice, fell 

Upon  the  snowy  neck  and  long  dark 
hair. 
As  stoop 'd  her  gentle  head  in  meek  devo- 
tion there. 


322 


THE  LORD    OF  THE  ISLES. 


Canto  V. 


She  raised  her  eyes,  that  duty  done, 
When  glanced  upon  the  pavement-stone, 
Gemm'd  and  enchased,  a  golden  ring. 
Bound  to  a  scroll  with  silken  stiing, 
With  few  brief  words  inscribed  to  tell, 
"  This  for  the  Lady  Isabel." 
Within,  the  writing  further  bore :  — 
"  'Twas  with  this  ring  his  plight  he  swore. 
With  this  his  promise  I  restore; 
To  her  who  can  the  heart  command, 
Well  may  I  yield  the  plighted  hand. 
And  O  !  for  better  fortune  born. 
Grudge  not  a  passing  sigh  to  mourn 
Her  who  was  Edith  once  of  Lorn  !  " 
One  single  flash  of  glad  surprise 
Just  glanced  from  Isabel's  dark  eyes. 
But  vanish'd  in  the  blush  of  shame. 
That,  as  its  penance,  instant  came. 
"  O  thought  unworthy  of  my  race  ! 
Selfish,  ungenerous,  mean,  and  base, 
A  moment's  throb  of  joy  to  own. 
That  rose  upon  her  hopes  o'erthrown  !  — 
Thou  pledge  of  vows  too  well  believed. 
Of  man  ingrate  and  maid  deceived. 
Think  not  thy  lustre  here  shall  gain 
Another  heart  to  hope  in  vain ! 
For  thou  shalt  rest,  thou  tempting  gaud. 
Where  worldly  thoughts  are  overawed. 
And  worldly  splendors  sink  debased."  — 
Then  by  the  cross  the  ring  she  placed. 


Next  rose  the  thought,  —  its  owner  far. 
How  came  it  here  through  bolt  and  bar  ?  — 
But  the  dim  lattice  is  ajar.  — 
She  looks  abroad,  the  morning  dew 
A  light  short  step  had  brush'd  anew. 

And  there  were  foot-prints  seen 
On  the  carved  buttress  rising  still, 
Till  on  the  mossy  window-sill. 

Their  track  effaced  the  green. 
The  ivy  twigs  were  torn  and  fray'd. 
As  if  some  climber's  steps  to  aid.  — 
But  who  the  hardy  messenger. 
Whose  venturous  path  these  signs  infer  ? — 
"Strange    doubts    are    mine! — Mona, 

draw  nigh; 
— Naught 'scapesoldMona'scuriouseye — 
What  strangers,  gentle  mother,  say. 
Have  sought  these  holy  walls  to-day  ?  "  — 
"  None,  Lady,  none  of  note  or  name: 
Only  your  brother's  foot-page  came. 


At  peep  of  dawn  —  I  pray'd  him  pass 
To  chapel  where  they  said  the  mass; 
But  like  an  arrow  he  shot  by, 
And  tears  seem'd  bursting  from  his  eye." 


The  truth  at  once  on  Isabel, 

As  darted  by  a  sunbeam,  fell: — 

' '  'Tis  Edith's  self !  —  her  speechless  woe, 

Her  form,  her  looks,  the  secret  show  ! 

—  Instant,  good  Mona,  to  the  bay. 

And  to  my  royal  brother  say, 

I  do  conjure  him  seek  my  cell. 

With  that  mute  page  he  loves  so  well."  — 

"What !  know'st  thou  not  his  warlike  host 

At  break  of  day  has  left  our  coast? 

My  old  eyes  saw  them  from  the  tower. 

At  eve  they  couch'd  in  greenwood  bower. 

At  dawn  a  bugle  signal,  made 

By  their  bold  Lord,  their  ranks  array 'd; 

Up  sprung  the  spears  through  bush  and 

tree. 
No  time  for  benedicite  ! 
Like  deer,  that,  rousing  from  their  lair. 
Just  shake  the  dewdrops  from  their  hair, 
And  toss  their  armed  crests  aloft, 
Such  matins  theirs  !  "  —  "  Good  mother, 

soft  — 
Where  does  my  brother  bend  his  way?  " 
"  As  I  have  heard,  for  Brodick-Bay. 
Across  the  isle  —  of  barks  a  score 
Lie  there,  'tis  said,  to  waft  them  o'er, 
On  sudden  news,  to  Carrick-shore. "  — 
"  If  such  their  purpose,  deep  the  need," 
Said  anxious  Isabel,  "  of  speed  ! 
Call  Father  Augustin,  good  dame." 
The  nun  obey'd,  the  Father  came. 


*'  Kind  Father,  hie  without  delay. 

Across  the  hills  to  Brodick-Bay. 

This  message  to  the  Bruce  be  given :  — 

I  pray  him,  by  his  hopes  of  Heaven, 

That,  till  he  speak  with  me,  he  stay !  — 

Or,  if  his  haste  brook  no  delay, 

That  he  deliver,  on  my  suit. 

Into  thy  charge  that  stripling  mute. 

Thus  prays  his  sister  Isabel, 

For  causes  more  than  she  may  tell  — 

Away,  good  father !   and  take  heed. 

That  life  and  death  are  on  thy  speed." 

His  cowl  the  good  old  priest  did  on. 

Took  his  piked  stafi  and  sandall'd  shoon« 


Canto  V. 


THE  LORD   OF  THE  ISLES. 


323 


And,  like  a  palmer  bent  by  eld, 
O'er  moss  and  moor  his  journey  held. 


Heavy  and  dull  the  foot  of  age, 
And  rugged  was  the  pilgrimage; 
But  none  was  there  lieside,  whose  care 
Might  such  important  message  liear. 
Through  birchen  copse  he  wander'd  slow. 
Stunted  and  sapless,  thin  and  low; 
Ky  many  a  mountain  stream  he  pass'd, 
From  the  tall  cliffs  in  tumult  cast. 
Dashing  to  foam  their  waters  dun. 
And  sparkling  in  the  summer  sun. 
Round  his  gray  head  the  wild  curlew 
In  many  a  fearless  circle  flew. 
O'er  chasms  he  pass'd   where   fractures 

wide 
Craved  wary  eye  and  ample  stride;  ^ 
I  le  cross'd  his  brow  beside  the  stone 
Where  Druids  erst  heard  victims  groan, 
.\nil  at  the  cairns  upon  the  wild, 
( )\tx  many  a  heathen  hero  piled. 
He  breathed  a  timid  prayer  for  those 
Wlio  died  ere  Shiloh's  sun  arose. 
I'.side  Macfarlane's  Cross  he  staid, 
There  told  his  hours  within  the  shade, 
And  at  the  stream  his  thirst  allay'd. 
Thence  onward  journeying,  slowly  still. 
As  evening  closed  he  reach'd  the  hill. 
Where,  risingthrough  the  woodland  green. 
Old  Brodick's  gothic  towers  were  seen, 
From  Hastings,  late  their  English  lord, 
Douglas  had  won  them  by  the  sword.  ^ 
The  sun  that  sunk  behind  the  isle. 
Now  tinged  them  with  a  parting  smile. 


But  though  the  beams  of  light  decay, 
'Twas  bustle  all  in  Brodick-Bay. 
The  Bruce's  followers  crowd  the  shore. 
And  boats  and  barges  some  unmoor, 
Some  raise  the  sail,  some  seize  the  oar; 
Their  eyes  oft  turn'd  where  glimmer'd  far 
What  might  have  seem'd  an  early  star 
On  heaven's  blue  arch,  save  that  its  light 
Was  all  too  flickering,  fierce,  and  bright. 
Far  distant  in  the  south,  the  ray 
Shone  pale  amid  retiring  day. 

But  as,  on  Carrick  shore. 
Dim  seen  in  outline  faintly  blue, 
The  shades  of  evening  closer  drew. 
It  kindled  more  and  more. 


The   monk's  slow  steps   now  press  the 

sands. 
And  now  amid  a  scene  he  stands, 

Full  strange  to  churchman's  eye; 
Warriors,  who,  arming  for  the  fight, 
Rivet  and  clasp  their  harness  light. 
And  twinkling  spears,  and  axes  bright. 
And  helmets  flashing  high. 
Oft,  too,  with  unaccustom'd  ears, 
A  language  much  unmeet  he  hears,** 

While,  hastening  all  on  board. 
As  stormy  as  the  swelling  surge 
Tiiat  mix'd  its  roar,  the  leaders  urge 
Their  followers  to  the  ocean  verge, 
With  many  a  haughty  word. 


Through   that  wild   throng   the   Father 

pass'd. 
And  reach'd  the  Royal  Bruce  at  last. 
He  leant  against  a  stranded  boat. 
That  the  approaching  tide  must  float, 
And  counted  every  rippling  wave, 
As  higher  yet  her  sides  they  lave, 
And  oft  the  distant  fire  he  eyed. 
And  closer  yet  his  hauberk  tied. 
And  loosen 'd  in  its  sheath  his  brand. 
Edward  and  Lennox  were  at  hand, 
Douglas  and  Ronald  had  the  care 
The  soldiers  to  the  barks  to  share.  — 
The  Monk  approach 'd  and  homage  paid; 
"  And  art  thou  come,"  King  Roljert  said, 
"  So  far  to  bless  us  ere  we  part?  "  — 

—  "  My  Liege,  and  with  a  loyal  heart !  — 
But  other  charge  I  have  to  tell,"  — 
And  spoke  the  hest  of  Isabel. 

—  "  Now  by  Saint  Giles,"  the  monarch 

cried, 
"This  moves   me   much!   this  morning 

tide, 
I  sent  the  stripling  to  Saint  Bride, 
With  my  commandment  there  to  bide. ' ' 

—  "  Thither  he  came  the  portress  show'd. 
But  there,  my  Liege,  made  brief  abode." 

IX. 

"'Twas  I,"  said  Edward,  "found  em- 
ploy 
Of  nobler  import  for  the  boy. 
Deep  pondering  in  my  anxious  mind, 
A  fitting  messenger  to  find. 
To  l>ear  my  written  mandate  o'er 
To  Cuthbert  on  the  Carrick  shore. 


324 


THE  LORD   OF   THE  ISLES. 


Canto  V. 


I  chanced,  at  early  dawn,  to  pass 
The  chapel  gate  to  snatch  a  mass. 
I  found  the  stripling  on  a  tomb 
Low-seated,  weeping  for  the  doom 
That  gave  his  youth  to  convent  gloom. 
I  told  my  purpose,  and  his  eyes 
Flashed  joyful  at  the  glad  surprise. 
He  bounded  to  the  skiff,  the  sail 
Was  spread  before  a  prosperous  gale, 
And  well  my  charge  he  hath  obey'd; 
For,  see !  the  ruddy  signal  made. 
That  Clifford,  with  his  merry-men  all, 
Guards  carelessly  our  father's  hall."t — 


"  O  wild  of  thought,  and  hard  of  heart !" 
Answered  the  Monarch,  "on  a  part 
Of  such  deep  danger  to  employ 
A  mute,  an  orphan,  and  a  boy 
Unfit  for  flight,  unfit  for  strife, 
Without  a  tongue  to  plead  for  life  ! 
Now,  were  my  right  restored  by  Heaven, 
Edward,  my  crown  I  would  have  given. 
Ere,  thrust  on  such  adventure  wild, 
I  perill'd  thus  the  helpless  child."  — 
—  Offended  half,  and  half  submiss:  — 
"  Brother  and  Liege,  of  blame  like  this," 
Edward  replied,  "  I  little  dream'd. 
A  stranger  messenger,  I  deemed, 
Might  safest  seek  the  beadsman's  cell, 
Where  all  thy  squires  are  known  so  well. 
Noteless  his  presence,  sharp  his  sense. 
His  imperfection  his  defence. 
If  seen,  none  can  his  errand  guess; 
If  ta'cn,  his  words  no  tale  express  — 
Methinks,  too,  yonder  beacon's  shine 
Might  expiate  greater  fault  than  mine." — 
"Rash,"   said  King  Robert,  "was  the 

deed  — 
But  it  is  done —  Embark  with  speed  !  — 
Good  Father,  say  to  Isabel 
How  this  unhappy  chance  befell; 
If  well  we  thrive  on  yonder  shore, 
Soon  shall  my  care  her  page  restore. 
Our  greeting  to  our  sister  bear. 
And  think  of  us  in  mass  and  prayer." 


"  Ay  !  "  said  the  Priest,  "  while  this  poor 

hand 
Can  chalice  raise  or  cross  command. 
While  my  old  voice  has  accents'  use. 
Can  Augustin  forget  the  Bruce !  " 


Then  to  his  side  Lord  Ronald  press'd, 
And  whisper'd:  —  "Bear  thou  this  re- 
quest, 
That  when  by  Bruce's  side  I  fight. 
For    Scotland's    crown    and    freedom's 

right. 
The  princess  grace  her  knight  to  bear 
Some  token  of  her  favoring  care; 
It  shall  be  shown  where  England's  best 
May  shrink  to  see  it  on  my  crest. 
And  for  the  boy  —  since  weightier  care 
For  royal  Bruce  the  times  prepare. 
The  helpless  youth  is  Ronald's  charge. 
His  couch  my  plaid,  his  fence  my  targe." 
He  ceased;    for  many  an  eager  hand 
Had  urged  the  barges  from  the  strand. 
Their  number  was  a  score  and  ten, 
They  bore  thrice  threescore  chosen  men. 
With  such  small  force  did  Bruce  at  last 
The  die  for  death  or  empire  cast ! 

XII. 

Now  on  the  darkening  main  afloat. 
Ready  and  mann'd,  rocks  every  boat; 
Beneath  their  oars  the  ocean's  might 
Was  dash'd  to  sparks  of  glimmering  light. 
Faint  and  more  faint,  as  off  they  bore. 
Their  armor  glanced  against  the  shore. 
And,  mingled  with  the  dashing  tide. 
Their  murmuring  voices  distant  died.  — 
"  God  speed  them  !  "  said  the  Priest,  as 

dark 
On  distant  billows  glides  each  bark; 
"  O  Heaven!  when  swords  for  freedom 

shine. 
And  monarch's  right,  the  cause  is  thine ! 
Edge  doubly  every  patriot  blow  ! 
Beat  down  the  banners  of  the  foe  ! 
And  be  it  to  the  nations  known. 
That  Victory  is  from  God  alone !  " 
As  up  the  hill  his  path  he  drew. 
He  turn'd  his  Ijlessings  to  renew. 
Oft  turn'd,  till  on  the  darken'd  coast 
All  traces  of  their  course  were  lost; 
Then  slowly  bent  to  Brodick  tower. 
To  shelter  for  the  evening  hour. 

XIII. 
In  night  the  fairy  prospects  sink. 
Where  Cumray's  isles  with  verdant  link 
Close  the  fair  entrance  of  the  Clyde; 
The  woods  of  Bute,  no  more  descried, 
Are  gone  —  and  on  the  placid  sea 
The  rowers  ply  their  task  with  glee. 


Canto  V. 


THE  LORD   OF  THE  ISLES. 


32s 


While  hands  that  knightly  lances  bore 
Impatient  aid  the  laboring  oar. 
The  half-faced  moon  shone  dim  and  pale, 
And  glanced  against  the  whiten'd  sail; 
But  on  that  ruddy  beacon-light 
Each  steersman  kept  the  helm  aright, 
And  oft,  for  such  the  King's  command. 
That  all  at  once  might  reach  the  strand, 
From  boat  to  boat  loud  shout  and  hail 
Warn'd  them  to  crowd  or  slacken  sail. 
South  and  by  west  the  armada  bore. 
And  near  at  length  the  Carrick  shore. 
As  less  and  less  the  distance  grows. 
High  and  more  high  the  beacon  rose; 
The  light,  that  seem'd  a  twinkling  star, 
Now  blazed  portentous,  fierce,  and  far. 
Dark-red  the  heaven  alx>ve  it  glow'd, 
Dark-red  the  sea  beneath  it  flow'd. 
Red  rose  the  rocks  on  ocean's  brim, 
In  blood-red  light  her  islets  swim; 
Wild  scream  the  dazzled  sea-fowl  ga.ve, 
Dropp'd    from  their    crags  on    plashing 

wave. 
The  deer  to  distant  covert  drew. 
The  black-cock  deem'd  it  day,  and  crew. 
Like  some  tall  castle  given  to  flame. 
O'er  half  the  land  the  lustre  came. 
"  Now,  good  my  Liege,  and  brother  sage, 
What  think  ye  of  mine  elfin  page?"  — 
"  Row  on  !  "  the  noble  King  replied, 
"  We'll  learn  the  truth  whate'er  betide; 
Yet  sure  the  beadsman  and  the  child 
Could  ne'erhavewaked  that  beacon  wild." 


With  that  the  boats  approach'd  the  land. 
Rut  Edward's  grounded  on  the  sand; 
The  eager  Knight  leap'd  in  the  sea 
Waist-deep,  and  first  on  shore  was  he. 
Though  every  barge's  hardy  band 
Contended  which  should  gain  the  land. 
When  that  strange  light,  which,  seen  afar, 
Seem'd  steady  as  the  polar  star. 
Now,  like  a  prophet's  fiery  chair, 
Seem'd  travelling  the  realms  of  air. 
Wide  o'er  the  sky  the  splendor  glows. 
As  that  portentous  meteor  rose; 
Helm,  ax,  and  falchion  glitter'd  bright. 
And  in  the  red  and  dusky  light 
His  comrade's  face  each  warrior  saw, 
Nor  marvell'd  it  was  pale  with  awe. 
Then  high  in  air  the  beams  were  lost. 
And  darkness  sunk  upon  the  coast.  - 


Ronald  to  Heaven  a  prayer  address'd. 
And  Douglas  cross'd  his  dauntless  breast; 
"  Saint  James  protect  us  !  "  Lennox  cried, 
But  reckless  Edward  spoke  aside :  — 
'  'Deem'st  thou,  Kirkpatrick,  in  that  flame, 
Red  Comyn's  angry  spirit  came. 
Or  would  thy  dauntless  heart  endure 
Once  more  to  make  assurance  sure?  " 
"Hush!"   said  the    Bruce,    "we  soon 

shall  know 
If  this  be  sorcerer's  empty  show. 
Or  stratagem  of  southern  foe. 
The  moon  shines  out  —  upon  the  sand 
Let  every  leader  rank  his  band." 


Faintly  the  moon's  pale  beams  supply 
That  ruddy  light's  unnatural  dye; 
The  dubious  cold  reflection  lay 
On  the  wet  sands  and  quiet  bay. 
Beneath  the  rocks  King  Roljert  drew 
His  scatter'd  files  to  order  due, 
Till  shield  compact  and  serried  spear 
In  the  cool  light  shone  blue  and  clear. 
Then  down  a  path  that  sought  the  tide. 
That  speechless  page  was  seen  to  glide; 
He  knelt  him  lowly  on  the  sand. 
And  gave  a  scroll  to  Robert's  hand. 
"A  torch,"  the  Monarch  cried,  "What 

ho! 
Now  shall  we  Cuthbert's  tidings  know." 
But  evil  news  the  letters  bare, 
The  Clifford's  force  was  strong  and  ware, 
Augmented,  too,  that  very  morn. 
By  mountaineers  who  came  with  Lorn. 
Long  harrow'd  by  oppressor's  hand. 
Courage  and  faith  had  fled  the  land. 
And  over  Carrick,  dark  and  deep, 
Had  sunk  dejection's  iron  sleep.  — 
Cuthbert  had  seen  that  l>eacon-flame. 
Unwitting  from  what  source  it  came. 
Doubtful  of  perilous  event, 
Edward's  mute  messenger  he  sent. 
If  Bruce  deceived  should  venture  o'er. 
To  warn  him  from  the  fatal  shore. 


As  round  the  torch  the  leaders  crowd, 
Bruce  read  these  chilling  news  aloud. 
"  What  counsel,  nobles,  have  we  now  ?  — 
To  ambush  us  in  greenwood  bough. 
And  take  the  chance  which  fate  n;ay  send 
To  bring  our  enterprise  to  end. 


326 


THE  LORD    OF  THE  ISLES. 


Canto  V. 


Or  shall  we  turn  us  to  the  main 
As  exiles,  and  embark  again?  "  — 
Answer'd  fierce  Edward:  —  "  Hap  what 

may, 
In  Carrick,  Carrick's  Lord  must  stay. 
I  would  not  minstrels  told  the  tale, 
Wildfire  or  meteor  made  us  quail."  — 
Answer'd  the  Douglas:  —  "  If  my  Liege 
May  win  yon  walls  by  storm  or  siege, 
Then  were  each  brave  and  patriot  heart 
Kindled  of  new  for  loyal  part."  — 
Answer'd    Lord    Ronald: —  "Not    for 

shame 
Would  I  that  aged  Torquil  came. 
And  found,  for  all  our  empty  boast, 
Without  a  blow  we  fled  the  coast. 
I  will  not  credit  that  this  land, 
So  famed  for  warlike  heart  and  hand, 
The  nurse  of  Wallace  and  of  Bruce, 
Will  long  with  tyrants  hold  a  truce."  — 
"Prove  we  our   fate  —  the  brunt  we'll 

bide!  " 
So  Boyd  and  Haye  and  Lennox  cried; 
So  said,  so  vow'd,  the  leaders  all; 
So  Bruce  resolved: — "  And  in  my  hall 
Since  the  Bold  Southern  make  their  home, 
The  hour  of  payment  soon  shall  come, 
When  with  a  rough  and  rugged  host 
Clifford  may  reckon  to  his  cost. 
Meantime,  through  well-known  bosk  and 

dell, 
I'll  lead  where  we  may  shelter  well." 


Now  ask  you  whence  that  wondrous  light. 
Whose  fairy  glow  beguiled  their  sight  ?  — 
It  ne'er  was  known '^ — yet  gray-hair'd 

eld 
A  superstitious  credence  held. 
That  never  did  a  mortal  hand 
Wake  its  broad  glare  on  Carrick  strand; 
Nay,  and  that  on  the  self-same  night 
When  Bruce  cross'd  o'er,  still  gleams  the 

light. 
Yearly  it  gleams  o'er  mount  and  moor. 
And     glittering     wave     and     crimson'd 

shore  — 
But  whether  beam  celestial  lent 
By  Heaven  to  aid  the  King's  descent. 
Or  fire  hell-kindled  from  beneath. 
To  lure  him  to  defeat  and  death, 
■Or  were  it  but  some  meteor  strange. 
Of  such  a    oft  through  midnight  range, 


Startling  the  traveller  late  and  lone, 
I  know  not  —  and  it  ne'er  was  known. 


Now  up  the  rocky  pass  they  drew, 
And  Ronald,  to  his  promise  true, 
Still  made  his  arm  the  stripling's  stay. 
To  aid  liim  on  the  rugged  way. 
"  Now  cheer  thee,  simple  Amadine  ! 
Why  throbs  that  silly  heart  of  thine?  " 

—  That  name  the  pirates  to  their  slave 
(In  Gaelic  'tis  the  Changeling)  gave  — 
"  Dost  thou  not  rest  thee  on  my  arm? 
Do  not  my  plaid-folds  hold  thee  warm? 
Hath  not  the  wild  bull's  treble  hide 
This  targe  for  thee  and  me  supplied? 

Is  not  Clan-Colla's  sword  of  steel? 
And,  tremliler,  canst  thou  terror  feel ! 
Cheer  thee,  and  still  that  throbbing  heart; 
From    Ronald's   guard    thou    shalt    not 
part." 

—  O!   many  a  shaft,  at  random  sent. 
Finds  mark  the  archer  little  meant ! 
And  many  a  word,  at  random  spoken. 
May    soothe    or    wound    a    heart    that's 

broken ! 
Half  soothed,  half  grieved,  half  terrified. 
Close  drew  the  page  to  Ronald's  side; 
A  wild  delirious  thrill  of  joy 
Was  in  that  hour  of  agony. 
As  up  the  steepy  pass  he  strove, 
Fear,  toil,  and  sorrow,  lost  in  love '. 


The  barrier  of  that  iron  shore, 
Therock'ssteepledge.is  nowclimb'do'er; 
And  from  the  castle's  distant  wall. 
From  tower  to  tower  the  warders  call : 
The  sound  swings  over  land  and  sea, 
And  marks  a  watchful  enemy.  — 
They  gain'd  the  Chase,  a  wide  domain 
Left  for  the  Castle's  sylvan  reign, 
(Seek  not  the  scene  — the  ax,  the  plough. 
The    boor's    dull   fence    have    marr'd  it 

now,) 
But  then,  soft  swept  in  velvet  green 
The  plain  with  many  a  glade  between. 
Whose  tangled  alleys  far  invade 
The  depth  of  the  brown  forest  shade. 
Here  the  tall  fern  obscured  the  lawn, 
Fair  shelter  for  the  sportive  fawn, 
There,  tufted  close  with  copsewood  green, 
Was  many  a  swelling  hillock  seen; 


Canto  V. 


THE   LORD    OF   THE   ISLES. 


327 


And  all  around  was  verdure  meet 
For  pressure  of  the  fairies'  feet. 
The  glossy  holly  loved  the  park, 
The  yew-tree  lent  its  shadow  dark, 
And  many  an  old  oak,  worn  and  bare, 
With  all  its  shiver'd  boughs,  was  there. 
Lovely  between,  the  moonbeams  fell 
On  lawn  and  hillock,  glade  and  dell. 
The  gallant  Monarch  sigh'd  to  see 
These  glades  so  loved  in  childhood  free, 
Bethinking  that,  as  outlaw  now. 
He  ranged  beneath  the  forest  bough. 


Fast  o'er  the  moonlight  Chase  they  sped. 
Well  knew  the  band  that  measured  tread, 
When,  in  retreat  or  in  advance. 
The  serried  warriors  move  at  once; 
And  evil  were  the  luck,  if  dawn 
Descried  them  on  the  open  lawn. 
Copses  they  traverse,  brooks  they  cross, 
Strain  up  the  bank  and  o'er  the  moss. 
From  the  exhausted  page's  brow 
Cold  drops  of  toil  are  streaming  now: 
With  effort  faint  and  lengthen'd  pause, 
His  weary  step  the  stripling  draws. 
"  Nay,  droop  not  yet !  "  the  warrior  said; 
"  Come,  let  me  give  thee  ease  and  aid ! 
Strong  are  mine  arms,  and  little  care 
A  weight  so  slight  as  thine  to  bear.  — - 
What !   wilt  thou  not  ?  —  capricious  boy  ! 
Then  thine  own  limbs  and  strength  em- 
ploy. 
Pass  but  this  night,  and  pass  thy  care, 
I'll  place  thee  with  a  lady  fair. 
Where  thou  shalt  tune  thy  lute  to  tell 
How  Ronald  loves  fair  Isabel !  " 
Worn  out,  dishearten'd,  and  dismay'd. 
Here  Amadine  let  go  the  plaid: 
His  trembling  limbs  their  aid  refuse. 
He  sunk  among  the  midnight  dews  ! 


What  may  be  done  ?  —  the  night  is  gone  - 
The  Bruce's  band  moves  swiftly  on  — 
Eternal  shame,  if  at  the  brunt 
Lord  Ronald  grace  not  battle's  front ! 
"  See  yonder  oak,  within  whose  trunk 
Decay  a  darken'd  cell  hath  sunk; 
Enter  and  rest  thee  there  a  space. 
Wrap  in  my  plaid  thy  limbs,  thy  face. 
I  will  not  be,  believe  me,  far; 
But  must  not  quit  the  ranks  of  war. 


Well  will  I  mark  the  bosky  bourne. 
And  soon,  to  guard  thee  hence,  return.  — 
Nay,  weep  not  so,  thou  simple  boy ! 
But  sleep  in  peace,  and  wake  in  joy." 
In  sylvan  lodging  close  bestow'd. 
He  placed  the  page,  and  onward  strode 
With  strength  put  forth,  o'er  moss  and 

brook, 
And  soon  the  marching  band  o'ertook. 


Thus  strangely  left,  long  sobb'd  and  wept 
The  page,  till,  wearied  out,  he  slept  — 
A  rough  voice  waked  his  dream: — "  Nay, 

here. 
Here  by  this  thicket,  pass'd  the  deer  — 
Beneath  that  oak  old  Ryno  staid  — 
What  have  we  here  ?  —  A  Scottish  plaid, 
And  in  its  folds  a  stripling  laid?  — 
Come    forth !     thy    name    and   business 

tell  !— 
What,  silent? — Then  I  guess  thee  well. 
The  spy  that  sought  old  Cuthbert's  cell. 
Wafted  from  Arran  ycster  morn  — 
Come,  comrades,  we  will  straight  return. 
Our  Lord  may  choose  the  rack  should 

teach 
To  this  young  lurcher  use  of  speech. 
Thy  bow-string  till  I  bind  him  fast."  — 
"  Nay,  but  he  weeps  and  stands  aghast; 
Unbound  we'll  lead  him,  fear  it  not; 
'Tis  a  fair  stripling,  though  a  Scot." 
The  hunters  to  the  castle  sped. 
And  there  the  hapless  captive  led. 


Stout  Clifford  in  the  castle-court 
Prepared  him  for  the  morning  sport ; 
And  now  with  Lorn  held  deep  discourse. 
Now  gave  command  for  hound  and  horse. 
War -steeds    and    palfreys    paw'd     the 

ground. 
And  many  a  deer-dog  howl'd  around. 
To  Amadine,  Lorn's  well-known  word 
Replying  to  that  Southern  Lord, 
Mix'd  with  this  clanging  din  might  seem 
The  phantasm  of  a  fever 'd  dream. 
The  tone  upon  his  ringing  ears 
Came  like  the  sound  which  fancy  hears, 
When  in  rude  waves  or  roaring  winds 
Some  words  of  woe  the  muser  finds, 
Until  more  loudly  and  more  near, 
Their  speech  arrests  the  page's  ear. 


?28 


THE    LORD    OF   THE   ISLES. 


Canto  V. 


"And  was  she  thus,"  said  Clifford,  "  lost? 
The  priest  should  rue  it  to  his  cost ! 
What  says  the  monk  ?  "  —  "  The  holy  Sire 
Owns,  that  in  masquer's  quaint  attire 
She  sought  his  skiff,  disguised,  unknown 
To  all  except  to  him  alone. 
But,  says  the  priest,  a  bark  from  Lorn 
Laid  them  aboard  that  very  morn, 
And  pirates  seized  her  for  their  prey. 
He  proffer'd  ransom-gold  to  pay. 
And  they  agreed;  —  but  ere  told  o'er. 
The  winds  l)low  loud,  the  billows  roar; 
They  sever'il,  and  they  met  no  more. 
He  deems — such  tempest  vex'dthecoast — 
Ship,  crew,  and  fugitive  were  lost. 
So  let  it  be,  with'  the  disgrace 
And  scandal  of  her  lofty  race ! 
Thrice  better  she  had  ne'er  been  born. 
Than  brought  her  infamy  on  Lorn !  " 


Lord  Clifford  now  the  captive  spied :  — 
"  Whom,  Herbert,  hast  thou  there?  "  he 

cried. 
"  A  spy  we  seized  within  the  Chase, 
A  hollow  oak  his  lurking-place."  — 
"  What  tidings  can  the  youth  afford?  "  — 
"  He  plays  the  mute."  — "  Then  noose  a 

/      cord  — 
Unless  brave  Lorn  reverse  the  doom 
For  his  plaid's  sake."  —  "  Clan-Colla's 

loom," 
Said  Lorn,  whose  careless  glances  trace 
Rather  the  vesture  than  the  face, 
"  Clan-Colla's  dames  such  tartans  twine; 
Wearer  nor  plaid  claims  care  of  mine. 
Give  him,  if  my  advice  you  crave, 
His  own  scathed  oak;    and  let  him  wave 
In  air,  unless,  by  terror  wrung, 
A  frank  confession  find  his  tongue.  — 
Nor  shall  he  die  without  his  rite; 
—  Thou,  Angus  Roy,  attend  the  sight. 
And  give  Clan-Colla's  dirge  thj  breath. 
As  they  convey  him  to  his  death."  — 
"  O  brother  !  cruel  to  the  last !  " 
Through  the  poor  captive's  bosom  pass'd 
The  thought,  but,  to  his  purpose  true. 
He  said  not,  though  he  sigh'd,  "  Adieu  !  " 


And  will  he  keep  his  purpose  still, 
In  sight  of  that  last  closing  ill, 


When  one  poor  breath,  one  single  word. 
May  freedom,  safety,  life  afford? 
Can  he  resist  the  instinctive  call. 
For  life  that  bids  us  barter  all?- — 
Love,    strong   as   death,    his   heart   hath 

steel'd, 
I  lis  nerves  hath  strung — he  will  not  yield  ! 
Since  that  poor  breath,  that  little  word, 
May  yield  Lord  Ronald  to  the  sword.  — 
Clan-ColIa's  dirge  is  pealing  wide. 
The  grisly  headsman's  by  his  side; 
Along  the  greenwood  Chase  they  bend. 
And  now  their  march  has  ghastly  end ! 
That  old  and  shatter'd  oak  beneath. 
They  destine  for  the  place  of  death. 
—  What   thoughts   are  his,  while   all  in 

vain 
His  eye  for  aid  explores  the  plain  ? 
What  thoughts,  while,  with  a  dizzy  ear, 
He  hears  the  death-prayer  mutter'd  near? 
And  must  he  die  such  death  accurst. 
Or  will  that  bosom-secret  burst? 
Cold  on  his  brow  breaks  terror's  dew. 
His  trembling  lips  are  livid  blue; 
The  agony  of  parting  life 
Has  naught  to  match  that  moment's  strife  ! 


But  other  witnesses  are  nigh. 

Who  mock  at  fear,  and  death  defy ! 

Soon  as  the  dire  lament  was  play'd, 

It  waked  the  lurking  ambuscade. 

The  Island  Lord  look'd  forth,  and  spied 

The  cause,  and  loud  in  fury  cried :  — 

"  By  Heaven,  they  lead  the  page  to  die, 

And  mock  me  in  his  agony ! 

They  shall  abye  it !  "  —  On  his  arm 

Bruce  laid  strong  grasp  :  —  "  They  shall 

not  harm 
A  ringlet  of  the  stripling's  hair; 
But,  till  I  give  the  word,  forbear. 

—  Douglas,  lead  fifty  of  our  force 
Up  yonder  hollow  water-course. 
And  couch  thee  midway  on  the  wold. 
Between  the  flyers  and  their  hold: 

A  spear  above  the  copse  display'd. 
Be  signal  of  the  ambush  made. 

—  Edward,  with  forty  spearmen,  straight 
Through  yonder  copse  approach  the  gate, 
And,  when  thou  hear'st  the  battle-din. 
Rush  forward,  and  the  passage  win. 
Secure  the  drawl )ridge  —  storm  the  ]iort. 
And  man  and  guard  the  castle-court.  — 


Canto  V. 


THE  LORD    OF   THE  ISLES. 


329 


The  rest  move  slowly  forth  with  me, 
III  shelter  of  the  forest-tree, 
Till  Douglas  at  his  post  I  see." 


Like  war-dogs  eager  to  rush  on, 
Conipell'd  to  wait  the  signal  blown, 
I  lid,  and  scarce  hid,  by  greenwood  bough, 
Tremliling  with  rage,  stands  Ronald  now, 
And  in  his  grasp  his  sword  gJeams  blue, 
Soon  to  be  dyed  with  deadlier  hue.  — 
Meanwhile  the  Bruce,  with  steady  eye, 
Sees  the  dark  death-train  moving  by, 
And,  heedful,  measures  oft  the  space 
The  Douglas  and  his  band  must  trace. 
Ere  they  can  reach  their  destined  ground. 
Now  sinks  the  dirge's  wailing  sound. 
Now  cluster  round  the  direful  tree 
That  slow  and  solemn  company. 
While  hymnmistuned  and  mutter'd  prayer 
The  victim  for  his  fate  prepare.  — ■ 
What  glances  o'er  the  greenwood  shade? 
The  spear  that  marks  the  ambuscade ! 
"  Now,  noble  Chief !   I  leave  thee  loose; 
Upon  them,  Ronald  !  "  said  the  Bruce. 

XXIX. 

"The  Bruce,  the  Bruce  !  "  to  well-known 
cry 

His  native  rocks  and  woods  reply. 

"  The  Bruce,  the  Bruce  !  "   in  that  dread 

word 
The  kuell  of  hundred  deaths  was  heard. 
The  astonish'd  Southern  gazed  at  first. 
Where  the  wild  tempest  was  to  Imrst, 
That  waked  in  that  presaging  name. 
Before,  behind,  around  it  came! 
Half-arm'd,  surprised,  on  every  side 
1  lenmi'd  in,  hew'd  down,  they  bled  and 

died. 
Deep  in  the  ring  the  Bruce  engaged, 
And      fierce     Clan-Colla's      broadsword 

raged ! 
Full  soon  the  few  who  fought  were  sped. 
Nor  better  was  their  lot  who  fled, 
And  met,  mid  terror's  wild  career, 
The  Douglas's  redoubted  spear  ! 
'i'wo  hundred  yeomen  on  that  morn 
The  castle  left,  and  none  returned. 


Not  on  their  flight  press'd  Ronald's  brand, 
A  gentler  duty  claim'd  his  hand. 


He  raised  the  page,  where  on  the  plain 
His  fear  had  sunk  him  with  the  slain; 
And    twice,    that    morn,    surprise    well 

near 
Betray'd  the  secret  kept  by  fear; 
Once,  when,  with  life  returning,  came 
To  the  boy's  lip  Lord  Ronald's  name. 
And. hardly  recollection  drown'd 
The  accents  in  a  murmuring  sound; 
And  once,  when  scarce  he  could  resist 
The  Chieftain's  care  to  loose  the  vest, 
Drawn  tightly  o'er  his  laboring  breast. 
But  then  the  Bruce's  bugle  blew, 
F^or  martial  work  was  yet  to  do. 


A  harder  task  fierce  Edward  waits. 
Ere  signal  given,  the  castle  gates 

His  fury  had  assail 'd; 
Such  was  his  wonted  reckless  mood, 
Yet  desperate  valor  oft  made  good. 
Even  by  its  daring,  venture  rude. 

Where  prudence  might  have  fail'd. 
Upon  the  bridge  his  strength  he  threw. 
And  struck  the  iron  chain  in  two. 

By  which  its  planks  arose; 
The  warder  next  his  ax's  edge 
Struck  down  upon  the  threshold  ledge, 
'Twixt  door  and  post  a  ghastly  wedge ! 

The  gate  they  may  not  close. 
Well  fought  the  Southern  in  the  fray, 
Clifford  and  Lorn  fought  well  that  day, 
But  stubborn  Edward  forced  his  way 

Against  a  hundred  foes. 
Loud   came  the   cry,    "The  Bruce,   the 

Bruce !  ' ' 
No  hope  or  in  defence  or  truce, 

Fresh  combatants  pour  in; 
Mad    with    success,    and     drunk     with 

gore, 
They  drive  the  struggling  foe  before. 

And  ward  on  ward  they  win. 
Unsparing  was  the  vengeful  sword. 
And   limbs  were   lopp'd    and    life-blood 

pour'd. 
The  cry  of  death  and  conflict  roar'd, 

And  fearful  was  the  din  ! 
The  startling  horses  plunged  and  flung, 
Clamor'd  the  dogs  till  turrets  rung. 

Nor  sunk  the  fearful  cry, 
Till  not  a  foeman  was  there  found 
Alive,  save  those  who  on  the  ground 

Groan'd  in  their  agony  ! 


330 


THE  LORD    OF  THE  ISLES. 


Canto  VI. 


The  valiant  Clifford  is  no  more: 

On   Ronald's    broadsword    stream'd    his 

gore, 
But  better  hap  had  he  of  I^orn, 
Who,  by  the  foeman  l)ackward  borne, 
Yet  gain'd  with  slender  train  the  port, 
Where  lay  his  bark  beneath  the  fort. 

And  cut  tlie  cable  loose. 
Short  were  his  shrift  in  that  debate, 
'I'liat  hour  of  fury  and  of  fate, 

If  Lorn  encounter'd  Bruce! 
Then  long  and  loud  the  victor  shout 
From  turret  and  from  tower  rung  out, 

The  rugged  vaults  replied; 
And  from  the  donjon  tower  on  high, 
'l"he  men  of  Carrick  may  descry 
Saint  Andrew's  cross,  in  blazonry 

Of  silver,  waving  wide  ! 

XXXIII. 

The  Bruce  hath  won  his  father's  hall ! '"' 
—  "  Welcome,  brave   friends  and  com- 
rades all, 

Welcome  to  mirth  and  joy  ! 
The  first,  the  last,  is  welcome  here. 
From  lord  and  chieftain,  prince  and  peer. 

To  this  poor  speechless  boy. 
Great  God !  once  more  my  sire's  abode 
Is  mine — behold  the  floor  I  trode 

In  tottering  infancy ! 
And  there  the  vaulted  arch,  whose  sound 
Echoed  my  joyous  shout  and  bound 
In  boyhood,  and  that  rung  around 

To  youth's  unthinking  glee  ! 
O  first,  to  thee,  all  gracious  Heaven, 
Then    to    my    friends,    my    thanks    be 

given  !  "  — 
He  paused  a  space,  his  brow  he  cross'd  — 
Then  on  the  lioard  his  sword  he  toss'd. 
Yet  steaming  hot;    with  Southern  gore 
From  hilt  to  point  'twas  crimson'd  o'er. 

XXXIV. 

"  Bring  here,"  he  said,  "  the  mazers 
four,* 

My  noble  fathers  loved  of  yore. 

Thrice  let  them  circle  round  the  board. 

The  pledge,  fair  Scotland's  rights  re- 
stored ! 

*  The  mazers  four,  large  drinking  cups,  or 
goblets. 


And  he  whose  lips  shall  touch  the  wine. 

Without  a  vow  as  true  as  mine, 

To  hold  both  lands  and  life  at  naught, 

Until  her  freedom  shall  be  bought,— 

Be  brand  of  a  disloyal  Scot, 

And  lasting  infamy  his  lot ! 

Sit,  gentle  friends  !  our  hour  of  glee 

Is  brief,  we'll  spend  it  joyously ! 

Blithest  of  all  the  sun's  bright  beams. 

When    betwixt     storm    and     storm     he 

gleams. 
Well  is  our  coimtry's  work  licgun, 
But  more,  far  more,  must  j'et  l)e  done. 
S])eed  messengers  the  country  through; 
Arouse  old  friends,  and  gather  new; 
Warn    Lanark's    knights    to    gird    their 

mail, 
Rouse  the  brave  sons  of  Teviotdale, 
Let  Ettrick's  archers  sharp  their  darts. 
The  fairest  forms,  the  truest  hearts ! 
Call  all,  call  all !   from  Reedswair-Palh  ! 
To  the  wild  confines  of  Cape  Wrath; 
Wide    let    the    news    through    .Scotland 

ring,  — 
The  Northern  Eagle  claps  his  wing !  " 


CANTO    SIXTH. 
I. 
O  WHO,  that  shared  them,  ever  shall 

forget 
The    emotions    of    the    spirit-rousing 

time. 
When    breathless    in    the    mart    the 

couriers  met. 
Early    and    late,    at    evening    and    at 

prime; 
When  the  loud  cannon  and  the  merry 

chime 
Hail'd  news  on  news,  as  field  on  field 

was  won ! 
When  Hope,  long  doubtful,  soar'd  at 

length  sujjlime. 
And  our  glad  eyes,  awake  as  day  be- 
gun, 
Watch'd  Joy's  broad  banner  rise,  to  meet 

the  rising  sim ! 

O   these  were   hours,   when   thrilling 

joy  repaid 
A  long,  long  course  of  darkness,  doubts 

and  fears ! 


Canto  VI. 


THE  LORD   OF  THE  ISLES. 


331 


The  heart -sick    faintness  of  the  hope 

delay'd, 
The   waste,   the   woe,  the  bloodshed, 

and  the  tears, 
That  track'd  with  terror  twenty  rolling 

years, 
All  was  forgot  in  that  blithe  jubilee! 
Her  downcast  eye  even  pale  Affliction 

rears, 
To  sigh  a  thankful  prayer,  amid  the 

glee, 
I'hat  hail'd  the  Despot's  fall,  and  peace 

and  liberty ! 

Such   news   o'er  Scotland's    hills    tri- 
umphant rode. 
When  'gainst  the  invaders  turn'd  the 

battle's  scale. 
When   Bruce's  banner  had  victorious 

flow'd 
O'er    Loudoun's    mountain,    and    in 

Ury's  vale;  '^"^ 
When     English     blood     oft     deluged 

Douglasdale,'^** 
And    fiery    Edward    routed    stout    St. 

John,=» 
When  Randolph's  war-cry  swell'd  the 

Southern  gale,** 
And  many  a  fortress,  town,  and  tower, 

was  won. 
And  Fame  still  sounded  forth  fresh  deeds 
of  glory  done. 

II. 
Blithe  tidings  flew  from  baron's  tower. 
To  peasant's  cot,  to  forest  bower. 
Ami  waked  the  solitary  cell. 
Where  lone  St.  Bride's  recluses  dwell. 
Princess  no  more,  fair  Isabel, 

A  vot'ress  of  the  order  now. 
Say,  did  the  rule  that  bid  thee  wear 
Dim  veil  and  woollen  scapulaire, 
And  reft  thy  locks  of  dark-brown  hair. 

That  stern  and  rigid  vow, 
Did  it  condemn  the  transport  high. 
Which  glisten'd  in  thy  watery  eye, 
When  minstrel  or  when  palmer  told 
Each  fresh  exploit  of  Bruce  the  bold  ?  — 
And  whose  the  lovely  form,  that  shares 
Thy  anxious  hopes, thj  fears,  thy  prayers? 
No  sister  she  of  convent  shade  ! 
So  say  these  locks  in  lengthen'd  braid. 
So  say  the  blushes  and  the  sighs, 
The  tremors  that  unbidden  rise, 


When,  mingled  with  the  Bruce's  fame, 
The  brave  Lord  Ronald's  praises  came. 


Believe,  his  father's  castle  won, 
And  his  bold  enterprise  begun, 
That  Bruce's  earliest  cares  restore 
The  speechless  page  to  Arran's  shore : 
Nor  think  that  long  the  quaint  disguise 
Conceal'd  her  from  her  sister's  eyes; 
And  sister-like  in  love  they  dwell 
In  that  lone  convent's  silent  cell. 
There  Bruce's  slow  assent  allows 
Fair  Isabel  the  veil  and  vows; 
And  there,  her  sex's  dress  regain'd. 
The  lovely  Maid  of  Lorn  remained, 
Unnamed,    unknown,    while     Scotland 

far 
Resounded  with  the  din  of  war; 
And  many  a  month,  and  many  a  day. 
In  calm  seclusion  wore  away. 


These  days,  these  months,  to  years  had 

worn. 
When  tidings  of  high  weight  were  borne 

To  that  lone  island's  shore; 
Of  all  the  Scottish  conquests  made 
By  the  First  Edward's  ruthless  blade, 

His  son  retain'd  no  more, 
Northward    of     Tweed,    but    Stirling's 

towers, 
Beleaguer'd  by  King  Robert's  powers; 

And  they  took  term  of  truce,*' 
If  England's  King  should  not  relieve 
The  siege  ere  John  the  Baptist's  eve, 

To  yield  them  to  the  Bruce. 
England  was  roused  —  on  every  side 
Courier  and  post  and  herald  hied. 

To  summon  prince  and  peer, 
At  Berwick-bounds  to  meet  their  Liege, 
Prepared  to  raise  fair  Stirling's  siege. 

With  buckler,  brand,  and  spear. 
The  term  was  nigh  —  they  muster 'd  fast, 
By  beacon  and  by  bugle-blast 

Forth  marshall'd  for  the  field; 
There  rode  each  knight  of  noble  name. 
There  England's  hardy  archers  came. 
The  land  they  trode  seem'd  all  on  flame. 

With  banner,  blade,  and  shield'! 
And  not  famed  England's  powers  alone, 
Renown'd  in  arms,  the  summons  own; 

For  Neustria's  knights  obeyd, 


33- 


THE  LORD   OF  THE  ISLES 


Canto  Vi. 


Gascogne  hath  lent  her  horsemen  good, 
And  Cambria,  but  of  late  subdued, 
Sent  forth  her  mountain  multitude,'** 
And  Connoght  pour'd   from  waste  and 

wood 
Her  hundred  tribes,  whose  sceptre  rude 
Dark  Eth  O'Connor  sway'd.** 


Right  to  devoted  Caledou 

The  storm  of  war  rolls  slowly  on. 

With  menace  deep  and  dread; 
So  the  dark  clouds,  with  gathering  power. 
Suspend  awhile  the  threaten'd  shower, 
Till  every  peak  and  summit  lower 

Round  the  pale  pilgrim's  head. 
Not  with  such  pilgrim  s  startled  eye 
King  Robert  mark'd  the  tempest  nigh ! 

Resolved  the  brunt  to  bide. 
His  royal  summons  warn'd  the  land, 
That  all  whoown'd  their  King'.- command 
Should  instant  take  the  spear  and  brand. 

To  combat  at  his  side. 
O  who  may  tell  the  sons  of  fame. 
That  at  King  Robert's  bidding  came. 

To  battle  for  the  right ! 
From  Cheviot  to  the  shores  of  Ross, 
From  Solway-Sands  to  Marshal's- Moss, 

All  boun'd  them  for  the  fight. 
Such  news  the  royal  courier  tells, 
Who  came  to  rouse  dark  Arran's  dells; 
But  farther  tidings  must  the  ear 
Of  Isabel  in  secret  hear. 
These  in  her  cloister  walk,  next  mom, 
Thus  shared  she  with  the  Maid  of  Lorn : — 


*'  My  Edith,  can  I  tell  how  dear 
Our  intercourse  of  hearts  sincere 

Hath  been  to  Isabel  ?  — • 
Judge  then  the  sorrow  of  my  heart. 
When  I  must  say  the  words,  We  part ! 

The  cheerless  convent-cell 
Was  not,  sweet  maiden,  made  for  thee: 
Go  thou  where  thy  vocation  free 

On  happier  fortunes  fell. 
Nor,  Edith,  judge  thyself  betray'd. 
Though  Robert  knows  that  Lorn's  high 

Maid 
And  his  poor  silent  page  were  one. 
Versed  in  the  fickle  heart  of  man, 
Earnest  and  anxious  hath  he  look'd 
How  Ronald's  heart  the  message  brook'd 


That  gave  him,  with  her  last  farewell. 
The  charge  of  Sister  Isabel, 
To  think  upon  thy  better  right. 
And  keep  the  faith  his  promise  plight. 
Forgive  him  for  thy  sister's  sake. 
At  first  if  vain  repinings  wake  — 

Long  since  that  mood  is  gone; 
Now  dwells  he  on  thy  juster  claims, 
And  oft  his  breach  of  faith  he  blames  — 

Forgive  him  for  thine  own !  " 


"  No!  never  to  Lord  Ronald's  bower 

Will  I  again  as  paramour  " 

"  Nay,  hush  thee,  too  impatient  maid, 

Until  my  final  tale  be  said  !  — 

The  good  King  Robert  would  engage 

P^dith  once  more  his  elfin  page. 

By  her  own  heart,  and  her  own  eye, 

Her  lover's  penitence  to  try  — 

Safe  in  his  royal  charge,  and  free. 

Should  such  thy  final  purpose  be. 

Again  unknown  to  seek  the  cell, 

And  live  and  die  with  Isabel." 

Thus  spoke  the  maid.  —  King  Robert's 

eye 
Might  have  some  glance  of  policy; 
Dunslaffnage  had  the  monarch  ta'en. 
And  Lorn  had  own'd  King  Robert's  reign, 
Her  brother  had  to  England  fled, 
And  there  in  banishment  was  dead; 
Ample,  through  exile,  death,  and  flight- 
O'er  tower  and  land  was  Edith's  right; 
This  amjile  right  o'er  tower  and  land 
Were  safe  in  Ronald's  faithful  hand. 


Embarrass'd  eye  and  blushing  cheek 
Pleasure,  and  shame,  and  fear  bespeak, 
Yet  much  the  reasoning  Edith  made:  — 
'  Her  sister's  faith  she  must  upbraid. 
Who  gave  such  secret,  dark  and  dear. 
In  counsel  to  another's  ear. 
Why  should  she  leave  the  peaceful  cell  ?- 
How  should  she  part  with  Isabel?  — 
How  wear  that  strange  attire  agen?  — 
How  risk  herself  midst  martial  men?  -- 
And  how  be  guarded  on  the  way?  — 
At  least  she  might  entreat  delay.' 
Kind  Isabel,  with  secret  smile, 
Saw  and  forgave  the  maiden's  wile, 
Reluctant  to  be  thought  to  move 
At  the  first  call  of  truant  love. 


Canto  VI. 


THE   LORD    OF   THE  ISLES. 


333 


()\\,  blame  her  not !  —  when  zephyrs  wake, 
The  aspen's  trembling  leaves  must  shake; 
When  beams  thesunthroughApril'sshower 
It  needs  must  bloom,  the  violet  flower; 
And  Love,  howe'er  the  maiden  strive. 
Must  with  reviving  hope  revive  ! 
A  thousand  soft  excuses  came. 
To  plead  his  cause  'gainst  virgin  shame. 
Pledged  by  their  sires  in  earliest  youth, 
He  had  her  plighted  faith  and  truth  — 
Then,  'twas  her  Liege's  strict  conmiand. 
And  she,  beneath  his  royal  hand, 
A  ward  in  person  and  in  land :  — 
And,  last,  she  was  resolved  to  stay 
Only  brief  space  —  one  little  day — • 
Close  hidden  in  her  safe  disguise 
From  all,  but  most  from  Ronald's  eyes  — 
But  once  to  see  him  more !   nor  blame 
licrwish — to  hear  him  name  her  name  !  — 
Then,  to  bear  back  to  S(jlitude 
The  thought  he  had  his  falsehood  rued  ! 
But  Isabel,  who  long  had  seen 
Her  pallid  cheek  and  pensive  mien. 
And  svell  herself  the  cause  might  know. 
Though  innocent,  of  Edith's  woe, 
Joy'd,  generous,  that  revolving  time 
Gave  means  to  expiate  the  crime. 
High  glow'd  her  l)osom  as  she  said :  — 
■•  Well  shall  her  sufferings  be  repaid !  " 
Now  came  the  parting  hour  —  a  band 
From  Arran's  mountains  left  the  land; 
Their  chief,  Fitz-Louis,  had  the  care 
The  speechless  Amadine  to  l>ear 
To  Bruce,  with  honor,  as  behoved 
To  page  the  monarch  dearly  loved. 


The  King  had  deem'd  the  maiden  bright 
Should  reach  him  long  before  the  frght. 
But  storms  and  fate  her  course  delay : 
It  was  on  eve  of  battle-day. 
When  o'er  the  Gillie's-hill  she  rode. 
The  landscape  like  a  furnace  glow'd, 
And  far  as  e'er  the  eye  was  borne, 
The  lances  waved  like  autumn-corn. 
In  battles  four  beneath  their  eye. 
The  forces  of  King  Robert  lie. 
And  one  below  the  hill  was  laid. 
Reserved  for  rescue  and  for  aid ; 
And  three,  advanced,  form'dvaward-line, 
Twixt    Bannock's  brook    and   Ninian's 
shrine. 


Detach'd  was  each,  yet  each  so  nigh 
As  well  might  mutual  aid  supply. 
Beyond,  the  Southern  host  appears, 
A  boundless  wilderness  of  spears. 
Whose  verge  or  rear  the  anxious  eye 
Strove  far,  but  strove  in  vain,  to  spy. 
Thick  flashing  in  the  evening  beam, 
Glaives,  lances,  bills,  and  banners  gleam; 
And  where  the  heaven  join'd  with  the  hill 
Was  distant  armor  flashing  still. 
So  wide,  so  far,  the  boundless  host 
Seem'd  in  the  blue  horizon  lost. 


Down  from  the  hill  the  maiden  pass'd. 
At  the  wild  show  of  war  aghast; 
And  traversed  first  the  rearward  host. 
Reserved  for  aid  where  needed  most. 
The  men  of  Carrick  and  of  Ayr, 
Lennox  and  Lanark,  too,  were  there. 

And  all  the  western  land; 
With  these  the  valiant  of  the  Isles 
Beneath  their  chieftains  rank'd  their  files, 

In  many  a  plaided  band. 
There,  in  the  centre,  proudly  raised. 
The  Bruce's  royal  standard  blazed. 
And  there  Lord  Ronald's  banner  bore 
A  galley  driven  by  sail  and  oar. 
A  wild,  yet  pleasing  contrast,  made 
Warriors  in  mail  and  plate  array'd. 
With  the  plumed  bonnet  and  the  plaid 

By  these  Hebrideans  worn; 
But  O  !  unseen  for  three  long  years. 
Dear  was  the  garb  of  mountaineers 

To  the  fair  Maid  of  Lorn ! 
For  one  she  look'd  —  but  he  was  far 
Busied  amid  the  ranks  of  war  — 
Yet  with  affection's  troubled  eye 
She  mark'd  his  banner  boldly  fly. 
Gave  on  the  countless  foe  a  glance. 
And  thought  on  battle's  desperate  chance. 


To  centre  of  the  vaward-line 
Fitz-Louis  guided  Amadine. 
Arm'd  all  on  foot,  that  host  appears 
A  serried  mass  of  glimmering  spears. 
'ITiere  stood  the  Marchers'  warlike  band, 
The  warriors  there  of  Lodon's  land; 
Ettrick  and  Liddell  bent  the  yew, 
A  l)and  of  archers  fierce,  though  few; 
The  men  of  Nith  and  Annan's  vale, 
And  the  bold  Spears  of  Teviotdale;  — 


)34 


THE   LORD    OF    THE   ISLES. 


Canto  VI. 


The  tlauiitless  Douglas  these  obey, 
And  the  young  Stuart's  gentle  sway. 
North-eastward  by  Saint  Ninian's  shrine, 
Beneath  tierce  Randolph'scharge, combine 
The  warriors  whom  tlie  hardy  North 
From  Tay  to  Sutherland  sent  forth. 
The  rest  of  Scotland's  war-array 
With  Edward  Bruce  to  westwanl  lay, 
Where  l^annock,  with  his  broken  bank 
And  deep  ravine,  protects  their  flank. 
Behinti  them,  screen 'd  by  sheltering  wood, 
The  gallant  Keith,  Lord  Marshal,  stood: 
His  men-at-arms  bear  mace  and  lance, 
And  plumes  that  wave,   and  helms  that 

glance. 
Thus  fair  divided  by  the  King, 
Centre,  and  right,  and  left-ward  wing. 
Composed  his  front;    nor  distant  far 
Was  strong  reserve  to  aid  the  war. 
And  'twas  to  front  of  this  array. 
Her  guide  and  Edith  made  their  way. 


Here  must  they  pause:   for,  in  advance 

As  far  as  one  might  pitch  a  lance, 

The  monarch  rode  along  the  van,'** 

The  foe's  approaching  force  to  scan. 

His  line  to  marshal  and  to  range. 

And  ranks  to  square  and  fronts  to  change. 

Alone  he  rode  —  from  head  to  heel 

Sheathed  in  his  ready  arms  of  steel; 

Nor  mounted  yet  on  war-horse  wight, 

But,  till  more  near  the  shock  of  light, 

Reining  a  palfrey  low  and  light. 

A  diadem  of  gold  was  set 

Above  his  bright  steel  basinet, 

And  clasp'd  within  its  glittering  twine 

Was  seen  the  glove  of  Argentine; 

Truncheon  or  leading  staff  he  lacks. 

Bearing,  instead,  a  battle-ax. 

He  ranged  his  soldiers  for  the  fight. 

Accoutred  thus,  in  open  sight 

Of  either  host. — Three  bowshots  far, 

Paused  the  deep  front  of  England's  war. 

And  rested  on  their  arms  awhile, 

To  close  and  rank  their  warlike  file, 

And  hold  high  council,  if  that  night 

Should  view  the  strife,  or  dawning  light. 

XIV. 
O  gay,  yet  fearful  to  behold. 
Flashing  with  steel  and  rough  with  gold. 
And  bristled  o'er  with  bills  and  spears, 


With  plumes  and  pennons  waving  fair. 
Was  that  bright  battle-front!   for  there 

Rode  England's  King  and  peers: 
And  who,  that  saw  that  monarch  ride. 
His  kingdom  battled  by  his  side. 
Could  then  his  direful  doom  foretell!  — 
Fair  was  his  seat  in  kingly  selle. 
And  in  his  sprightly  eye  was  set 
Some  spark  of  the  I'lantagenet. 
Though    light    and    wandering    was    his 

glance. 
It  flash'd  at  sight  of  shield  and  lance. 
"  Know'st   thou,"  he  said,  "  De  Argen- 
tine, 
Yon    knight    who    marshals    thus    their 

line?  "  — 
"The  tokens  on  his  helmet  tell 
The  Bruce,  my  Liege :  I  know  him  well." 
"And  shall  the  audacious  traitor  brave 
The  presence  where  our  banners  wave?  " 
"  So  please,  my  Liege,"  said  Argentine, 
"  Were  he  but  horsed  on  steed  like  mine, 
To  give  him  fair  and  knightly  chance, 
I  would  adventure  forth  my  lance."  — 
"  In  battle-day,"  the  King  replied, 
"  Nice  tourney  rules  are  set  aside. 
—  Still  must  the  rebel  dare  our  wrath? 
Set    on     him  —  sweep    him     from     our 

path!  "  — 
And,  at  King  Edward's  signal,  soon 
Dash'd  from  the  ranks  Sir  Henry  Boune. 


Of  Hereford's  high  blood  he  came, 
A  race  renown'd  for  knightly  fame. 
He  burn'd  before  his  Monarch's  eye 
To  do  some  deed  of  chivalry. 
He    sjjurr'd    his    steed,    he    couch'd    his 

lance, 
And  darted  on  the  Bruce  at  once. 
—  As  motionless  as  rocks,  that  bide 
The  wrath  of  the  advancing  tide. 
The  Bruce  stood  fast.  —  Each  breast  beat 

high. 
And  dazzled  was  each  gazing  eye  — 
The  heart  had  hardly  time  to  think. 
The  eyelid  scarce  had  time  to  wink. 
While  on  the  King,  like  flash  of  flame, 
Spurr'd  to  full  speed  the  war-horse  came  ! 
The  partridge  may  the  falcon  mock. 
If  that  slight  palfrey  stand  the  shock  — 
But,  swerving  from  the  knight's  career, 
Just  as  they  met,  Bruce  shunn'd  the  spear. 


Canto  VI. 


THE   LORD    OF   THE  ISLES. 


335 


Onward  the  baffled  warrior  bore 
His  course — but  soon  his  course  was  o'er  ! 
High  in  his  stirrups  stood  the  King, 
And  gave  his  battle-ax  the  swing, 
Right  on  De  Boune,  the  whiles  he  pass'd, 
Fell   that    stern    dint  —  the    first  —  the 

last ! — 
Such  strength  upon  the  blow  was  put, 
The  helmet  crash'd  like  hazel-nut; 
The  ax-shaft,  with  its  brazen  clasp. 
Was  shiver'd  to  the  gauntlet  grasp. 
Springs  from  the  blow  the  startled  horse. 
Drops  to  the  plain  the  lifeless  corse; 
—  First  of  that  fatal  field,  how  soon. 
How  sudden,  fell  the  fierce  De  Boune ! 


One  pitying  glance  the  Monarch  sped. 
Where  on  the  field  his  foe  lay  dead; 
Then  gently  turn'd  his  palfrey's  head. 
And,  pacing  back  his  solx;r  way. 
Slowly  he  gain'd  his  own  array. 
There  round  their  King  the  leaders  crowd, 
And  blame  his  recklessness  aloud. 
That    risk'd    'gainst    each    adventurous 

spear 
A  life  so  valued  and  so  dear. 
His  broken  weapon's  shaft  survey'd 
The  King,  and  careless  answer  made:  — 
"  My  loss  may  pay  my  folly's  tax; 
I've  broke  my  trusty  Iwttle-ax." 
Twas  then  Fitz-Louis,  bending  low. 
Did  Isabel's  commission  show; 
Edith,  disguised,  at  distance  stands. 
And  hides  her  blushes  with  her  hands. 
The  Monarch's  brow  has  changed  its  hue. 
Away  the  gory  ax  he  threw, 
While  to  the  seeming  page  he  drew. 

Clearing  war's  terrors  from  his  eye. 
Her  hand  with  gentle  ease  he  took. 
With  such  a  kind  protecting  look, 

As  to  a  weak  and  timid  boy 
Might  speak,  that  elder  brother's  care 
And  elder  brother's  love  was  there. 


"Fear  not,"  he  said,  "  young  Amadine  !" 
Then  whisper'd:  — -  "  Still  that  name  be 

thine. 
Fate  plays  her  wonted  fantasy, 
Kind  Amadine,  with  thee  and  mc, 
And  sends  thee  here  in  doubtful  hour. 
But  soon  we  are  beyond  her  power; 


For  on  this  chosen  battle-plain, 
Victor  or  vanquish'd,  I  remain. 
Do  thou  to  yonder  hill  repair; 
The  followers  of  our  host  are  there, 
And  all  who  may  not  weapons  bare.  — 
Fitz-Louis,  have  him  in  thy  care.  — 
Joyful  we  meet,  if  all  go  well; 
If  not,  in  Arran's  holy  cell 
Thou  must  take  part  with  Isabel; 
For  brave  Lord  Ronald,  too,  hath  sworn, 
Not  to  regain  the  Maid  of  Lorn, 
(The  bliss  on  earth  he  covets  most,) 
Would  he  forsake  his  battle-post. 
Or  shun  the  fortune  that  may  fall 
To  Bruce,  to  Scotland,  and  to  all.  — 
But,  hark  !  some  news  these  trumpets  tell; 
Forgive    my    haste  —  farewell !  —  fare- 
well ! "  — 
And  in  a  lower  voice  he  said : — 
"Be   of   good  cheer  —  farewell,  sweet 
maid! "  — 


"  What  train  of  dust,  with  trumpet-sound 
And  glimmering  sp)ear,  is  wheeling  round 
Our    leftward    flank?"  —  the    Monarch 

cried, 
To  Moray's  Earl  who  rode  beside. 
"  Lo!  round  thy  station  pass  the  foes! 
Randolph,  thy  wreath  has  lost  a  rose;  " 
The  Earl  his  visor  closed,  and  said, 
"  My   wreath  shall  bloom,  or  life  shall 

fade.  — 
Follow,  my  household !  "  —  And  they  go 
Like  lightning  on  the  advancing  foe. 
"  My  Liege,"  said  noble  Douglas  then, 
"  Earl  Randolph  has  but  one  to  ten: 
Let  me  go  forth  his  band  to  aid !  "  — 
—  "Stir  not.     The  error  he  hath  made, 
Let  him  amend  it  as  he  may; 
I  will  not  weaken  mine  .array." 
Then  loudly  rose  the  conflict-cry. 
And  Douglas's  brave  heart  swell'd  high : — 
"  My  Liege,"  he  said,  "  with  patient  ear 
I  must  not  Moray's  dcath-kncU  hear  !  "  — 
"  Then  go  — but  speed  thee  back  again." 
Forth  sprang  the  Douglas  with  his  train, 
But,  when  they  won  a  rising  hill. 
He  bade  his  followers  stand  them  still.  — 
"  See,  see  !  the  routed  Southern  fly  ! 
The  Earl  hath  won  the  victory. 
Lo !  where  yon  steeds  run  masterless. 
His  banner  towers  above  the  press. 


336 


THE  LORD    OF  l^HE  ISLES. 


Canto  VI. 


Ivein  up;    our  presence  would  impair 
The  fame  we  come  too  late  to  share." 
Back  to  the  host  the  Douglas  rode, 
And  soon  glad  tidings  are  abroad, 
That,  Dayncourt  by  stout  Randolph  slain, 
His  followers  fled  with  loosen'd  rein. — 
That  skirmish  closed  the  busy  day, 
And  couch'd  in  battle's  prompt  array, 
Each  army  on  their  weapons  lay. 


It  was  a  night  of  lovely  June, 

High  rode  in  cloudless  blue  the  moon, 

Demayet  smiled  beneath  her  ray; 
Old  Stirling's  towers  arose  in  light, 
And  twined  in  links  of  silver  bright. 

Her  winding  river  lay. 
Ah,  gentle  planet !  other  sight 
Shall  greet  thee  next  returning  night. 
Of  broken  arms  and  banners  tore, 
And  marshes  dark  with  human  gore. 
And  piles  of  slaughter'd  men  and  horse, 
And  Forth  that  floats  the  frequent  corse. 
And  many  a  wounded  wretch  to  plain 
Beneath  thy  silver  light  in  vain  ! 
But  now,  from  England's  host,  the  cry 
Thou  hear'st  of  wassail  revelry, 
While  from  the  Scottish  legions  pass 
The  murmur'd  prayer,  the  early  mass !  — 
Here,  numbers  had  presumption  given; 
There,  bands  o'ermatched  sought  aid  from 
Heaven. 


On  Gillie's-hill,  whose  height  commands 
The  battle-field,  fair  Edith  stands. 
With  serf  and  page  unfit  for  war. 
To  eye  the  conflict  from  afar. 
O  !  with  what  doubtful  agony 
She  sees  the  dawning  tint  the  sky  !  — 
■  Now  on  the  Ochils  gleams  the  sun. 
And  glistens  now  Demayet  dun; 

Is  it  the  lark  that  carols  shrill  ? 
Is  it  the  bittern's  early  hum? 

No!  —  distant,  but  increasing  still, 

The  trumpet's  sound  swells  u]i  the  hill. 

With  the  deep  murmur  of  the  drum. 

Responsive  from  the  Scottish  host. 

Pipe-clang  and  bugle  sound  were  toss'd,*^ 

His  breast  and  brow  each  soldier  cross'd, 

And  started  from  the  ground; 
Arm'd  and  array'd  for  instant  fight, 
Rose  archer,  spearman,  squire,  andknight , 


And  in  the  pomp  of  battle  bright 
The  dread  battalia  frown'd. 


Now  onward,  and  in  open  view. 

The  countless  ranks  of  England  drew. 

Dark  rolling  like  the  ocean-tide, 

When  the  rough  west  hath  chafed  his  pride, 

And  his  deep  roar  sends  challenge  wide 

To  all  that  bars  his  way ! 
In  front  the  gallant  archers  trode. 
The  men-at-arms  behind  them  rode. 
And  midmost  of  the  phalanx  broad 

The  Monarch  held  his  sway. 
Beside  him  many  a  war-horse  fumes. 
Around  him  waves  a  sea  of  plumes. 
Where  many  a  knight  in  battle  known, 
And  some  who  spurs  had  first  braced  on, 
And  deem'd  that  fight  should  see  them 
won. 

King  Edward's  bests  obey. 
De  Argentine  attends  his  side. 
With   stout    De    Valence,     Pembroke's 

pride. 
Selected  chamjiions  from  the  train. 
To  wait  ujion  his  britlle-rein. 
Upon  the  Scottish  foe  he  gazed  — 

—  At  once  before  his  sight  amazed. 
Sunk  banner,  spear,  and  shield; 

Each  weapon-point  is  downward  sent. 
Each  warrior  to  the  ground  is  bent 
"  The  rebels,  Argentine,  repent! 

For  pardon  they  have  kneel'd  "  — 
"  Ay  !  — but  they  Ijend  to  other  powers. 
And  other  pardon  sue  than  ours ! 
See  where  yon  bare-foot  Ablx)t  stands. 
And  blesses  them  with  lifted  hands  !  ♦*' 
Upon  the  spot  where  they  have  kneel'd, 
These  men  will  die  or  win  llie  field."  — 

—  "  Then  prove  we  if  they  die  or  win  ! 
Bid  Gloster's  Earl  the  fight  Ijcgin." 


Earl  Gilbert  waved  his  truncheon  high, 

Just  as  the  Northern  ranks  arose. 
Signal  for  England's  archery 

To  halt  and  bend  their  bows. 
Then  stepp'd  each  yeoman  forth  a  pace, 
Glanced  at  the  intervening  space. 

And  raised  his  left  hand  high; 
To  the  right  ear  the  cords  they  bring  — 
—  At  once  ten  thousand  bow-strings  ring, 

Ten  thousand  arrows  fly  ! 


Canto  VI. 


THE   LORD    OF   THE   ISLES. 


337 


Nor  paused  on  the  devoted  Scot 
The  ceaseless  fury  of  their  shot; 

As  fiercely  and  as  fast, 
Forth  whistling  came  the  gray-goose  wing 
As  the  wild  hailstones  pelt  and  ring 

Adown  Decemljer's  blast. 
Nor  mountain  targe  of  tough  hull-hide, 
Nor  lowland  mail,  that  storm  may  bide; 
Woe,  woe  to  Scotland's  banner'd  pride, 

If  the  fell  shower  may  last ! 
Upon  the  right,  liehind  the  wood, 
Each  by  his  steed  dismounted,  stood 

The  Scottish  chivalry;  — 
With  foot  in  stirrup,  hand  on  mane. 
Fierce  Edward  Bruce  can  scarce  restrain 
His  own  keen  heart,  his  eager  train. 
Until  the  archers  gain'd  the  plain: 

Then  "  Mount,  ye  gallants  free  !  " 
He  cried;  and  vaulting  from  the  ground. 
His  saddle  every  horseman  found. 
On  high  their  glittering  crests  they  toss, 
As  springs  the  wild-fire  from  the  moss; 
The  shield  hangs  down  on  every  breast, 
Each  ready  lance  is  in  the  rest. 

And  loud  shouts  Edward  Bruce:  — 
"  Forth,  Marshal !  (in  the  peasant  foe  ! 
We'll  tame  the  terrors  of  their  bow. 

And  cut  the  bow-string  loose  !  "  •'■' 


Then  spurs    were    dash'd    in    chargers' 

flanks, 
Th°y  rush'd  among  the  archer  ranks.' 
No  spears  were  there  the  shock  to  let. 
No  stakes  to  turn  the  charge  were  set. 
And  how  shall  yeoman's  armor  slight. 
Stand  the  long  lance  and  mace  of  might  ? 
Or  what  may  their  short  swords  avail, 
'G.iinst  barbed  horse  and  shirt  of  mail? 
Amid  their  ranks  the  chargers  sprung, 
High  o'er  their  heads  the  weapons  swung. 
And  shriek  and  groan  and  vengeful  shout 
Give  note  of  triumph  and  of  rout ! 
Awhile,  with  stubborn  hardihood, 
Their  English  hearts  the  strife  made  good. 
Borne  down  at  length  on  every  side, 
Compell'd  to  flight,  they  scatter  wide. — 
Let  stags  of  Sherwood  leap  for  glee, 
And  bound  the  deer  of  Dallom-Lee ! 
The  broken  bows  of  Bannock's  shore 
Shall  in  the  greenwood  ring  no  more  ! 
Round  Wakefield's  merry  May-pole  now. 
The  maids  may  twine  the  summer  bough. 


May  northward  look  with  longing  glance. 
For  those  that  wont  to  lead  the  dance, 
For  the  blithe  archers  look  in  vain  ! 
Broken,  dispersed,  in  flight  o'erta'en, 
rierced    through,   trode  down,  by  thou- 
sands slain. 
They  cumber  Bannock's  bloody  plain. 


The  King  with  scorn  beheld  their,  flight. 
"Are    these,"   he    said,    "our   yeoman 

wight? 
Each  braggart  churl  could  boast  before. 
Twelve  Scottish  lives  his  baldric  bore  !  ** 
Fitter  to  plunder  chase  or  park. 
Than  make  a  manly  foe  their  mark.  — 
Forward,  each  gentleman  and  knight ! 
Let  gentle  blood  show  generous  might, 
And  chivalry  redeem  the  fight !  ' ' 
To  rightward  of  the  wild  affray, 
ITie  field  show'd  fair  and  level  way; 
But,  in  mid-space,  the  Bruce's  care 
Had  Ijored  the  ground  with  many  a  pit, 
With  turf  and  brushwood  hidden  yet. 

That  form'  d  a  ghastly  snare. 
Rushing,  ten  thousand  horsemen  came. 
With  spears  in  rest,  and  hearts  onflame, 

That  panted  for  the  shock  ! 
With  blazing  crests  and  banners  spread, 
And  trumpet-clang  and  clamor  dread. 
The  wide  plain  thunder'd  to  their  tread, 

As  far  as  Stirling  rock. 
Down  !  down  !  in  headlong  overthrow. 
Horsemen  and  horse,  the  foremost  go,  *® 

Wild  floundering  on  the  field  ! 
The  first  are  in  destruction's  gorge, 
Their  followers  wildly  o'er  them  urge: — 

The  knightly  helm  and  shield. 
The  mail,  the  acton,  and  the  spear. 
Strong    hand,    high    heart,    are    useless 

here  ! 
Loud  from  the  mass  confused  the  cry 
Of  dying  warriors  swells  on  high, 
And  steeds  that  shriek  in  agony  !  ^ 
They  came  like  mountain-torrent  red. 
That  thunders  o'er  its  rocky  bed; 
They    broke    like    that    same    torrent'e 

wave 
When  swallow'd  by  a  darksome  cave. 
Billows  on  billows  burst  and  boil. 
Maintaining  still  the  stern  turmoil. 
And  to  their  wild  and  tortured  groan 
Each  adds  new  terrors  of  his  own ! 


THE   LORD    OF   THE   ISLES. 


Canto  VI. 


Too  strong  in  courage  and  in  might 
Was  England  yet,  to  yield  the  fight. 

Her  noblest  all  are  here; 
Names  that  to  fear  were  never  known, 
Bold  Norfolk's  Earl  De  Brotherton, 

And  Oxford's  famed  De  Vere. 
There  Gloster  plied  the  bloody  sword. 
And  Berkley,  Grey,  and  Hereford, 

Bottctourt  and  Sanzavere, 
Ross,  Montague,  and  Mauley,  came, 
And   Courtenay's    pride,     and     Percy's 

fame  — 
Names  known  too  well  in  Scotland's  war, 
At  Falkirk,  Methven,  and  Dunbar, 
Blazed  broader  yet  in  after  years, 
At  Cressy  red  and  fell  Poitiers. 
Pembroke  with  these,  and  Argentine, 
Brought  up  the  rearward  liatlle-line. 
With  caution  o'er  the  ground  they  tread, 
Slippery  with  blood  and  piled  with  dead, 
Till  hand  to  hand  in  battle  set, 
The  bills  with  spears  and  axes  met. 
And,  closing  dark  on  every  side, 
Raged  the  full  contest  far  and  wide. 
Then  was  the  strength  of  Douglas  tried. 
Then  proved  was  Randolph's  generous 

pride, 
And  well  did  Stewart's  actions  grace 
The  sire  of  Scotland's  royal  race  ! 

Firmly  they  kept  their  ground; 
As  firmly  England  onward  press'd. 
And  ilown  went  many  a  noble  crest. 
And  rent  was  many  a  valiant  breast. 

And  Slaughter  revell'd  round. 


Unflinching  foot  'gainst  foot  was  set. 
Unceasing  blow  liy  blow  was  met: 

The  groans  of  those  who  fell 
Were  drown'd  amid  the  shriller  clang 
That  from  the  blades  and  harness  rang. 

And  in  the  battle-yell. 
Yet  fast  they  fell,  unheard,  forgot. 
Both  Southern  fierce  and  hardy  Scot; 
And  O  !  amid  that  waste  of  life, 
What  various  motives  fired  the  strife ! 
The  aspiring  Noble  bled  for  fame, 
The  Patriot  for  his  country's  claim; 
This  Knight  his  youthful  strength  to  prove, 
And  that  to  win  his  lady's  love; 
Some  fought  from  ruffian  thirst  of  blood. 
From  habit  some,  or  hardihood. 


But  ruffian  stern,  and  soldier  good. 

The  noble  and  the  slave. 
From  various  cause  the  same  wild  road. 
On  the  same  bloody  morning,  trode, 

To  that  dark  inn,  the  grave ! 


The  tug  of  strife  to  flag  begins, 
Though  neither  loses  yet  nor  wins. 
High  rides  the  sun,  thick  rolls  the  dust, 
And  feebler  speeds  the  blow  and  thrust. 
Douglas  leans  on  his  war-sword  now. 
And  Randolph  wipes  his  liloody  brow; 
Nor  less  had  toil'd  each  Southern  knight, 
From  morn  till  mid-day  in  the  fight. 
Strong  Egremont  for  air  must  gasp, 
Beauchamp  undoes  his  visor-clasp. 
And  Montague  must  quit  his  spear. 
And  sinks  thy  falchion,  bold  De  Vere ! 
The  blows  of  Berkley  fall  less  fast. 
And  gallant  Pembroke's  bugle-blast 

Hath  lost  its  lively  tone; 
Sinks,  Argentine,  thy  battle-word. 
And  Percy's  shout  was  fainter  heard, 

"  My  merry-men,  fight  on!  " 


Bruce,  with  the  pilot's  wary  eye, 
The  slackening  of  the  storm  could  spy. 
"  One  effort  more,  and  Scotland's  free  ! 
Lord  of  the  Isles,  my  trust  in  thee 

Is  firm  as  Ailsa  Rock;^^ 
Rush  on  withllighlandswordandtarge, 
I  with  my  Carrick  spearman  charge; 
Now,  forward  to  the  shock  !  " 
At     once     the     spears     were     forward 

thrown. 
Against  the  sun  the  broadswords  shone; 
The  pibroch  lent  its  maddening  tone. 
And    loud    King     Robert's    voice    was 
known:  — - 
"Carrick,  press  on — they  fail, they  fail  ! 
Press  on,  brave  sons  of  Innisgail, 

The  foe  is  fainting  fast ! 
Each  strike  for  parent,  child,  and  wife. 
For  Scotland,  liberty,  and  life,  — 
The  battle  cannot  last !  ' ' 

XXIX. 

The  fresh  and  desperate  onset  bore 
The  foes  three  furlongs  back  and  more, 
Leaving  their  noblest  in  their  gore. 
Alone,  De  Argentine 


Canto  VI. 


THE   LORD    Of   THE  ISLES. 


339 


yet  bears  on  high  his  red-cross  shield, 

Gathers  the  relics  of  the  field, 

Renews  the  ranks  where  they  have  reel'd. 

And  still  makes  good  the  line. 
Brief  strife,  but  fierce, —  his  efforts  raise 
A  bright,  but  momentary  blaze. 
Fair  Edith  heard  the  Southern  shout, 
Beheld  them  turning  from  the  rout. 
Heard  the  wild  call  their  trumpets  sent, 
In  notes  'twixt  triumph  and  lament. 
That  rallying  force,  combined  anew, 
Appcar'd  in  her  distracted  view, 

To  hem  the  Islesmen  round: — 
"  O  God !  the  combat  they  renew, 

And  is  no  rescue  found ! 
And  ye  that  look  thus  tamely  on. 
And  see  your  native  land  o'erthrown, 
O!  are  your  hearts  of  flesh  or  stone?  " 


The  multitude  that  watch'd  afar. 
Rejected  from  the  ranks  of  war. 
Had  not  unmoved  beheld  the  fight. 
When   strove  the   Bruce   for  Scotland's 

right; 
Each  heart  had  caught  the  patriot  spark. 
Old  man  and  stripling,  priest  and  clerk, 
Bondsman  and  serf;    even  female  hand 
Stretch'd  to  the  hatchet  or  the  brand; 
But,  when  mute  Amadine  they  heard 
Give  to  their  zeal  his  signal-word, 

A  frenzy  fired  the  throng :  — 
"  Portents  and  miracles  impeach 
Our  sloth — the  dumb  our  duties  teach — 
And  he  that  gives  the  mute  his  speech. 
Can  bid  the  weak  be  strong. 
To  us,  as  to  our  lords,  are  given 
A  native  earth,  a  promised  heaven; 
To  us,  as  to  our  lords,  belongs 
The  vengeance  for  our  nation's  wrongs; 
The    choice,    'twixt  death    or    freedom, 

warms 
Our  breasts  as  theirs — To  arms,  to  arms ! ' ' 
To  arms  they  flew, — ax,  club,  or  spear, — 
And  mimic  ensigns  high  they  rear,''-^ 
And,  like  a  banner'd  host  afar. 
Bear  down  on  England's  wearied  war. 


Already  scatter'd  o'er  the  plain. 
Reproof,  command,  and  counsel  vain. 
The  rearward  squadrons  fled  amain, 
Or  made  but  doubtful  stay; 


But  when  they  mark'd  the  seeming  show 
Of  fresh  and  fierce  and  marshall'd  foe. 
The  boldest  broke  array, 

0  give  their  hapless  prince  his  due ! 
In  vain  the  royal  Edward  threw 

His  person  mid  the  spears. 
Cried,  "  Fight !  "  to  terror  and  despair. 
Menaced,  and  wept,  and  tore  his  hair, 

And  cursed  their  caitiff  fears ! 
Till  Pembroke  turn'd  his  bridle  rein. 
And  forced  him  from  the  fatal  plain. 
With  them  rode  Argentine,  until 
They  gain'd  the  summit  of  the  hill. 

But  quitted  there  the  train :  — 
*'  In  yonder  field  a  gage  I  left,  — 

1  must  not  live  of  fame  bereft; 

I  needs  must  turn  again. 
Speed  hence,  my  Liege,  for  on  your  trace 
The  fiery  Douglas  takes  the  chase, 

I  know  his  banner  well. 
God  send  my  Sovereign  joy  and  bliss. 
And  many  a  happier  field  than  this !  — 

Once  more,  my  Liege,  farewell." 


Again  he  faced  the  battle-field,  — 
Wildly  they  fly,  are  slain,  or  yield. 
"  Now  then,"  he  said,  and  couch'd  his 

spear, 
"  My  course  is  run,  the  goal  is  near; 
One  effort  more,  one  brave  career. 

Must  close  this  race  of  mine." 
Then  in  his  stirrups  rising  high. 
He  shouted  loud  his  battle-cry :  — 

"  Saint  James  for  Argentine  ! " 
And,  of  the  bold  pursuers,  four 
The  gallant  knight  from  saddle  bore; 
But  not  unharm'd  —  a  lance's  point 
Has  found  his  breastplate's  loosen'd  joint. 

An  ax  has  razed  his  crest; 
Yet  still  on  Colonsay's  fierce  lord, 
Who  press'd  the  chase  with  gory  sword. 

He  rode  with  spear  in  rest. 
And  through  his  bloody  tartans  bored. 

And  through  his  gallant  breast. 
Nail'd  to  the  earth,  the  mountaineer 
Yet  writhed  him  up  against  the  spear. 

And  swung  his  broadsword  round  ! 
—  Stirrup,  steel-boot,  and  cuish  gave  way, 
Beneath  that  blow's  tremendous  sway. 

The  blood  gush'd  from  the  wound; 
And  the  grim  I^rd  of  Colonsay 

Hath  turn'd  him  on  the  ground, 


340 


THE   LORD    OF   THE   ISLES. 


Canto  VI. 


And  laugh'd  in  death-pang,  that  his  blade 
The  mortal  thrust  so  well  repaid. 

XXXIII. 

Now  toil'd  the  Bruce,  the  battle  done, 
To  use  his  conquest  boldly  won; 
And  gave  command  for  horse  and  spear 
To  press  the  Southern's  scatter'd  rear. 
Nor  let  his  broken  force  combine, 
—  When  the  war-cry  of  Argentine 

Fell  faintly  on  his  ear; 
"Save,   save   his   life,"    he    cried,  "O 

save 
The  kind,  the  noble,  and  the  brave!  " 
The  squadrons  round  free  passage  gave, 

The  wounded  knight  drew  near; 
He  raised  his  red-cross  shield  no  more. 
Helm,  cuish,  and  breastplate,  stream'd 

with  gore. 
Yet,  as  he  saw  the  King  advance. 
He  strove  even  then  to  couch  his  lance  — 

The  effort  was  in  vain  ! 
The  spur-stroke  fail'd  to  rouse  the  horse; 
Wounded  and  weary,  in  mid  course 

He  stumbled  on  the  plain. 
Then  foremost  was  the  generous  Bruce 
To  raise  his  head,  his  helm  to  loose :  — 

"  Ijord  Earl,  the  day  is  thine ! 
My  Sovereign's  charge,  and  adverse  fate, 
Have  made  our  meeting  all  too  late: 

Yet  this  may  Argentine, 
As  boon  from  ancient  comrade,  crave,  — 
A  Christian's  mass,  a  soldier's  grave." 

XXXIV. 

Bruce  press'd  his  dying  hand  —  its  grasp 
Kindly  replied;    but,  in  his  clasp. 

It  stiffen'd  and  grew  cold  — 
"  And,  O  farewell !  "  the  victor  cried, 
*'  Of  chivalry  the  flower  and  pride. 

The  arm  in  l)attlc  bold, 
The  courteous  mien,  the  noV)le  race, 
The  stainless  faith,  the  manly  face  !  — 
Bid  Ninian's  convent  light  their  shrine. 
For  late-wake  of  De  Argentine. 
O'er  better  knight  on  death-bier  laid, 
Torch  never  gleam'd  nor  mass  was  said  !  " 

XXXV. 

Nor  for  De  Argentine  alone. 

Through  Ninian's  church  these   torches 

sh(jne, 
And  rose  the  death-prayer's  awful  tone. 


That  yellow  lustre  glimmer'd  pale. 

On  broken  plate  and  bloodied  mail. 

Rent  crest  and  shattcr'd  coronet. 

Of  Baron,  Earl,  and  Banneret; 

And  the  best  names  that  England  knew, 

Claim'd  in  the  death-prayer  dismal  due. 

Yet  mourn  not,  Land  of  Fame ! 
Though  ne'er  the  Leopards  on  thy  shield 
Retreated  from  so  sad  a  field. 

Since  Norman  William  came. 
Oft  may  thine  annals  justly  boast 
Of  battles  stern  by  Scotland  lost; 

Grudge  not  her  victory, 
When  for  her  freeborn  rights  she  strove; 
Rights  dear  to  all  who  freedom  love. 

To  none  so  dear  as  thee  ! 

XXXVI. 

Turn  we  to  Bruce,  whose  curious  ear 
Must  from  Fitz-Louis  tidings  hear: 
With  him  a  hundred  voices  tell 
Of  prodigy  and  miracle, 

"  For  the  mute  page  had  spoke."  — 
"  Page  !  "  said  Fitz-Louis,  "  rather  say, 
An  angel  sent  from  realms  of  day, 

To  burst  the  English  yoke. 
I  saw  his  plume  and  bonnet  drop, 
When  hurrying  from  the  mountain-top; 
A  lovely  brow,  dark  locks  that  wave, 
To  his  bright  eyes  new  lustre  gave; 
A  step  as  light  upon  the  green. 
As  if  his  pinions  waved  unseen  !"  — 
"  Spoke  he  with  none?  "  —  "  With  none 

—  one  word 
Burst  when  he  saw  the  Island  Lord, 
Returning  from  the  liattle-field."  — 
"What    answer    made    the    Chief?"  — 

"He  kneel'd. 
Durst  not  look  up,  but  mutter'd  low. 
Some  mingled  sounds  that  none  might 

know, 
And  greeted  him  'twixt  joy  and  fear. 
As  being  of  superior  sphere." 

XXXVII. 

Even  upon  Bannock's  bloody  plain, 
Heap'd  then  with  thousands  of  the  slain. 
Mid  victor  monarch's  musings  high, 
Mirth  laugh'd  in  good  King  Robert's  eye: 
"  And  bore  he  such  angelic  air, 
Such  noble  front,  such  waving  hair? 
Hath  Ronald  kneel'd  to  him?"  he  said, 
"  Then  must  we  call  the  church  to  aid  — 


Canto  \I. 


THE  LORD    OF   THE  /SLE.^. 


341 


Our  will  be  to  the  Abbot  known, 
Ere  these  strange  news  are  wider  blown. 
To  Cambuskenneth  straight  ye  pass, 
And  deck  the  church  for  solemn  mass, 
To  pay  for  high  deliverance  given, 
A  nation's  thanks  to  gracious  Heaven. 
Let  him  array,  besides,  such  state. 
As  should  on  princes'  nuptials  wait. 
Ourself    the    cause,    through     fortune's 

spite. 
That  once  broke  short  that  spousal  rite, 
(~)urself  will  grace,  with  early  morn. 
The  bridal  of  the  Maid  of  Lorn." 

CONCLUSION. 

Go  forth,  my  Song,  upon  thy  ventur- 
ous way; 

Go  boldly  forth;  nor  yet  thy  master 
blame, 

Who  chose  no  patron  for  his  humble 
lay. 

And  graced  thy  numljers  with  no 
friendly  name, 

Whose  partial  zeal  might  smooth  thy 
path  to  fame. 


There  ^oas  —  and  O  !  how  many  sor- 
rows crowd 
Into  these  two  brief  words ! — there  was 

a  claim 
By  generous   friendship   given  —  had 
fate  allow'd, 
It  well  had  bid  thee  rank  the  proudest  of 
the  proud ! 

All  angel  now  —  yet  little  less  than  all. 
While    still    a    pilgrim    in    our    world 

l)elow  ! 
What    'vails    it    us    that    patience    to 

recall, 
Which  hid  its  own  to  soothe  all  other 

woe; 
What  'vails  to  tell,  how  Virtue's  pur- 
est glow 
Shone  yet  more  lovely  in  a  form  so  fair. 
And,    least    of    all,    what    'vails    the 

world  should  know. 
That  one  poor  garland,  twined  to  deck 

thy  hair. 
Is  hung  upon  thy  hearse  to  droop  and 

wither  there  I 


THE 

FIELD    OF   WATERLOO. 


A  POEM. 


TO  HER  GRACE  THE 

DUCHESS     OF     WELLINGTON, 

PRINCESS  OF  WATERLOO,   Etc.,    Etc. 
THE   FOLLOWING   VERSES   ARE   MOST    RESPECTFULLY   INSCRIBED   BY 

THE  AUTHOR. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


It  may  be  some  apology  for  the  imperfections  of  this  poem,  that  it  was  composed  hastily, 
and  during  a  short  toitr  upon  the  Continent,  when  the  Author^ s  labors  were  liable  to  fre- 
quent interruption  ;  but  its  best  ai>ology  is,  that  it  was  written  for  the  purpose  of  assist- 
ing the  Waterloo  Subscription. 

.     AnnoTSFORD,  1815- 


THE   FIELD   OF  WATERLOO. 

Though  Valois  braved  young  Edward's  gentle  hand. 

And  Albert  rush'd  on  Henry's  way-worn  band, 

With  Europe's  chosen  sons,  in  arms  renown'd. 

Yet  not  on  Vere's  bold  archers  long  they  look'd, 

Nor  Audley's  squires,  nor  Mowbray's  yeomen  brook'd, — 

They  saw  their  standard  fall,  and  left  their  monarch  bound.  —  Akenside. 


Fair  Brussels,  thou  art  far  behind, 
Tliouoli,  lingering  on  the  morning  wind, 

We  yet  may  hear  the  hour 
Peal'd  over  orchartl  and  canal. 
With    voice     prolong'd    and     measured 
fall. 

From  proud  St.  Michael's  tower; 
Thy  wood,  dark  Soignies,  holds  us  now,* 
Where  the  tall  beeches'  glossy  liough, 

For  many  a  league  around. 
With  birch  and  darksome  oak  between. 
Spreads  deep  and  far  a  pathless  screen, 

Of  tangled  forest  ground. 
Stems  planted  close  by  stems  defy 
The  adventurous  foot;  — the  curious  eye 

For  access  seeks  in  vain; 
And  the  brown  tapestry  of  leaves, 
Strew'don  the  blighted  ground,  receives 

Nor  sun,  nor  air,  nor  rain. 
No  opening  glade  dawns  on  our  way. 
No  streamlet,  glancing  to  the  ray, 

Our  woodland  path  has  cross'd; 
And    the    straight    causeway    which    we 

tread 
Prolongs  a  line  of  dull  arcade. 
Unvarying  through  the  unvaried  shade 

Until  in  distance  lost. 


*  The  wood  of  Soignies  is  a  remnant  of  the 
forest  of  Ardennes,  the  scene  of  the  channing 
and  romantic  incidents  of  Shakespeare's  "  As 
You  Like  It." 


A  brighter,  livelier  .scene  succeeds; 
In  groups  the  scattering  wood  recedes, 
Hedge-rows,     and     huts,     and     sunny 
meads. 

And  corn-fields,  glance  between; 
The  peasant  at  his  labor  blithe. 
Plies    the    hook'd    staff    and    shorten'd 
scythe :  '  — 

But  when  these  ears  were  green, 
Placed  close  within  destruction's  scope. 
Full  little  was  that  rustic's  hope 

Their  ripening  to  have  seen  ! 
And,  lo,  a  hamlet  and  its  fane:  — 
Let  not  the  gazer  with  disdain 

Their  architecture  view; 
For  yonder  rude  ungraceful  shrine, t 
And  disproportion'd  spire,  are  thine, 

Immortal  Waterloo  ! 


Fear    not    the    heat,    though    full    and 

high. 
The  sun  has  scorch'd  the  autumn  sky. 
And  scarce  a  forest  straggler  now 
To  shade  us  spreads  a  greenwood  bough ; 
These  fields  have  seen  a  hotter  day 
Than  e'er  was  fired  by  sunny  ray. 

t  The  chapel,  or  "  votive  fane,"  built  by  the 
Marquis  of  Castanaza,  in  the  hope  that  his  sover- 
eign, Carlos  11.  of  Spain,  might  be  blest  with  an 
heir. 


343 


344 


THE   FIELD   OF   WATERLOO. 


Yet  one  mile  on — yon  shatter'd  hedge 
Crests  the  soft   hill  whose  long  smooth 
ridge 

Looks  on  the  field  below, 
And  sinks  so  gently  on  the  dale, 
That  not  the  folds  of  Beauty's  veil 

In  easier  curves  can  flow. 
Brief  space  from  thence,  the  ground  again 
Ascending  slowly  from  the  plane, 

Forms  an  opposing  screen, 
Which,  with  its  crest  of  upland  ground. 
Shuts  the  horizon  all  around. 

The  soften'd  veil  between 
Slopes  smooth  and  fair  for  courser's  tread; 
Not  the  most  timid  maid  need  dread 
To  give  her  snow-white  palfrey  head 

On  that  wide  stubble  ground; 
Nor  wood,  nor  tree,  nor  bush,  are  there, 
Her  course  to  intercept  or  scare. 

Nor  fosse  nor  fence  are  found, 
Save  where,  from  out  her  shatter'd  tow- 
ers. 
Rise  Hougomont's  dismantled  towers. 


Now,    see'st    thou    aught    in    this    lone 

scene 
Can  tell  of  that  which  late  hath  been?  — 

A  stranger  might  reply :  — • 
"The  bare  extent  of  stubble-plain 
Seems  lately  lighten'd  of  its  grain ; 
And  yonder  sable  tracks  remain 
Marks  of  the  peasant's  ponderous  wain, 

When  harvest-home  was  nigh. 
On  these  broad  spots  of  trampled  ground. 
Perchance  the  rustics  danced  such  round 

As  Teniers  loved  to  draw; 
And  where  the  earth  seems  scorch'd  by 

flame, 
To  dress  the  homely  feast  they  came. 
And  toil'd  the  kerchief'd  village  dame 

Around  her  fire  of  straw." 


So  deem'st  thou  —  so  each  mortal  deems, 

Of  that  which  is  i\on\  that  which  seems.  — 
But  other  harvest  here, 

Than    that   which    peasant's    scythe   de- 
mands. 

Was  gather'd  in  by  sterner  hands, 
With  bayonet,  blade,  and  spear. 

No  vulgar  crop  was  theirs  to  reap; 

No  stinted  harvest  thin  and  cheap ! 


Heroes  before  each  fatal  sweep 

Fell  thick  as  ripen'd  grain; 
And  ere  the  darkening  of  the  day. 
Piled  high  as  autumn  shocks,  there  lay 
The  ghastly  harvest  of  the  fray. 
The  corpses  of  the  slain. 


Ay,  look  again  —  that  line,  so  black 
And  trampled,  marks  the  bivouac. 
Yon  deep-graved  ruts  the  artillery's  track 

So  often  lost  and  won; 
And  close  beside,  the  harden'd  mud 
Still  shows  where,  fetlock  deep  in  blood, 
The  fierce  dragoon,  through  battle's  flood, 

Dash'd  the  hot  war-horse  on. 
These  spots  of  excavation  tell 
The  ravage  of  the  bursting  shell  — 
And  feel'st  thou  not  the  tainted  steam. 
That  reeks  against  the  sultry  l)eam. 

From  yonder  trenched  mound? 
The  pestilential  fumes  declare 
That  Carnage  has  replenish'd  there 

Her  garner-house  i)rofound. 


Far  other  harvest-home  and  feast,   ' 
Than  claims  the  boor  from  scythe  released. 

On  these  scorch'd  fields  were  known  ! 
Death  hover'd  o'er  the  maddening  rout. 
And,  in  the  thrilling  battle-shout, 
Sent  for  the  bloody  banquet  out 

A  summons  of  his  own. 
Through  rolling  smoke  the  Demon's  eye 
Could  well  each  destined  guest  espy, 
Well  could  his  ear  in  ecstasy 

Distinguish  every  tone 
That  fill'd  the  chorus  of  the  fray  — 
From  cannon-roar  and  trumpct-liray, 
From  charging  squadrons'  wild  hurra, 
P'rom  thewild  clangthatmark'd  their  w.iy, 

Down  to  the  <lying  groan, 
And  the  last  sob  of  life's  decay. 

When  breath  was  all  but  flown. 


Feast  on,  stern  foe  of  mortal  life, 
Feast  on  !   but  think  not  that  a  strife, 
With  such  promiscuous  carnage  rife. 

Protracted  space  may  last; 
The  deadly  tug  of  war  at  length 
Must  limits  find  in  human  strength, 

And  cease  when  these  are  past. 


THE  FIELD    OF   WATERLOO. 


34S 


Vain  hope  ! — That  morn's  o'erclouded  sun 
Heard  the  wild  shout  of  fight  begun 

Ere  he  attain'd  his  height. 
And    through    the    war-smoke,   volumed 

high, 
Still  peals  that  unremitted  cry. 

Though  now  he  stoops  to  night. 
For  ten  long  hours  of  doubt  and  dread. 
Fresh  succors  from  the  extended  head 
Of  either  hill  the  contest  fed; 

Still  down  the  slope  they  drew. 
The  charge  of  columns  paused  not. 
Nor  ceased  the  storm  of  shell  and  shot; 

For  all  that  war  could  do 
Of  skill  and  force  was  proved  that  day. 
And  turn'd  not  yet  the  doubtful  fray 

On  bloody  Waterloo. 


Pale  Brussels !  then  what  thoughts  were 

thine,''' 
When  ceaseless  from  the  distant  line 

Continued  thunders  came ! 
Each  burgher  held  his  breath,  to  hear. 
These  forerunners  of  havoc  near. 

Of  rapine  and  of  flame. 
What  ghastly  sights  were  thine  to  meet. 
When  rolling  through  thy  stately  street. 
The  wounded  show'd  their  mangled  plight 
In  token  of  the  unfinish'd  fight. 
And  from  each  anguish-laden  wain 
The  blood-drops  laid  thy  dust  like  rain ! 
How  often  in  the  distant  drum 
Heard'st  thou  the  fell  Invader  come. 
While  Ruin,  shouting  to  his  band, 
Shook  high  her  torch  and  gory  brand  !  — 
Cheer  thee,  fair  City  !     From  yon  stand. 
Impatient,  still  his  outstretch'd  hand 

Points  to  his  prey  in  vain. 
While  maddening  in  his  eager  mood, 
And  all  unwont  to  be  withstood, 

He  fires  the  fight  again. 


"  On  !  On  !  "  was  still  his  stern  exclaim  ;8 
"  Confront  the  battery's  jaws  of  flame  ! 

Rush  on  the  levell'd  gun  ! 
My  steel-clad  cuirassiers,  advance  ! 
Each  Uhlan  forward  with  his  lance, 
My  Guard,  my  Chosen,  charge  forFrance, 

France  and  Napoleon  !  " 
Loud  answer'd  their  acclaiming  shout, 
Greeting  the  mandate  which  sent  out 


Their  bravest  and  their  best  to  dare 
The  fate  their  leader  shunn'd  to  share.* 
But  He,  his  country's  sword  and  shield. 
Still  in  the  battle-front  reveal'd, 
Where  danger  fiercest  swept  the  field. 

Came  like  a  beam  of  light. 
In  action  prompt,  in  sentence  brief  — 
"Soldiers,   stand  firm,"  exclaim'd   the 
Chief, 

"  England  shall  tell  the  fight !  "* 


On  came  the  whirlwind  —  like  the  last 
But  fiercest  sweep  of  tempest-blast  — 
On   came  the  whirlwind  —  steel -gleams 

broke 
Like  lightning  through  the  rolling  smoke; 

The  war  was  waked  anew, 
Three    hundred    cannon-mouths    roar'd 

loud. 
And  from  their   throats,  with  flash    and 
cloud. 

Their  showers  of  iron  threw. 
Beneath  their  fire,  in  full  career, 
Rush'd  on  the  ponderous  cuirassier. 
The  lancer  couch'd  his  ruthless  spear. 
And  hurrying  as  to  havoc  near. 

The  cohorts'  eagles  flew. 
In  one  dark  torrent,  broad  and  strong, 
The  advancing  onset  roll'd  along. 
Forth  harbinger 'd  by  fierce  acclaim, 
That,  from   the   shroud   of   smoke   and 

flame, 
Peal'd  widely  the  imperial  name. 


But  on  the  British  heart  were  lost 
The  terrors  of  the  charging  host; 
For  not  an  eye  the  storm  that  view'd 
Changed  its  proud  glance  of  fortitude, 
Nor  was  one  forward  footstep  staid, 
As  dropp'd  the  dying  and  the  dead. 
Fast  as  their  ranks  the  thunders  tear, 
Fast  they  renew'd  each  serried  square; 
And  on  the  wounded  and  the  slain 
Closed  their  diminish 'd  files  again. 
Till  from  their  line  scarce  spear's  lengths 

three, 
Emerging  from  the  smoke  they  see 
Helmet,  and  plume,  and  panoply,  — 

Then  waked  their  fire  at  once ! 
Each  musketeer's  revolving  knell, 
As  fast,  as  regularly  fell, 


346 


THE  FIELD    OF  WATERLOO. 


As  when  they  practise  to  display 
Tlieir  discipHne  on  festal  day. 

Then  down  went  helm  and  lance, 
Down  were  the  eagle  banners  sent, 
Down  reeling  steeds  and  riders  went. 
Corslets  were  pierced,  and  pennons  rent; 

And,  to  augment  the  fray, 
Wheel'd    full    against    their    staggering 

flanks. 
The  English  horsemen's  foaming  ranks 

Forced  their  resistless  way. 
Then  to  the  musket-knell  succeeds 
The  clash  of  swords — theneighof  steeds — 
As  plies  the  smith  his  clanging  trade,'^ 
Against  the  cuirass  rang  the  blade; 
And  while  amid  their  close  array 
The  well-served  cannon  rent  their  way. 
And  while  amid  their  scatter'd  band 
Raged  the  tierce  rider's  bloody  brand, 
Recoil 'd  in  common  rout  and  fear, 
Lancer  and  guard  and  cuirassier, 
Horsemen  and  foot — a  mingled  host. 
Their  leaders  fall'n,  their  standards  lost. 


Then,  Wellington  !  thy  piercing  eye 
This  crisis  caught  of  destiny  — 

The  British  host  had  stood 
That  morn  'gainst  charge  of  sword  and 

lance  * 
As  their  own  ocean-rocks  hold  stance. 
But  when  thy  voice  had  said,  "  Advance  !" 

They  were  their  ocean's  flood.  — 
O  Thou,  whose  inauspicious  aim 
Hath  wrought  thy  host  this  hour  of  shame, 
Think'st  thou  thy  broken  bands  will  bide 
The  terrors  of  yon  rushing  tide? 
Or  will  thy  chosen  brook  to  feel 
The  British  shock  of  levell'd  steel,'' 

Or  dost  thou  turn  thine  eye 
Where  coming  squadrons  gleam  afar, 
And  fresher  thunders  wake  the  war, 

And  other  standards  fly?  — 
Think  not  that  in  yon  columns,  file 
Thy    conquering     troops     from     distant 
Dyle  — 

Is  Blucher  yet  unknown? 

*  "The  British  square  stood  unmoved,  and 
never  gave  fire  until  the  cavalry  were  within  ten 
yards,  when  men  rolled  one  way,  horses  galloped 
another,  and  the  cuirassiers  were  in  every  in- 
stance driven  back."  —  Life  of  Bonaparte,  vol. 
ix.  p.  12. 


Or  dwells  not  in  thy  memory  still, 
(Heard  frequent  in  thine  hour  of  ill,) 
What  notes  of  hate  and  vengeance  thrill 

In  Prussia's  trumpet  tone  ?  — 
What  yet  remains?  —  shall  it  be  thine 
To  head  the  relics  of  thy  line 

In  one  dread  effort  more?  — 
The  Roman  lore  thy  leisure  loved, 
And  thou  canst  tell  what  fortune  proved 

That  Chieftain,  who,  of  yore, 
Ambition's  dizzy  paths  cssay'd. 
And  with  the  gladiators'  aid 

For  empire  enterprised  — 
He  stood  the  cast  his  rashness  play'd, 
Left  not  the  victims  he  had  made, 
Dug  his  red  grave  with  his  own  blade, 
And  on  the  field  he  lost  was  laid, 

Abhorr'd  — but  not  despised. 


But  if  revolves  thy  fainter  thought 
On  safety —  howsoever  bought, — 
Then  turn  thy  fearful  rein  and  ride, 
Though   twice   ten    thousand    men   have 
died 

On  this  eventful  day. 
To  gild  the  military  fame 
Which  thou,  for  life,  in  traffic  tame 

W'ilt  barter  thus  away. 
Siiall  future  ages  tell  this  tale 
Of  inconsistence  faint  and  frail? 
And  art  thou  He  of  Lodi's  bridge, 
Marengo's  field,  and  Wagram's  ridge! 

Or  is  thy  soul  like  mountain-tide. 
That,  swell'd  by  winter  storm  and  shower, 
Rolls  down  in  turbulence  of  power, 

A  torrent  fierce  and  wide; 
Reft  of  these  aids,  a  rill  obscure, 
Shrinking  unnoticed,  mean  and  poor, 

Whose  channel  shows  display'd 
The  wrecks  of  its  impetuous  course, 
But  not  one  symptom  of  the  force 

By  which  these  wrecks  were  made  ! 


Spur  on  thy  way  !  —  since  now  thine  ear 
Has  brook'd  thy  veterans'  wish  to  hear, 

Who,  as  thy  flight  they  eyed, 
Exclaim'd,  —  while     tears     of     anguish 

came. 
Wrung   forth    by   pride,    and    rage,   and 
shame :  — 
"  O,  that  he  had  but  died !  " 


THE  FIELD    OF   WATERLOO. 


7A1 


But  yet,  to  sum  this  hour  of  ill, 
Look,  ere  thou  leavest  the  fatal  hill, 

Back  on  yon  broken  ranks  — 
Upon  whose  wild  confusion  gleams 
The  moon,  as  on  the  troubled  streams 

When  rivers  break  their  banks. 
And,  to  the  ruiu'd  peasant's  eye, 
Objects  half  seen  roll  swiftly  by, 

Down  the  dread  current  hurl'd  — 
So  mingle  banner,  wain,  and  gun. 
Where  the  tumultuous  fight  rolls  on 
Of  warriors,  who,  when  morn  begun, 

Defied  a  banded  world. 


List  —  frequent  to  the  hurrying  rout. 
The  stern  pursuers'  vengeful  shout 
Tells,  that  upon  their  broken  rear 
Rages  the  Prussian's  bloody  spear. 

So  fell  a  shriek  was  none. 
When  Beresina's  icy  flood 
Redden'd  and   thaw'd    with   flame   and 

blood. 
And,  pressing  on  thy  desperate  way. 
Raised  oft  and  long  their  wild  hurra. 

The  children  of  the  Don. 
Tliine  ear  no  yell  of  horror  cleft 
Si)  ominous,  when  all  bereft 
Of  aid,  the  valiant  Polack  left  *  — 
Ay,  left  by  thee  —  found  soldier's  grave 
In  Leipsic's  corpse-encumber'd  wave. 
Fate,  in  those  various  perils  past, 
Reserved  thee  still  some  future  cast; 
On  the  dread  die  thou  now  hast  tlirown. 
Hangs  not  a  single  field  alone, 
Nor  one  campaign — ^  thy  martial  fame. 
Thy  empire,  dynasty,  and  name. 

Have  felt  the  final  stroke; 
And  now,  o'er  thy  devoted  head 
The  last  stern  vial's  wrath  is  shed. 

The  last  dread  seal  is  broke. 

XVII. 

Since  live  thou  wilt  —  refuse  not  now 
Before  these  demagogues  to  Ix)W, 
Late  objects  of  thy  scorn  and  hate, 
Who  shall  thy  once  imperial  fate 
Make  wordly  theme  of  vain  debate.  — 
Or  shall  we  say,  thou  stoop'st  less  low 
In  seeking  refuge  from  the  foe, 

»  For  an  account  of  the  death  of  Poniatowski 
at  Leipsic,  see  Sir  Walter  Scott's  Life  of  Bona^ 
parte,  vol.  vii.  p.  401. 


Against  whose  heart,  in  prosperous  life. 
Thine  hand  hath  ever  held  the  knife? 

Such  homage  hath  been  paid 
By  Roman  and  by  Grecian  voice, 
And  there  were  honor  in  the  choice. 

If  it  were  freely  made. 
Then  safely  come, — in  one  so  low  — 
So  lost,  —  we  cannot  own  a  foe; 
Though  dear  experience  bid  us  end. 
In  thee  we  ne'er  can  hail  a  friend.  — 
Come,  howsoe'er — but  do  not  hide 
Close  in  thy  heart  that  germ  of  pride, 
Erewhile,  by  gifted  bard  espied, 

That  "  yet  imperial  hope;  "  t 
Think  not  that  for  a  fresh  rebound, 
To  raise  ambition  from  the  ground, 

We  yield  thee  means  or  scope. 
In  safety  come — but  ne'er  again 
Hold  type  of  independent  reign; 

No  islet  calls  thee  lord. 
We  leave  thee  no  confederate  band, 
No  symbol  of  thy  lost  command, 
To  be  a  dagger  in  the  hand 

From  wliich  we  wrench'd  the  sword. 


Yet,  even  in  yon  sequester'd  spot. 
May  worthier  conquest  be  thy  lot 

Than  yet  thy  life  has  known; 
C<MUiuest,  unbought  by  blood  or  harm. 
That  needs  nor  foreign  aid  nor  arm, 

A  triumph  all  thine  own. 
Such  waits  thee  when  thou  shalt  control 
Those  passions  wild,  that  stubborn  soul, 

That  marr'd  thy  prosperous  scene : 
Hear  this — from  no  unmoved  heart, 
Which  sighs,  comparing  what  thou  ART 

With  what  thou  might'st  have  been  ! 


Thou,  too,  whose  deeds  of  fame  renew 'd 
Bankrupt  a  nation's  gratitude, 
To  thine  own  noble  heart  must  owe 
More  than  the  meed  she  can  bestow. 
For  not  a  people's  just  acclaim. 
Not  the  full  hail  of  Europe's  fame. 
Thy  Prince's  smiles,  thy  State's  decree. 
The  ducal  rank,  the  garter'd  knee. 
Not  these  such  pure  delight  afford 
As  that,  when  hanging  up  thy  sword, 

t  See  Byrvn's  "  Ode  to  Napoleon." 


.H8 


THE  FIELD    OF   WATERLOO. 


Well  may'st  thou  think :  —  "  This  honest 

steel 
Was  ever  drawn  for  pulilic  weal; 
And,  such  was  rightful  Heaven's  decree, 
Ne'er  sheathed  unless  with  victory !  " 


Look  forth,   once    more,    with   soften'd 

heart. 
Ere  from  the  field  of  fame  we  part; 
Triumph  and  Sorrow  border  near, 
And  joy  oft  melts  into  a  tear. 
Alas !  what  links  of  love  that  morn 
Has  War's  rude  hand  asunder  torn  ! 
For  ne'er  was  field  so  sternly  fought, 
And  ne'er  was  conquest  dearer  bought. 
Here  piled  in  common  slaughter  sleep 
Those  whom  affection  long  shall  weep : 
Here  rests  the  sire,  that  ne'er  shall  strain 
His  orphans  to  his  heart  again; 
The  son,  whom,  on  his  native  shore. 
The  parent's  voice  shall  bless  no  more; 
The  bridegroom,  who  has  hardly  press'd 
His  blushing  consort  to  his  breast: 
The  husband,  whom  through  many  a  year 
Long  love  and  mutual  faith  endear. 
Thou  canst  not  name  one  tender  tie. 
But  here  dissolved  its  relics  lie ! 
O  !  when  thou  see'st  some  mourner's  veil 
Shroud  her  thin  form  and  visage  pale. 
Or  mark'st  the  Matron's  bursting  tears 
Stream  when  the  stricken  drum  she  hears; 
Or  see'st  how  manlier  grief,  suppress'd. 
Is  laboring  in  a  father's  breast,  — 
With  no  inquiry  vain  pursue 
The  cause,  but  think  on  Waterloo ! 


Period  of  honor  as  of  woes. 
What  bright  careers  'twas  thine  to  close  !  * 
Mark'd  on  thy  roll  of  blood  what  names 
To  Briton's  memory,  and  to  Fame's, 
Laid  there  their  last  immortal  claims ! 
Thou  saw'st  in  seas  of  gore  expire 
Redoul)ted  PiCTON's  soul  of  fire  — 
Saw'st  in  the  mingled  carnage  lie 
All  that  of  PoNSONBY  could  die  — 
De  Lancey  change  Love's  bridal  wreath. 
For  laurels  from  the  hand  of  Death  ^  — 
Saw'st  gallant  Miller's  failing  eye  ^^^ 
Still  bent  where  Albion's  banners  fly. 
And  Cameron,  "  in  the  shock  of  steel. 
Die  like  the  offspring  of  Lochiel; 


And  generous  GoRr>ON,i'^  mid  the  strife. 
Fall,  while  he  watch'tl  his  leader's  life.  — 
Ah!  though  her  guanlian  angel's  shield 
Fenced  Britain's  hero  through  the  field. 
Fate  not  the  less  her  power  made  known, 
Through  his  friends'  hearts  to  pierce  his 
own !  * 


Forgive,  brave  Dead,  the  imperfect  lay ! 
Who  may  your  names,  your  numlx;rssay? 
What  high-strung  harp,  what  lofty  line, 
To  each  the  dear-earn 'd  praise  assign, 
From  high-born  chiefs  of  martial  fame 
To  the  poor  soldier's  lowlier  name? 
Lightly  ye  rose  that  dawning  day. 
From  your  cold  couch  of  swamp  and  clay, 
To  fdl,  before  the  sun  was  low. 
The  bed  that  morning  cannot  know.  — 
Oft  may  the  tear  the  green  sod  steep. 
And  sacred  be  the  heroes'  sleep, 

Till  time  shall  cease  to  run; 
And  ne'er  beside  their  noble  grave, 
May  Briton  pass  and  fail  to  crave 
A  blessing  on  the  fallen  brave 

Who  fought  with  Wellington  ! 


Farewell,    sad    Field !     whose    blighted 

face 
Wears  desolation's  withering  trace; 
Long  shall  my  memory  retain 
Thy  shatter'd  huts  and  trampled  grain. 
With  every  mark  of  martial  wrong, 
That  scathethy  towers,  fair  Hougomont  l'^ 
Yet  though  thy  garden's  green  arcade 
The  marksman's  fatal  post  was  made. 
Though  on  thy  shatter'd  beeches  fell 
The  blended  rage  of  shot  and  shell. 
Though  from  thy  blacken 'd  portals  torn. 
Their  fall  thy  blighted  fruit-trees  mourn, 
Has  not  such  havoc  bought  a  name 
Immortal  in  the  rolls  of  fame? 
Yes  — Agincourt  may  be  forgot, 
And  Cressy  be  an  unknown  spot. 

And  Blenheim's  name  be  new; 
But  still  in  story  and  in  song. 
For  many  an  age  remembered  long, 
Shall  live  the  towers  of  Hougomont, 

And  Field  of  Waterloo. 


*  Th",  ^ief  of  the  victor  for  the  fate  of  his 
f  •■•cii<ls  is  touchingly  described  by  tliose  who  wit- 
-jessed  it. 


THE  FIELD    OF   WATERLOO. 


349 


CONCLUSION. 

Stern    tide    of    human    Time !    that 

know'st  not  rest, 
Butsweepingfromthecradletothetomb, 
Bear'st  ever  downward  on  thy  dusky 

breast, 
Successive  generations  to  their  doom; 
While  thy  capacious  stream  has  equal 

room 
For    the    gay    Ijark    where    Pleasure's 

streamers  sport, 
And  for  the  prison-ship  of  guilt  and 

gloom, 
The  fisher-skiff,  and  barge  that  bears  a 

court. 
Still  wafting  onward  all  to  one  dark  silent 

port ;  — 

Stern    tide    of    Time !     through    what 

mysterious  change 
Of   hope  and  fear  have  our  frail  barks 

been  driven ! 
For     ne'er,     before,     vicissitude     so 

strange 
Was  to  one  race  of  Adam's  offspring 

given. 
And  sure  such  varied  change  of  sea 

and  heaven. 
Such  unexpected  bursts  of  joy  and  woe. 
Such   fearful   strife  as  that  where  we 

have  striven. 
Succeeding  ages  ne'eragainshall  know. 
Until  the  awful  term  when  Thou  shalt 

cease  to  flow ! 

Well  hast  thou  stood,  my  Country  !  — 

the  brave  fight 
Hast    well    maintain'd    through   good 

report  and  ill; 
In    thy   just   cause  and    in  thy  native 

might. 
And    in    Heaven's  grace    and    justice 

constant  still; 
Whether  the  banded  prowess,  strength, 

and  skill 
Of  half  the  world  against  thee  stood 

array'd, 
Or  when,  with  better  views  and  freer 

will. 
Beside  thee  Europe's  noblest  drew  the 

blade. 
Each  emulous  in  arms  the  Ocean  Queen 

to  aid. 


Well   art    thou    now  repaid  —  though 

slowly  rose, 
And  struggled  long  with  mists  thy  blaze 

of  fame. 
While  like  the  dawn  that  in  the  orient 

glows 
On  the   broad  wave  its  earlier  lustre 

came; 
Then  eastern  E^-pt  saw  the  growing 

flame, 
And  Maida's  myrtles  gleam'd  beneath 

its  ray, 
Where   first   the   soldier,    stung    with 

generous  shame, 
Rivall'd    the    heroes    of    the    wat'ry 

way. 
And    wash'd    in    focman's    gore    unjust 

reproach  away. 

Now,  Island  Empress,  wave  thy  crest 
on  high. 

And    bid    the    banner    of    thy    Patron 
flow. 

Gallant    St.    George,    the    flower    of 
Chivalry, 

For  thou  hast  faced,  like  him,  a  dragon 
foe, 

And    rescued    innocence    from    over- 
throw. 

And  trampled  down,  like  him,  tyrannic 
might. 

And  to  the  gazing  world  mayst  proudly 
show 

The    chosen    emblem    of    thy   sainted 
Knight, 
Who  quell'd  devouring  pride,  and  vindi- 
cated right. 

Yet  mid  the  confidence  of  just  renown. 
Renown  dear-bought,  but  dearer  thus 

acquired. 
Write,  Britain,  write  the  moral  lesson 

down: 
'Tis    not   alone   the  heart   with   valor 

fired. 
The  discipline  so  dreaded  and  admired. 
In    many  a    field  of    blootly  conquest 

known; 
—  Such  may  by  fame  be  lured,  by  gold 

be  hired  — 
'Tis  constancy  in  thy  good  cause  alone. 
Best  justifies  the  meed  thy  valiant  sons 

have  won. 


HAROLD  THE   DAUNTLESS. 


A    POEM    IN    SIX    CANTOS. 


INTRODUCTION. 


There  is  a  mood  of  mind,  we  all  have 
known 

On  drowsy  eve,  or  dark  and  lowering 
day, 

When    the    tired    spirits     lose    their 
sprightly  tone. 

And  naught  can   chase   the   lingering 
hours  away. 

Dull  on  our  soul  falls  Fancy's  dazzling 
ray. 

And  Wisdom  holds  liis  steadier  torch 
in  vain, 

Obscured  the  painting  seems,  mistnned 
the  lay, 

Nor  dare  we  of  our  listless  load  com- 
plain, 
For  who  for  sympathy  may  seek  that  can- 
not tell  of  pain? 

The  jolly  sportsman  knows  such  drcari- 

hood, 
When  bursts  in  deluge  the  autumnal 

rain. 
Clouding  that  morn  which  threats  the 

heath-cock's  brood; 
Of    such,    in    summer's    drought,    the 

anglers  plain, 
Whohope  the  soft  mild  southern  shower 

in  vain : 
But ,  more  than  all ,  the  discontented  fair, 
Whom  father  stern,  and  sterner  aimt, 

restrain 
From  country-ball,  or  race  occurring 

rare. 
While  all  her  friends  around  their  vest- 
ments gay  prepare. 


Ennui!  —  or,    as   our   mothers   call'd 

thee.  Spleen  ! 
To    thee    we    owe    full    many    a    rare 

device;  — 
Thine  is  the  sheaf  of  ]iainted  cards,  I 

ween. 
The  rolling  billiard-ball,   the    rattling 

dice; 
The  turning-lathe  for  framing  gimcrack 

nice; 
The    amateur's    blotch'd    pallet     thou 

mayst  claim. 
Retort,  and  air-pump,  threatening  frogs 

and  mice, 
(^Murders    disguised     by    philosophic 

name,) 
And  much  of  trifling  grave,  and  much  of 

buxom  game. 

Then  of  the  books,  to  catch  thy  drowns 
glance 

Compiled,    what    bard    the    catalt)gue 
may  quote ! 

Plays,   poems,   novels,  never  read  but 
once; — 

Put  not  of  such  the  tale  fair  Edgeworth 
wrote. 

That  bears  thy  name,  and  is  thine  an- 
tidote; 

And  not  of  such  the  strain  my  Thom- 
son sung, 

Delicious  dreams  inspiring  by  his  note. 

What  time  to  Indolence  his  har]T  he 
strung;  — 
Oh  !   might  my  lay  be  ranked  that  hajip'er 
list  among ! 


350 


Canto  I. 


HAROLD    THE   DAUNTLESS, 


351 


Each  halh   his  refuge  whom  tliy  cares 

assail. 
For  me,  I  love  my  study-tire  to  trim, 
And  con  right  vacantly  some  idle  tale, 
Displaying  on  the  couch   each  listless 

limb. 
Till    on    the    drowsy   page    the    lights 

grow  dim, 
And  doubtful  slumber  half  supplies  the 

theme; 
While  antique   shapes    of   knight  and 

giant  grim, 
Damsel  and  dwarf,  in  long  procession 

gleam, 
And  the   Romancer's    tale   becomes  the 

Reader's  dream. 

'Tis    thus    my     malady    I    well    may 
bear, 

Albeit   outstretched,   like  Pope's  own 
Paridel,* 

Upon  the  rack  of  a  too-easy  chair; 

And  find,  to  cheat   the  time,  a  power- 
ful spell 

In     old    romaunts     of    errantry    that 
tell. 

Or  later  legends  of  the  fairy-folk, 

Or  Oriental  tale  of  Afrite  fell, 

Of  Genii,  Talisman,  and  broad-wing'd 
Roc, 
Though  taste  may  blush  and  frown,  and 
sober  reason  mock. 

Oft  at  such  season,  too,  will   rhymes 

unsought 
Arrange  themselves  in  some  romantic 

lay;  — 
The  which,  as  things  unfitting  graver 

thought, 
Are  burnt   or   blotted  on   some  wiser 

day.  — 
These  few  survive  —  and  proudly  let 

me  say, 
Court  not  the  critic's  smile,  nor  dread 

his  frown; 
They  well  may  serve  to  while  an  hour 

away, 
Nor    does    the    volume  ask    for   more 

renown, 
Than  Ennui's  yawning  smile,  what  time 

she  drops  it  down. 

*  "The  Dunciad,"  Book  IV.  1.  341. 


CANTO   FIRST. 

I. 

List  to  the  valorous  deeds  that  were  done 

By  Harold  the  Dauntless,  Count  Witi- 

kind's  son  ! 
Count  Witikind  came  of  a  regal  strain, 
And  roved  with  his  Norsemen  the  land 

and  the  main. 
Woe  to   the  realms  which    he  coasted  ! 

for  there 
Was  sheddingof  bloodand  rending  of  hair, 
Rape  of  maiden,  and  slaughter  of  priest, 
Gathering  of    ravens  and  wolves  to  the 

feast : 
When  he  hoisted  his  standard  black, 
Before  him  was  battle,  behind  him  wrack. 
And  he  burn'd  the  churches,  that  heathen 

Dane, 
To  light  his  band  to  their  barks  again. 

II. 

On  Erin's  shores  was  his  outrage  known, 
The  winds  of    P^rance   had    his   banners 

blown; 
Little  was  there  to  plunder,  yet  still 
Mis  pirates  had  foray'd  on  Scottish  liill: 
But  upon  merry  England's  coast 
More  frequent  he  sail'd,  for  he  won  the 

most. 
So  wide  and  so  far  his  ravage  they  knew, 
If  a  sail  ])Ut  gleam'd  white  'gainst  the 

welkin  l)lue. 
Trumpet  antl  bugle  to  arms  did  call, 
Burghers  hasten'd  to  man  the  wall, 
Peasants  fled  inland  his  fury  to  'scape, 
Beacons  were   lighted  on  headland  and 

cape, 
Bells  were  toll 'd  out,  and  aye  as  they  rung, 
Fearful    and    faintly    the    gray   brothers 

sung: — 
"  Bless  us,  St.  Mary,  from  flood  and  from 

fire, 
From  famine  and  pest,  and  Count  Witi- 

kind's  ire !  " 

III. 
He  liked  the  wealth  of  fair  England  so 

well, 
That  he  sought  in  her  bosom  as  native  to 

dwell. 
He  enter'd  the  Humber  in  fearful  hour, 
And  disembark'd  with  his  Danish  power. 


352 


HAROLD    THE  DAUNTLESS. 


Canto  I. 


Three  Earls  came  against  him  with  all 
their  train,  — 

Two  hath  he  taken,  and  one  hath  he 
slain. 

Count  Witikind  left  the  Humber's  rich 
strand, 

And  he  wasted  and  warr'd  in  Northum- 
berland. 

But  the  Saxon  King  was  a  sire  in  age. 

Weak  in  battle,  in  council  sage; 

Peace  of  that  heathen  leader  he  sought, 

Gifts  he  gave,  and  quiet  he  bought; 

And  the  Count  took  upon  him  the  peace- 
able style 

Of  a  vassal  and  liegeman  of  Britain's 
broad  isle. 


Time  will  rust  the  sharpest  sword. 
Time  will  consume  the  strongest  cord; 
That  which  moulders  hemp  and  steel, 
Mortal  arm  and  nerve  must  feel. 
Of  the  Danish  band,  whom  Count  Witi- 
kind led. 
Many  wax'd  aged,  and  many  were  dead; 
Himself  found  his  armor  full  weighty  to 

bear. 
Wrinkled  his  brows  grew,  and  hoary  his 

hair. 
He  lean'd  on  a  staff,  when  his  step  went 

abroad. 
And  patient  his  palfrey,  when  steed  he 

bestrode. 
As  he  grew  feebler,  his  wildness  ceased, 
He  made  himself  peace  with  prelate  and 

priest; 
Made  his  peace,  and,  stooping  his  head, 
Patiently  listed  the  counsel  they  said. 
Saint    Cuthbert's  Bishop  was  holy  and 

grave. 
Wise  andgood  was  thecounsel  he  gave : — 


"Thouhast  murder 'd,robb'd,  and  spoil'd, 
Time  it  is  thy  poor  soul  were  assoil'd; 
Priests  didst  thou  slay,  and  churches  burn, 
Time  it  is  now  to  repentance  to  turn; 
Fiends  hast  thou  worshipp'd,  with  fiend- 
ish rite. 
Leave  now  the  darkness,  and  wend  into 

light: 
O!  while  life  and  space  are  given, 
TaiQ  thee  yet,  and  think  of  Heaven!  " 


That  stern  old  heathen  his  head  he  raised, 
And  on  the  good  prelate  he  steadfastly 

gazed :  — 
"  Give  me  broad  lands  on  the  Wear  and 

the  Tyne, 
My  faith   I  will  leave,   and  I'll    cleave 

unto  thine." 


Broad  lands  he  gave  him  on  Tyne  and 

Wear, 
To  be  held  of  the  Church  by  bridle  and 

spear ; 
Part   of   Monkwearmouth,   of  Tynedale 

part. 
To  better  his  will,  and  to  soften  his  heart : 
Count  Witikind  was  a  joyful  man. 
Less  for  the  faith  than  the  lands  that  he 

wan. 
The  high  church  of  Durham  is  dress'd 

for  the  day. 
The  clergy  are  rank'd  in   their  solemn 

array; 
There  came   the  Count,  in  a  bear-skin 

warm. 
Leaning  on  Hilda  his  concubine's  arm; 
He kneel'd before  Saint  Cuthbert's  shrine, 
With  patience  unwonted  at  rites  divine; 
He  abjured  the  gods  of  heathen  race. 
And  he  l)ent  his  head  at  the  font  of  grace. 
But  such  was  the  grisly  old  proselyte's 

look, 
That  the  priest  who  baptized  him  grew 

pale  and  shook; 
And   the  old  monks   mutter'd   beneath 

their  hood :  — 
"Of  a  stem  so  stubborn  can  never  spring 

good !  " 

VII. 

Up  then  arose  that  grim  convertite. 
Homeward  he  hied  him  when  ended  the 

rite; 
The  Prelate  in  honor  will  with  him  ride. 
And  feast  in  his  castle  on  Tyne's  fair  side. 
Banners   and  banderols   danced   in    the 

wind, 
Monks  rode  before  them,  and  spearmen 

behind; 
Onward  they  pass'd  till  fairly  did  shine 
Pennon  and  cross  on  the  bosom  of  Tyne ; 
And  full  in  front  did  that  fortress  lower. 
In   darksome  strength  with  its  buttress 

and  tower; 


Canto  I. 


HAROLD    THE  DAUNTLESS. 


•353 


At  the  castle  gate  was  young  Harold  there, 
Count  Witikind's  only  offspring  and  heir. 


Young  Harold  was  fear'd  for  his  hardi- 
hood, 

His  strength  of  frame,  and  his  fury  of 
mood. 

Rude  he  was  and  wild  to  behold. 

Wore  neither  collar  nor  bracelet  of  gold. 

Cap  of  vair  nor  rich  array. 

Such  as  should  grace  that  festal  day : 

His  doublet  of  bull's  hide  was  all  un- 
braced, 

Uncover'd  his  head,  and  his  sandal  un- 
laced : 

His  shaggy  black  lock  on  his  brow  hung 
low, 

And  his  eyes  glanced  through  them  a 
swarthy  glow; 

A  Danish  club  in  his  hand  he  bore. 

The  spikes  were  clotted  with  recent  gore; 

At  his  back  a  she-wolf,  and  her  wolf- 
cubs  twain. 

In  the  dangerous  chase  that  morning 
slain. 

Rude  was  the  greeting  his  father  he  made. 

None  to  the  Bishop,  —  while  thus  he 
said:  — 


"  What  priest-led  hypocrite  art  thou. 
With  thy  humble  look  and  thy  monkish 

brow. 
Like  a  shaveling  who  studies  to  cheat  his 

vow? 
Canst    thou    be    Witikind    the    Waster 

known. 
Royal  Eric's  fearless  son, 
Haughty  Gunhilda's  haughtier  lord. 
Who  won  his  bride  by  the  axe  and  sword ; 
From  the  shrine  of  St.  Peter  the  chalice 

who  tore, 
And  melted  to  bracelets  for  Freya  and 

Thor; 
With  one  blow  of  his  gauntlet  who  burst 

the  skull. 
Before   Odin's  stone,   of   the  Mountain 

Bull? 
Then  ye  worshipp'd  with  rites  that  to 

war-gods  belong. 
With  the  deed  of  the  brave,  and  the  blow 

of  the  strong; 


And  now,  in  thine  age  to  dotage  sunk. 
Wilt  thou  patter  thy  crimes  to  a  shaven 

monk,  — 
Lay  down  thy  mail-shirt  for  clothing  of 

hair,  — 
Fasting  and  scourge,  like  a  slave,  wilt 

thou  bear? 
Or,    at   best,   be    admitted   in    slothful 

bower 
To  batten  with  priest  and  with  paramour  ? 
Oh  !  out  upon  thine  endless  shame  ! 
Each  Scald's  high  harp  shall  blast  thy 

fame, 
And  thy  son  will  refuse  thee  a  father's 

name ! ' ' 


Ireful  wax'd  old  Witikind's  look. 
His  faltering  voice  with  fury  shook :  — 
"  Hear  me,  Harold  of  harden'd  heart ! 
Stubborn  and  wilful  ever  thou  wert: 
Thine  outrage  insane  I  command  thee 

cease. 
Fear  my  wrath  and  remain  at  peace :  — 
Just  is  the  debt  of  repentance  I've  paid. 
Richly   the   Church    has   a  recompense 

made. 
And  the  truth  of  her  doctrines  I  prove 

with  my  blade. 
But  reckoning  to  none  of  my  actions  I 

owe. 
And  least  to  my  son  such  accounting  will 

show. 
Why  speak  I  to  thee  of  repentance  or 

truth. 
Who    ne'er    from    thy    childhood    knew 

reason  or  ruth  ? 
Hence !  to  the  wolf  and  the  bear  in  her 

den; 
These  are  thy  mates,  and  not  rational 

men." 

XI. 

Grimly  smiled  Harold,  and  coldly  replied: 
"  We  must  honor  our  sires,  if  we  fear 

when  they  chide. 
For  me,  I  am  yet  what  thy  lessons  have 

made, 
I  was  rock'd  in  a  buckler  and  fed  from  a 

blade; 
An  infant,  was  taught  to  clasp  hands  and 

to  shout 
From  the  roof  of  the  tower  when  the 

flame  had  broke  out; 


554 


HAROLD    THE  DAUNTLESS. 


Canto  I. 


In  the  blood  of  slain  foemen  my  finger 

to  dip, 
And  tinge  with  its  purple  my  cheek  and 

my  lip,  — 
'Tis  thou    know'st   not   truth,   that  has 

barter'd  in  eld, 
For  a  price,  the  brave  faith  that  thine 

ancestors  held. 
When  this  wolf,"  — and  the  carcass  he 

flung  on  the  plain,  — 
"  Shall  wake  and  give  food  to  her  nurse- 
lings again, 
The  face  of  his  father  will  Harold  review; 
Till  then,  aged  Heathen,  young  Christian, 

adieu !  " 


Priest,  monk,  and  prelate,  stood  aghast. 
As   through    the   pageant   the    heathen 

pass'd. 
A  cross-liearcr  out  of  his  saddle  he  flung, 
Laid  his  hand  on  the  pommel,  and  into 

it  sprung. 
Loud  was  the  shriek  and  deep  the  groan. 
When   the  holy  sign   on  the  earth  was 

thrown  ! 
The   fierce   old   Count    unsheathed    his 

brand, 
But  the  calmer  prelate  stay'd  his  hand :  — 
"Let  him  pass    free!  —  Heaven  knows 

its  hour,  — 
But  he  must  own  repentance's  power. 
Pray  and  weep,  and  penance  bear. 
Ere  he  hold  land  by  the  Tync  and  the 

Wear." 
Thus   in   scorn    and   in  wrath  from  his 

father  is  gone 
Young    Harold    the    Dauntless,    Count 

Witikind's  son. 


High    was    the    feasting   in    Witikind's 

hall, 
Revell'd   priests,   soldiers,    and    pagans, 

and  all; 
And  e'en  the  good  Bishop  was  fain  to 

endure 
The  scandal,  which  time  and  instruction 

might  cure: 
II    were   dangerous,  he  deem'd,   at    the 

first  to  restrain. 
In  his  wine  and  his  wassail,  a  half-chris- 

ten'd  Dane. 


The  mead  flow'd  around,  and  the  ale  was 

drain 'd  dry. 
Wild  was  the  laughter,  the  song,  and  the 

cry; 
With  Kyrie   Eleison,  came  clamorously 

in 
The  war-songs  of  Danesmen,  Norweyan, 

and  Finn. 
Till  man  after  man  the  contention  gave 

o'er, 
Outstretch'd  on  the  rushes  that  strcw'd 

the  hall  floor; 
And  the  tempest  within,  having  ceased 

its  wild  rout, 
Gave  place  to  the  tempest  that  thunder'd 

without. 


Apart  from  the  wassail,  in  turret  alone, 

I>ay  flnxen-hair'd  Gunnar,  old  Ermen- 
garde's  son; 

In  the  train  of  Lord  Harold  that  Page 
was  the  first, 

For  Harold  in  childhood  had  Ermcn- 
garde  nursed; 

And  grieved  was  young  Gunnar  his  mas- 
ter should  roam. 

Unhoused  and  unfriended,  an  exile  from 
home. 

He  heard  the  deep  thunder,  the  plashing 
of  rain, 

He  saw  the  red  lightning  through  shot- 
hole  and  pane; 

"And  oh!"  said  the  Page,  "on  the 
shelterless  wold 

Lord  Harold  is  wandering  in  darkness 
and  cold ! 

What  though  he  was  stubborn,  and  way- 
ward, and  wild. 

He  endured  me  because  I  was  Ermen- 
garde's  child,  — ' 

And  often  from  dawn  till  the  set  of  the 
sun. 

In  the  chase,  by  his  stirrup,  unbidden  I 
run; 

I  would  I  were  older,  and  knighthood 
could  bear, 

I  would  soon  quit  the  banks  of  the  Tyne 
and  the  Wear; 

For  my  mother's  command,  with  her  last 
parting  breath, 

I'nde  me  follow  her  nursling  in  life  and 
to  death. 


Canto  I. 


HAROLD    THE   DAUNTLESS. 


3SS 


"  It  pours   and  it   thunders,  it  lightens 

amain, 
As  if  Lok,  the  Destroyer,  had  burst  from 

his  chain  ! 
Accursed  by  the  Church  and  expell'd  by 

his  sire. 
Nor  Christian  nor  Dane  give  him  shelter 

or  fire, 
And  this  tempest  what  mortal  may  house- 
less endure? 
Unaided,    unmantled,    he    dies    on    the 

moor  ! 
Whate'er  comes  of  Gunnar,  he  tarries  not 

here." 
He  leapt  from  his  couch  and  he  grasp 'd 

to  his  spear; 
Sought  the  hall  of  the  feast.     Undisturb'd 

by  his  tread, 
The  wassailers  slept  fast  as  the  sleep  of 

the  dead : 
"Ungrateful    and    bestial!"    his   anger 

broke  forth, 
"To  forget    mid  your  goblets  the  pride 

of  tbe  North ! 
And   you,  ye  cowl'd    priests,  who  have 

plenty  in  store, 
Must  give  Gunnar  for  ransom  a  palfrey 

and  ore." 


Then,  heeding  full  little  of  ban  or  of  curse, 
He  has  seized  on  the  Prior  of  Jorvaulx's 

purse : 
Saint    Meneholt's   Abbot   next    morning 

has  miss'd 
His  mantle,  deep  furr'd  from  the  cape 

to  the  wrist. 
The  Seneschal's  keys   from   his  belt  he 

has  ta'en 
(Well    drench'd    on    that    eve    was    old 

Hildebrand's  brain). 
To  the  stable-yard  he  made  his  way. 
And  mounted  the  Bishop's  palfrey  gay. 
Castle  and  hamlet  behind  him  has  cast. 
And  right  on  his  way  to  the  moorland 

has  pass'd. 
Sore    snorted     the    palfrey,    unused    to 

face 
A  weather  so  wild  at  so  rash  a  pace; 
So  long  he  snorted,  so  loud  he  neigh'd, 
There  answer'd  a  steed  that  was  bound 

beside, 


And  the  red   flash   of   lightning  show'd 

where  there  lay 
His  master.  Lord  Harold,  outstretched  on 

the  clay. 


Up   he   started,   and    thunder'd   out :  — 

"Stand!" 
And  raised  the  club  in  his  deadly  hand. 
The  flaxen-hair'd  Gunnar  his  purpose  told, 
Show'd    the   palfrey  and   profferr'd  the 

gold. 
"Back,  back,  and  home,  thou  simple  boy  ! 
Thou  canst  not  share  my  grief  or  joy : 
Have  I  not  mark'd  thee  wail  and  cry 
When  thou  hast  seen  a  sparrow  die  ? 
And  canst  thou,  as  my  follower  should. 
Wade  ankle-deep  throughfoeman'sblood, 
Dare  mortal  ^d  immortal  foe, 
The  gods  above,  the  fiends  below. 
And  man  on  earth,  more  hateful  still, 
The  very  fountain-head  of  ill  ? 
Desperate  of  life,  and  careless  of  death. 
Lover  of  bloodshed,  and  slaughter,  and 

scathe. 
Such  must  thou  be  with  me  to  roam. 
And  such  thou  canst  not  be  —  back,  and 

home  !  " 

XVIII. 

Young  Gunnar  shook  like  an  aspen  bough. 
As  he  heard  the  harsh  voice  and  beheld 

the  dark  brow. 
And  half    he  repented  his  purpose  and 

vow. 
But    now  to    draw   back   were    bootless 

shame. 
And  he  loved  his  master,  so  urged  his 

claim: — , 
"Alas!  if  my  arm  and  my  courage  be 

weak. 
Bear  with  me  awhile  for  old  Ermengarde's 

sake; 
Nor  deem  so  lightly  of  Gunnar's  faith. 
As  to  fear  he  would  break  it  for  peril  of 

death.  •    ■ 

Have  I  not  risk'd  it  to  fetch  thee  this  gold. 
This  surcoat  and  mantle  to  fence  thee  from 

cold? 
And,  did  I  bear  a  baser  mind. 
What  lot  remains  if  I  stay  behind? 
The  priests'  revenge,  thy  father's  wrath, 
A  dungeon,  and  a  shameful  death." 


356 


HAROLD    THE   DAUNTLESS. 


Canto  II. 


With  gentler  look  Lord  Harold  eyed 
The  Page,  then  turn'd  his  head  aside; 
And  either  a  tear  did  his  eyelash  stain, 
Or  it  caught  a  drop  of  the  passing  rain. 
"  Art  thou  an  outcast,  then?"  quoth  he; 
"  The  meeter  page  to  follow  me." 
'Twere  bootless  to  tell  what  climes  they 

sought. 
Vestures  achieved,  and  battles  fought; 
Mow  oft  with  few,  how  oft  alone, 
I'ierre  Harold's  arm  the  field  hath  won. 
Mew  sWore  his  eye,  that  flasli'd  so  red 
When  each  other  glance  was  quenched 

with  dread, 
Ror(?  oft  a  light  of  deadly  flame, 
'I'hat  ne'er  from  mortal  courage  came. 
Those  limbs  so  strong,  that  mood  so  stern, 
'I'hat  loved  the  couch  of  h^th  and  fern, 
Afar  from  hamlet,  tower,  and  town. 
More  than  to  rest  on  driven  down; 
That  stubborn  frame,  that  sullen  moo<l. 
Men   deem'd    must   come  of    aught   but 

good; 
And   they   whisper'd,    the    great   Master 

Fiend  was  at  one 
With  Harold  the  Dauntless,  Count  Witi- 

kind's  son. 


Years  after  years  hail  gone  and  fled, 
The  good  old  F'relate  lies  lapp'd  in  lead; 
In  the  chapel  still  is  shown 
His  sculptured  form  on  a  marble  stone, 
With  staff  and  ring  and  scapulaire. 
And  folded  hands  in  the  act  of  prayer. 
Saint  Cuthbert's  mitre  is  resting  now 
On  the  haughty  Saxon,  bold  Aldingar's 

brow ; 
The  power  of  his  crozier  he  loved  to  ex- 
tend 
O'er  whatever  would  break,  or  whatever 

would  bend; 
And  now  hath  he  clothed  him  in  cope  and 

in  pall, 
And  the  Chapter  of  Durham  has  met  at 

his  call. 
"  .A.nd  hear  ye  not,  brethren,"  the  proud 

Bishop  said, 
"That    our    vassal,    the    Danish    Count 

Witikind's  dead? 
All  his  gold  and  his  goods  halh  he  given 
To  holy  Church  for  the  love  of  Heaven, 


And  had  founded  a  chantry  with  stipend 

and  dole, 
That  priests  and  that  beadsmen  may  pray 

for  his  soul : 
Harold  his  son  is  wandering  abroad. 
Dreaded  by  man  and  abhorr'd  by  God; 
Meet  it  is  not,  that  such  should  heir 
The  lands  of  the  Church  on  the  Tyne  and 

the  Wear, 
And  at  her  pleasure  her  hallow'd  hands 
May  now  resume  these  wealthy  lands. 


Answer'd  good  Eustace,  a  canon  old:  — 
"  Harold   is  tameless,  and    furious,   and 

bold; 
Ever  Renown  blows  a  note  of  fame. 
And  a  note  of  fear,  when  she  sounds  his 

name; 
Much  of  bloodshed  and  much  of  scathe 
Have  l)een  their  lot  who  have  waked  his 

wrath. 
Leave    him    these    lands    and    lordships 

still; 
Heaven  in  its  hour  may  change  his  will; 
But  if  reft  of  gold,  and  of  living  bare. 
An  evil  counsellor  is  despair." 
More  had  he  said,  but  the  Prelate  frown'd, 
And    murmur'd    his    brethren   who    sate 

around. 
And  with  one  consent   have  they  given 

their  doom, 
That  the  Church  should  the  lands  of  Saint 

Cuthbert  resume. 
So  will'd  the  Prelate :  and  canon  and  dean 
Gave  to  his  judgment  their  loud  amen. 


CANTO   SECOND. 

I. 

'Tis  merry  in  greenwood  —  thus  runs  the 

old  lay, — 
In  the  gladsome  month  of  lively  May, 
When  the  wild  liirds'  song  on  stem  and 
spray 
Invites  to  forest  bower; 
Then  rears  the  ash  his  airy  crest. 
Then  shines  the  birch  in  silver  vest. 
And  the  beech  in  glistening  leaves  is  drest. 
And  dark  between  shows  the  oak's  proud 
breast. 
Like  a  chieftain's  frowning  tower; 


Canto  II. 


HAROLD    THE  DAUNTLESS. 


357 


Though  a  tliousand  branches  join  their 

screen, 
Yet  the  broken  sunbeams  glance  between, 
And  tip  the  leaves  with  lighter  green, 

With  brighter  tints  the  (lower; 
Dull  is  the  heart  that  loves  not  then 
The  deep  recess  of  thuiwildwood  glen, 
Where  roe  and  red-deer  find  sheltering 
den, 

When  the  sun  is  in  his  power. 


Less  merry,  perchance,  is  the  fading  leaf 
That    follows  so  soon  on   the  gather 'd 

sheaf, 
When  the  greenwood  loses  the  name; 
Silent  is  then  the  forest  bound, 
Save  the  redbreast's  note,  and  the  rustling 

sound 
Of    frost-nipt    leaves   that   are  dropping 

round, 
Or  the  deep-mouth'd  cry  of  the  cUstant 

hound 
That  opens  on  his  game : 
Vet  then,  too,  I  love  the  forest  wide. 
Whether  the  sun  in  splendor  ride, 
Vnd  gild  its  many-color'd  side; 
Or  whether  the  soft  or  silvery  haze. 
In  vapory  folds  o'er  the  landscape  strays. 
And  half  involves  the  woodland  maze. 

Like  an  early  widow's  veil. 
Where  wimjiling  tissue  from  the  gaze 
The  form  half  hides,  and  half  betrays. 
Of  beauty  wan  and  pale. 


Fair  Metelill  was  a  woodland  maid. 
Her  father  a  rover  of  greenwood  shade. 
By  forest  statutes  undismay'd. 

Who  lived  by  Ijow  and  quiver; 
Well  known  was  Wulfstane's  archery. 
By  merry  Tyne  lx)th  on  moor  and  lea. 
Through  wooded  Weardale'sglens  so  free, 
Well  beside  Stanhope's  wildwood  tree. 

And  well  on  Ganlesse  river. 
Yet  free  though  he  trespass'd  on  wood- 
land game, 
More  known   and  more  fear'd  was  the 

wizard  fame 
Of  Jutta  of  Rookhope,  the  Outlaw's  dame; 
Fear'd  when  she  frown'd  was  her  eye  of 
flame, 
More  fear'd  when  in  wrath  she  laugh'd; 


For,  then,  'twas  said,  more  fatal  true 
To  its  dread  aim  her  spell-glance  flew. 
Than  when  from  Wulfstane's  bended  yew 
Sprung  forth  the  gray-goose  shaft. 


Yet  had  this  fierce  and  dreaded  pair. 
So  Heaven  decreed,  a  daughter  fair; 

None  brighter  crown'd  the  bed. 
In  Britain's  bounds,  of  peer  or  prince, 
Nor  hath,  perchance,  a  lovelier  since. 

In  this  fair  isle  been  bred. 
And  naught  of  fraud,  or  ire,  or  ill, 
Was  known  to  gentle  Metelill,  — 

A  simple  maiden  she; 
The  spells  in  dimpled  smile  that  lie, 
Andadowncastblush,andthe  darts  that  fly 
With  the  sidelong  glance  of  a  hazel  eye. 

Were  her  arms  and  witchery. 
So  young,  so  simple  was  she  yet. 
She  scarce  could  childhood's  joys  forget, 
And  still  she  loved,  in  secret  set 

Beneath  the  greenwood  tree. 
To  plait  the  rushy  coronet, 
And  braid  with  flowers  her  locks  of  jet. 

As  when  in  infancy;  — 
Yet  could  that  heart,  so  simple,  prove 
The  early  dawn  of  stealing  love : 

Ah  !  gentle  maid,  beware  ! 
The  power  who,  now  so  mild  a  guest. 
Gives  dangerous  yet  delicious  zest 
To  the  calm  pleasures  of  thy  breast. 
Will  soon,  a  tyrant  o'er  the  rest, 

Let  none  his  empire  share. 


One  morn  in  kirtle  green  array 'd. 
Deep  in  the  wood  the  m.aiden  stray'd. 

And,  where  a  fountain  sprung. 
She  sate  her  down,  unseen,  to  thread 
The  scarlet  berry's  mimic  braid. 

And  while  the  Ijeads  she  strung. 
Like  the  blithe  lark,  whose  carol  gay 
Gives  a  good-morrow  to  the  day. 

So  lightsoniely  she  sung: — 

VI. 
SONG. 

"  Lord   Wiluam   was  born  in  gilded 

bower, 
The  heir  of  Wilton's  lofty  tower; 
Vet  better  loves  Ixird  William  now 
To  roam  beneath  wild  Rookhope's  brow; 


358 


HAROLD    THE   DAUNTLESS. 


Canto  II. 


And  William  has  lived  where  ladies  fair 
With  gawds  and  jewels  deck  their  hair, 
Yet  better  loves  the  dewdrops  still 
That  pearl  the  locks  of  Metelill. 

"  The  pious  Palmer  loves,  I  wis, 
Saint  Cuthbert's  hallow'd  beads  to  kiss, 
But  I,  though  simple  girl  I  be, 
Might  have  such  homage  paid  to  me; 
For  did  Lord  William  see  me  suit 
This  necklace  of  the  bramble's  fruit, 
I  le  fain  —  but  must  not  have  his  will  — 
Would  kiss  the  beads  of  Metelill. 

*'  My  nurse  has  told  me  many  a  tale. 
How  vows  of  love  are  weak  and  frail; 
My  mother  says  that  courtly  youth 
By  rustic  maid  means  seldom  sooth. 
What  should  they  mean?  it  cannot  be. 
That  such  a  warning's  meant  for  me, 
For  naught  —  oh  !   naught  of  fraud  or  ill 
Can  William  mean  to  Metelill !  " 


Sudden  she  stops  —  and  starts  to  feel 
A  weighty  hand,  a  glove  of  steel. 
Upon  her  shrinking  shoulders  laid; 
Fearful  she  turn'd,  and  saw,  dismay'd, 
A  Knight  in  plate  and  mail  array'd. 
His  crest  and  bearing  worn  and  fray'd. 

His  surcoat  soil'd  and  riven, 
Form'd  like  that  giant  race  of  yore. 
Whose  long-continued  crimes  outwore 

The  sufferance  of  Heaven. 
Stern  accents  made  his  pleasure  known. 
Though  then  he  used  his  gentlest  tone  :  — 
"  Maiden,"   he   said,     "  sing    forth    thy 

glee. 
Start  not  —  sing  on — it  pleases  me." 


Secured  within  his  powerful  hold, 
To  bend  her  knee,  her  hands  to  fold, 

Was  all  the  maiden  might; 
And  "  Oh!  forgive,"  she  faintly  said, 
"  The  terrors  of  a  simple  maid. 

If  thou  art  mortal  wight? 
But  if  —  of  such  strange  tales  are  told  — 
Unearthly  warrior  of  the  wold. 
Thou  comest  to  chide  mine  accents  bold. 
My  mother,  Jutta,  knows  the  spell. 
At  noon  and  midnight  pleasing  well 

The  disembodied  ear. 


Oh  !   let  her  powerful  charms  atone 
For  aught  my  rashness  may  have  done. 

And  cease  thy  grasp  of  fear." 
Then  laugh'd  the  Knight  —  his  laughter's 

sound 
Half  in  the  hollow  helmet  drown'd; 
His  barred  visor  then  he  raised. 
And  steady  on  the  maiden  gazed. 
He  smooth'd  his  brows,  as  best  he  might. 
To  the  dread  calm  of  autumn  night, 

When  sinks  the  tempest  roar; 
V'et  still  the  cautious  fishers  eye 
The  clouds,  and  fear  the  gloomy  sky, 

Aiul  haul  their  barks  on  shore. 


"  Damsel,"  he  said,  "  be  wise  and  learri 
Matters  of  weight  and  deep  concern  : 

From  distant  realms  I  come, 
And,    wanderer    long,    at    length     have 

plann'd 
In  this  my  native  Northern  land 

To  seek  myself  a  home. 
Nor  that  alone  —  a  mate  I  seek; 
She  must  be  gentle,  soft,  and  meek,  — 

No  lordly  dame  for  me; 
Myself  am  something  rough  of  mood. 
And  feel  the  fire  of  royal  blood. 
And  therefore  do  not  hold  it  good 

To  match  in  my  degree. 
Then,  since  coy  maidens  say  my  face 
Is  harsh,  my  form  devoid  of  grace, 
For  a  fair  lineage  to  provide, 
'Tis  meet  that  my  selected  bride 
In  lineaments  be  fair; 
I  love  thine  well  —  till  now  I  ne'er 
Look'd  patient  on  a  face  of  fear. 
But  now  that  tremulous  sob  and  tear 

Become  thy  beauty  rare. 
One  kiss  —  nay,  damsel,  coy  it  not !  — 
And  now  go  seek  thy  parents'  cot. 
And  say,  a  bridegroom  soon  I  come, 
To  woo  my  love,  and  bear  her  home." 


Home  sprimg  the  maid  without  a  pause, 
As  leveret  'scaped  from  greyhound's  jaws ; 
But  still  she  lock'd,  howe'er  distress'd. 
The  secret  in  her  boding  breast; 
Dreading  her  sire,  who  oft  forbade 
Her  steps  should  stray  to  distant  glade. 
Night  came  —  to  her  accustom 'd  nook 
Her  distaff  aged  Jutta  took. 


Canto  II. 


HAROLD    THE  DAUNTLESS. 


359 


And  by  the  lamp's  imperfect  glow, 
Rough  Wulfstane  trimm'd  his  shafts  and 

bow. 
Sudden  and  clamorous,  from  the  ground 
Upstarted  slumbering  brach  and  hound; 
Loud  knocking  next  the  lodge  alarms, 
And  Wulfstane  snatches  at  his  arms, 
When  open  flew  the  yielding  door. 
And  that  grim  Warrior  press'd  the  floor :  — 


"  All  peace  be   here. — What!  none  re- 
plies? 
Dismiss  your  fears,  and  your  surprise. 
'Tis  I  — that  Maid  hath  told  my  tale,  — 
Or,  trembler,  did  thy  courage  fail? 
It  recks  not  —  It  is  I  demand 
Fair  Metelill  in  marriage  band; 
Harold  the  Dauntless  I,  whose  name 
Is  brave  men's  boast  and  caitiff's  shame." 
The  parents  sought  each  other's  eyes, 
With  awe,  resentment,  and  surprise: 
Wulfstane,  to  quarrel  prompt,  began 
The  stranger's  size  and  thews  to  scan; 
But  as  he  scann'd  his  courage  sunk. 
And  from  unequal  strife  he  shrunk. 
Then  forth,  to  blight  and  blemish,  flies 
The  harmful  curse  from  Jutta's  eyes; 
Yet,  fatal  howsoe'er,  the  spell 
On  Harold  innocently  fell ! 
And  disappointment  and  amaze 
Were  in  the  witch's  wilder'd  gaze. 


But  soon  the  wit  of  woman  woke. 
And  to  the  Warrior  mild  she  spoke :  — 
"  Her  child  was  all  too  young." — "  A  toy. 
The  refuge  of  a  maiden  coy."  — 
Again,  "  A  powerful  baron's  heir 
Claims  in  her  heart  an  interest  fair."  — 
"  A  trifle  —  whisper  in  his  ear. 
That  Harold  is  a  suitor  here  !  "  — 
Baffled  at  length  she  sought  delay: 
"  Would  not  the  knight  till  morning  stay? 
Late  was  the  hour  —  he  there  might  rest 
Till  morn,  their  lodge's  honor'd  guest." 
Such  were  her  words  —  her  craft  might 

cast, 
Her  honor'd  guest  should  sleep  his  last: 
"No,  not  to-night — -but  soon,"  he  swore, 
"He  would  return,  nor  leave  them  more. ' ' 
The  threshold  then  his  huge  stride  crost. 
And  soon  he  was  iu  darkness  lost. 


Appall'd  a  while  the  parents  stood. 
Then  changed  their  fear  to  angry  mood, 
And  foremost  fell  their  words  of  ill 
On  unresisting  Metelill; 
Was  she  not  caution'd  and  forbid, 
Forewarn'd,  implored,  accused,  and  chid. 
And  must  she  still  to  greenwood  roam. 
To  marshal  such  misfortune  home? 
"Hence,  minion — to  thy  chamber  hence — 
There  prudence  learn  and  penitence." 
She  went — her  lonely  couch  to  steep 
In  tears  which  absent  lovers  weep; 
Or  if  she  gain'd  a  troubled  sleep. 
Fierce  Harold's  suit  was  still  the  theme 
And  terror  of  her  feverish  dream. 


Scarce  was  she  gone,  her  dame  and  sire 
Upon  each  other  bent  their  ire:  — 
"  A  woodsman  thou,  and  hast  a  spear. 
And  couldst  thou  such  an  insult  liear?" 
Sullen  he  said :  —  "A  man  contends 
With  men,  a  witch  with  sprites  and  fiends; 
Not  to  mere  mortal  wight  belong 
Yon  gloomy  brow  and  frame  so  strong; 
But  thou  —  is  this  thy  promise  fair. 
That  your  Lord  William,  wealthy  heir 
To  Ulrick,  Baron  of  Witton-le-Wear, 
Should  Metelill  to  altar  bear? 
Do  all  the  spells  thou  boast'st  as  thine 
Serve  but  to  slay  some  peasant's  kine. 
His  grain  in  autumn's  storms  to  steep, 
Or  thorough  fog  and  fen  to  sweep. 
And  hag-ride  some  poor  rustic's  sleep? 
Is  such  mean  mischief  worth  the  fame 
Of  sorceress  and  witch's  name? 
Fame,  which  with  all  men's  wish  con- 
spires. 
With  thy  deserts  and  my  desires. 
To  damn  thy  corpse  to  penal  fires? 
Out  on  thee,  witch  !  aroint !  aroint ! 
What  now  shall  put  thy  schemes  in  joint? 
What  save  this  trusty  arrow's  point. 
From  the  dark  dingle  when  it  flies. 
And  he  who  meets  it  gasps  and  dies." 


Stern  she  replied:  —  "I  will  not  wage 
War  with  thy  folly  or  thy  rage; 
But  ere  the  morrow's  sun  be  low, 
Wulfstane  of  Rookhope,  thou  shaft  know. 
If  I  can  venge  me  on  a  foe. 


36o 


HAROLD    THE   DAUNTLESS. 


Canto  II. 


Believe  the  while,  that  whatsoe'er 

I  spoke,  in  ire,  of  bow  and  spear, 

It  is  not  Harold's  destiny 

The  death  of  pilfer'd  deer  to  die. 

But  he,  and  thou,  and  yon  pale  moon, 

(That  shall  be  yet  more  pallid  soon. 

Before  she  sink  behind  the  dell,) 

Thou,  she,  and  Harold  too,  shall  tell 

What  Jutta  knows  of  charm  or  spell." 

Thus  nnittcring,  to  the  door  she  bent 

Her  wayward  steps,  and  forth  she  went, 

And  left  alone  the  moody  sire, 

To  cherish  or  to  slake  his  lire. 


Far  faster  than  bclong'd  to  age 

Has  Jutta  made  her  pilgrimage. 

A  priest  has  met  her  as  she  pass'd. 

And  cross'd  himself  and  stood  aghast. 

She  traced  a  hamlet  —  not  a  cur 

His  throat  would  ope,  his  foot  would  stir; 

By  crouch,  by  trembling,  and  by  groan. 

They  made  her  hated  presence  known  ! 

But  when  she  trode  the  sable  fell. 

Were  wilder  sounds  her  way  to  tell,  — 

For  far  was  heard  the  fox's  yell. 

The  black-cock  waked  and  faintly  crew, 

Scream'd  o'er  the  moss  the  scaredcurlew; 

Where  o'er  the  cataract  the  oak 

Lay  slant,  was  heard  the  raven's  croak; 

The  mountain-cat,  which  sought  his  prey. 

Glared,  scream'd,  and  started   from   her 

way. 
Such  music  cheer'd  her  journey  lone 
To  the  deep  dell  and  rocking  stone; 
There,  with  unhallow'd  hymn  of  praise. 
She  called  a  God  of  heathen  days. 


INVOCATION. 

"  From  thy  Pomeranian  throne, 
Hewn  in  rock  of  living  stone. 
Where,  to  thy  godhead  faithful  yet, 
Bend  Eslhonian,  Finn,  T^v\^^  Lett, 
And  their  swords  in  vengeance  whet. 
That  shall  make  thine  altars  wet. 
Wet  and  red  for  ages  more 
With  the  Christians'  hated  gore,  — 
Hear  me  !   Sovereign  of  the  Rock, 
Hear  me  !   mighty  Zernebock  !  * 

*  Zernebock,  Clurny  Bog,  Slavonic  for  Black 
Go4. 


"  Mightiest  of  the  mighty  known, 
Here  thy  wonders  have  been  shown; 
Hundred  tribes  in  various  tongue 
Oft  have  here  thy  praises  sung; 
Down  that  stone  with  Runic  seam'd, 
Hundred  victims'  blood  hath  stream'd  I 
Now  one  woman  comes  alone, 
And  but  wets  it  with  her  own. 
The  last,  the  feeblest  of  thy  flock,  — 
Hear — and  be  present,  Zernebock! 

"Hark!  becomes!   the  night-blast  cold 
Wilder  sweeps  along  the  wold; 
The  cloudless  moon  grows  dark  and  dim. 
And  bristling  hair  and  quaking  limb 
Proclaim  the  Master  Demon  nigh,  — 
Those  who  view  his  form  shall  die  ! 
\n  !  I  stoop  anfl  veil  my  head; 
Thou  who  ridest  the  tempest  dread, 
Shaking  hill  and  rending  oak  — 
Spare  me  !  spare  me  !   Zernebock. 

"  He  comes  not  yet !   shall  cold  delay 
Thy  votaress  at  her  need  repay? 
Thou  —  shall  I  call  thee  god  or  fiend  ? — 
Let  others  on  thy  mood  attend 
With  prayer  and  ritual —  Jutta's  arms 
Are  necromantic  words  and  charms; 
Mine  is  the  spt-ll,  that,  utter'd  once, 
Shall  wake  Thy  Master  from  his  trance. 
Shake  his  red  mansion-house  of  pain, 
And     burst     his     seven  -  times  -  twisted 

chain  !  — 
So!  com'st  thou  ere  the  spell  is  spoke? 
I  own  thy  presence,  Zernebock."  — 


"  Daughter  of  dust,"    the    Deep  Voice 

said, 
—  Shook  while    it    spoke    the   vale    for 

dread, 
Rock'd  on  the  base  that  massive  stone. 
The  Evil  Deity  to  own,  — 
"  Daughter  of  dust !  not  mine  the  power 
Thou  seek'st  on  Harold's  fatal  hour. 
'Twixt  heaven  and  hell  there  is  a  strife 
Waged  for  his  soul  and  for  his  life, 
And  fain  would  we  the  combat  win. 
And  snatch  him  in  his  hour  of  sin. 
There  is  a  star  now  rising  red, 
That  threats  him  with  an  influence  dread  : 
Woman,  thine  arts  of  malice  whet, 
I'o  use  the  space  before  it  set. 


Canto  HI. 


HAROLD    THE  DAUNTLESS. 


361 


Involve  him  with  the  Church  in  strife, 
Push  on  adventurous  chance  his  life; 
Ourself  will  in  the  hour  of  need. 
As  best  we  may  thy  counsels  speed." 
So  ceased  the  Voice;    for  seven  leagues 

round 
Each  hamlet  started  at  the  sound; 
But  slept  again,  as  slowly  died 
Its  thunders  on  the  hill's  brown  side. 


"  And  is  this  all,"  said  Jutta  stern, 
"That  thou  canst  teach  and  I  can  learn? 
Hence !  to  (he  land  of  fog  and  waste. 
There  fittest  is  thine  influence  placed, 
Thou  powerless,  sluggish  deity  ! 
But  ne'er  shall  Briton  bend  the  knee 
Again  before  so  poor  a  god." 
She  struck  the  altar  with  her  rod: 
Sliglu  was  the  touch,  as  when  at  need 
A  damsel  stirs  her  tardy  steed; 
But  to  the  blow  the  stone  gave  place, 
And,  starting  from  its  balanced  base, 
RoU'd  thundering  down  the  moonlight 

dell,  — 
Re-echo'd  moorland,  rock,  and  fell; 
Into  the  moonlight  tarn  it  dash'd. 
Their  shores  tlic  sounding  surges  lash'd. 

And  there  was  ripple,  rage,  and  foam; 
But  on  that  lake,  so  dark  and  lone. 
Placid  and  pale  the  moonbeam  shone 

As  Jutta  hied  her  home. 


CANTO  THIRD. 
I. 

Gray  towers  of  Durham !  there  was 
once  a  time 

I  view'd  your   battlements  with  such 
vague  hope, 

As  brightens  life  in  its  first   dawning 
prime ; 

Not  that  e'en  then  came  within  fancy's 
scope 

A  vision  vain  of  mitre,  throne,  or  cope; 

Yet,  gazing  on  the  venerable  hall, 

Her  flattering  dreams  would  in  per- 
spective ope 

Some    reverend   room,   some    preben- 
dary's stall,  — 
And  thus  Hope  me  deceived  as  she  de- 
ceiveth  all. 


Well  yet  I  love  thy  mix'd  and  massive 

piles. 
Half  church  of  God,  half  castle  'gainst 

the  Scot, 
And    long    to    roam    these    venerable 

aisles, 
With    records   stored   of    deeds    long 

since  forgot; 
There  might  I  share  my  Surtees'*  hap- 
pier lot. 
Who  leaves  at  will  his  patrimonial  field 
1*o  ransack  every  crjpt   and  hallow'd 

spot, 
And  from  oblivion  rend  the  spoils  they 

yield. 
Restoring    priestly  chant    and    clang   of 

knightly  shield. 

Vain  is  the  wish  —  since  other  cares 

demand 
Each    vacant    hour,    and    in    another 

clime; 
But  still  that  northern  harp  invites  my 

hand. 
Which  tells  the  wonder  of  thine  earlier 

time ; 
And   fain  its    numbers  would   I   now 

command 
To  paint  the  beauties  of  that  dawning 

fair. 
When   Harold,  gazing  from  its  lofty 

stand. 
Upon  the  western  heights  of   Beaure- 

paire. 
Saw  Saxon   Eadmer's  towers  begirt  by 

winding  Wear. 


Fair  on  the  half-seen  stream  the  sun- 
beams danced. 

Betraying  it  beneath  the  woodland 
bank. 

And  fair  between  the  Gothic  turrets 
glanced 

Broad  lights,  and  shadows  fell  on  front 
and  flank, 

And  girdled  in  the  massive  donjon 
Keep, 

And  from  their  circuit  peal'd  o'er  bush 
and  bank 

*  Robert  Surtees  of  Mainsforth,  F.S.  A., author 
of  "  The  History  and  Antiquities  of  the  County 
Palatine  of  Durfiam." 


362 


HAROLD    THE  DAUNTLESS. 


Canto  III. 


The  matin  bell  with  summons  long  and 
deep, 
And    echo    answer'd    still    with  long-re- 
sounding sweep. 


The  morning  mists  rose  from  the  ground, 
Each  merry  bird  awaken'd  round, 

As  if  in  revelry; 
Afar  the  bugles'  clanging  sound 
Call'd  to  the  chase  the  lagging  hound; 

The  gale  breathed  soft  and  free, 
And  seem'd  to  linger  on  its  way 
To  catch  fresh  odors  from  the  spray, 
And  waved  it  in  its  wanton  play 

So  light  and  gamesomely. 
The  scenes  which  morning  beams  reveal. 
Its  sounds  to  hear,  its  gales  to  feel 
III  all  their  fragrance  round  him  steal. 
It  melted  Har(jld's  heart  of  steel, 

And,  hardly  wotting  why, 
lie  doff'd  his  helmet's  gloomy  pride, 
And  hung  it  on  a  tree  beside. 

Laid  mace  and  falchion  by, 
And  on  the  greensward  sate  him  down, 
And  from  his  dark  habitual  frown 

Relax'd  his  rugged  brow  — 
Whoever  hath  the  doubtful  task 
From  that  stern  Dane  a  boon  to  ask, 

Were  wise  to  ask  it  now. 


His  place  I)eside  young  Gunnar  took, 
And      mark'd     his     master's     softening 

look. 
And  in  his  eye's  dark  mirror  spied 
The  gloom  of  stormy  thoughts  subside. 
And  cautious  watch'd  the  fittest  tide 

To  speak  a  warning  word. 
So  when  the  torrent's  billows  shrink, 
The  timid  pilgrim  on  the  brink 
Waits     long     to     see    them    wave    and 
sink. 

Ere  he  dare  brave  the  ford, 
And  often  after  doubtful  pause, 
His  step  advances  or  withdraws: 
Fearful  to  move  the  slumbering  ire 
Of  his  stern  lord  thus  stood  the  s(|uire, 

Till  Harold  raised  his  eye. 
That     glanced    as     when    athwart     the 

shroud 
Of  the  dispersing  tempest-cloud 

The  bursting  sunbeams  fly; — 


"Arouse  thee,  son  of  Ermengarde, 
Offspring  of  prophetess  and  bard  ! 
Take  harp  and  greet  this  lovely  prime 
With  some  high  strain  of  Runic  rhyme. 
Strong,  deep,  and  powerful !  I'eai  it  round 
Like  that  loud  bell's  sonorous  sound, 
Yet  wild  by  fits,  as  when  the  lay 
Of  bird  and  bugle  hail  the  day. 
Such  was  my  grandsire  Eric's  sport. 
When  dawn  gleam'd  on  his  martial  court, 
Heymar   the    Scald,    with    harp's    high 

sound, 
Summon'd  the  chiefs  who  slept  around; 
Couch'd  on  the  spoils  of  wolf  and  bear, 
They  roused  like  lions  from  their  lair. 
Then  rush'd  in  emulation  forth 
To  enhance  the  glories  of  the  North.  — 
Proud  Eric,  mightiest  of  thy  race. 
Where  is  thy  shadowy  resting  place? 
In  wild  Valhalla  hast  thou  cjuaff'd 
From  foeman's  skull  metheglin  draught, 
Or  wanderest  where  thy  cairn  was  jiiled 
To  frown  o'er  oceans  wide  and  wild? 
Or  have  the  milder  Christians  given 
Thy  refuge  in  their  peaceful  heaven? 
where'er  thou  art,  to  thee  are  known 
Our  toils  endured,  our  trophies  won. 
Our  wars,  our  wanderings,  and  our  woes.'' 
He  ceased,  and  Gunnar's  song  arose:  — 

VI. 
SONG. 

"  Hawk  and  osprey  screamed  for  joy 
O'er  the  beetling  cliffs  of  Hoy, 
Crimson  foam  the  beach  o'erspread. 
The  heath  was  dyed  with  darker  red, 
When  o'er  Eric,  Inguar's  son, 
Dane  and  Northman  jiiled  the  stone; 
Singing  wild  the  war-song  stern:  — 
'  Rest  thee,  Dweller  of  the  Cairn !  ' 

"  Where  eddying  currents  foam  and  boil 
By  Bersa's  burgh  and  Graemsay's  isle. 
The  seaman  sees  a  martial  form 
Half-mingled  with  the  mist  and  storm. 
In  anxious  awe  he  liears  away 
To  moor  his  bark  in  .Stromna's  bay,  J 

And  murmurs  from  the  l)ounding  stern  : —       1 
'  Rest  thee.  Dweller  of  the  Cairn  !  ' 

"  What  cares  disturb  the  mighty  dead? 
Each  honor'd  rite  was  duly  paid; 


Canto  III. 


HAROLD    THE  DAUNTLESS. 


36J 


No  daring  hand  thy  helm  unlaced, 

Thy  sword,  thy  shield,   were  near   thee 

placed,  — ■ 
Thy  flinty  couch  no  tear  profaned, 
Without,  with  hostile  blood 'twas  stain'd; 
Within,  'twas  lined  with  moss  and  fern ;  — 
Then  rest  thee,  Dweller  of  the  Cairn  !  " 

"He  may  not  rest:  from  realms  afar 
Comes  voice  of  battle  and  of  war. 
Of  conquest  wrought  with  bloody  hand 
On  Carmel's  cliffs  and  Jordan's  strand, 
When  Odin's  warlike  son  could  daunt 
The  turban'd  race  of  Termagaunt."  — 


"  Peace,"  said  the  Knight,  "  the  noble 

Scald 
Our  warlike  fathers'  deeds  recall'd. 
Hut  never  strove  to  soothe  the  son 
With  talcs  of  what  himself  had  done. 
At  Odin's  board  the  bard  sits  high 
Whose  harp  ne'er  stoop'd  to  flattery; 
I!ut  highest  he  whose  daring  lay 
I  lath  dared  unwelcome  trutiis  to  say." 
With  doubtful  smile  young  Gunnar  eyed 
His  master's  looks,  and  naught  replied — - 
Hut  well  that  smile  his  master  led 
To  construe  what  he  left  unsaid :  — 
"  Is  it  to  me,  thou  timid  youth. 
Thou  fear'st  to  speak  unwelcome  truth? 
My  soul  no  more  thy  censure  grieves 
Than  frosts  rob  laurels  of  their  leaves. 
Say  on  —  and  yet  — -  beware  the  rude 
And  wild  distemper  of  my  blood; 
Loth  were  I  that  mine  ire  should  wrong 
The  youth  that  bore  my  shield  so  long. 
And  wh<j  in  service  constant  still, 
Though    weak   in    frame,    art    strong   in 

will."  — 
"  Oh  !  "  quoth  the  page,  "  even  there  de- 
pends 
My  counsel  —  there  my  warning  tends  — 
Oft  seems  as  of  my  master's  breast 
Some  demon  were  the  sudden  guest; 
Then  at  the  first  misconstrued  word 
His  hands  is  on  the  mace  and  sword. 
From  her  firm  seat  his  wisdom  driven. 
His  life  to  countless  dangers  given. — 
O  !   would  that  Gunnar  could  suffice 
To  be  the  fiend's  last  sacrifice. 
So  that,  when  glutted  \sith  my  gore. 
He  fled  and  tempted  thee  no  more !  " 


Then  waved  his  hand,  and  shook  his  head 
The    impatient    Dane,    while     thus    he 

said: — 
"  Profane  not,  youth  —  it  is  not  thine 
To  judge  the  spirit  of  our  line  — 
The  bold  Berserkar's  rage  divine, 
Through     whose    inspiring,    deeds    are 

wrought 
Past  human  strength  and  human  thought. 
When  full  upon  his  gloomy  soul 
The  champion  feels  the  influence  roll. 
He  swims  the  lake,  he  leaps  the  wall  — 
Heeds  not  the  depth,  nor    plumbs    the 

fall  — 
Unshielded,  mail-less,  on  he  goes 
Singly  against  a  host  of  foes; 
Their  spears  he  holds  like  wither'd  reeds. 
Their  mail  like  maiden's  silken  weeds; 
One  'gainst  a  hundred  will  he  strive. 
Take  countless  wounds  and  yet  survive. 
Then  rush  the  eagles  to  his  cry 
Of  slaughter  and  of  victory,  —  , 

And  blood  he  quaffs  like  Odin's  bowl, 
Deep  drinks  his  sword,  —  deep  drinks  his 

soul; 
And  all  that  meet  him  in  his  ire 
He  gives  to  ruin,  rout,  and  fire; 
Then,  like  gorged  lion,  seeks  some  den. 
And  couches  till  he's  man  agen.  — 
Thou  know'st  the  signs  of  look  and  limb, 
When  'gins  that  rage  to  overbrim  — 
Thou  know'st  when   I  am  moved,  and 

why; 
And  when  thou  seest  me  roll  mine  eye. 
Set  my  teeth  thus,  and  stamp  my  foot, 
Regard  thy  safety  and  be  mute; 
But  else  speak  lx)ldly  out  whate'er 
Is  fitting  that  a  knight  should  hear. 
I  love  thee,  youth.     Thy  lay  has  power 
Upon  my  dark  and  sullen  hour;  — 
So  Christian  monks  are  wont  to  say 
Demons  of  old  were  charmed  away; 
Then  fear  not  I  will  rashly  deem 
111  of  thy  speech,  whate'er  the  theme." 


As  down  some  strait  in  doubt  and  dread 
The  watchful  pilot  drops  the  lead. 
And,  cautious  in  the  midst  to  steer. 
The  shoaling  channel  sounds  with  fear; 
So,  lest  on  dangerous  ground  he  swerved. 
The  Page  his  master's  brow  observed, 


364 


HAROLD    THE   DAUNTLESS. 


Canto  III. 


I'ausing  at  intervals  to  fling 

His  hand  o'er  the  melodious  string, 

And  to  his  moody  breast  apply 

The  soothing  charm  of  harmony. 

While  hinted  half,  and  half  exprest. 

This  warning  song  convey 'd  the  rest:  — 

SONG. 

I. 

"  111  fares  the  bark  with  tackle  riven. 
And  ill  when  on  the  breakers  driven, — 
111  when  the  storm-sprite  shrieks  in  air, 
And  the  scared  mermaid  tears  her  hair; 
But  worse  when  on  her  helm  the  hand 
Of  some  false  traitor  holds  command. 


"  111  fares  the  fainting  Palmer,  placed 
Mid  Hebron's  rocks  or  Rana's  waste,  — 
111  when  the  scorching  sun  is  high, 
And  the  expected  font  is  dry,  — 
Worse  when  his  guide  o'er  sand  and  heath, 
The   barbarous    Copt,    has   plann'd   his 
death. 

3- 

"  111  fares  the  Knight  with  buckler  cleft, 
And  ill  when  of  his  helm  liereft,  — 
111  when  his  steed  to  earth  is  flung. 
Or  from  his  grasp  his  falchion  wrung; 
But  worse,  if  instant  ruin  token. 
When  he  lists  rede  by  woman  spoken."  — 


"How   now,  fond    boy?  —  Canst   thou 

think  ill," 
Said  Harold,  <'of  fair  Metelill?"  — 
"  She  may  be  fair,"  the  Page  replied, 

As  through  the  strings  he  ranged,  — 
'*  She  may  be  fair;    but  yet,"  he  cried, 

And  then  the  strain  he  changed,  — 


"  She  may  be  fair,"  he  sang,  "  but  yet 

Far  fairer  have  I  seen 
Than  she,  for  all  her  locks  of  jet, 

And  eyes  so  dark  and  sheen. 
Were  I  a  Danish  knight  in  arms, 

As  one  day  I  may  be, 
My     heart     should     own     no     foreign 
charms,  — 

A  Danish  maid  for  me. 


"  I  love  my  father's  northern  land, 

Where  the  dark  pine-trees  grow. 
And  the  bold  Baltic's  echoing  strand 

Looks  o'er  each  grassy  oe.* 
I  love  to  mark  the  lingering  sun, 

From  Dennjark  loth  to  go, 
And  leaving  on  the  billows  bright. 
To  cheer  the  short-lived  summer  nigiil, 

A  path  of  ruddy  glow. 


"  But  most  northern  maid  I  love. 

With  breast  like  Denmark's  snow, 
And  form  as  fair  as  Denmark's  pine. 
Who  loves  with  purple  heath  to  twine 

Her  locks  of  sunny  glow; 
And  sweetly  blends  that  shade  of  gold 

With  the  cheek's  rosy  hue, 
And  faith  might  for  her  mirror  hold 

That  eye  of  matchless  blue. 


"  'Tis  hers  the  manly  sports  to  love 

That  southern  maidens  fear. 
To  bend  the  bow  by  stream  and  grove, 

And  lift  the  hunter's  spear. 
She  can  her  chosen  champion's  flight 

With  eye  undazzled  see. 
Clasp  him  victorious  from  the  strife. 
Or  on  his  corpse  yield  up  her  life,  — 

A  Danish  maid  for  me !  " 


Then  smiled  the  Dane:  — "Thou  canst 

so  well 
The  virtues  of  our  maidens  tell. 
Half  could  I  wish  my  choice  had  been 
Blue  eyes,  and  hair  of  golden  sheen. 
And  lofty  soul;  — yet  what  of  ill 
Hast  thou  to  charge  on  Metelill?  "  — 
"Nothing  on  her,"  young  Gunnar  said, 
"  But  her  base  sire's  ignoble  trade. 
Her  mother,  too  —  the  general  fame 
Hath  given  to  Jutta  evil  name, 
And  in  her  gray  eye  is  a  flame 
Art  cannot  hide,  nor  fear  can  tame.  — 
That  sordid  woodman's  peasant  cot 
Twicehavethinehonor'd  footsteps  sought, 
And  twice  return'd  with  such  ill  rede 
As  sent  thee  on  some  desperate  deed."  — 

*  Oe,  island. 


Canto  IV. 


HAROLD    THE  DAUNTLESS. 


3^5 


"Thou  errest;    Jutta  wisely  said. 

He  that  comes  suitor  to  a  maid, 

Ere  link'd  in  marriage,  should  provide 

Lands  and  a  dwelling  for  his  bride  — 

My  father's,  by  the  Tyne  and  Wear, 

I  have  reclaim'd."  —  "  O,  all  too  dear. 

And  all  too  dangerous  the  prize, 

E'en    were    it    won,"    young    Gunnar 

cries;  — 
"  And  then  this  Jutta's  fresh  device, 
ihat  thou  shouldst seek,  a  heathen  Dane, 
I'rom  Durham's  priests  a  boon  to  gain, 
When  thou  hast  left  their  vassals  slain 
In  their  own  halls!  "  —  Flush'd  Harold's 

eye, 
Thunder'd    his    voice: — "False    Page, 

you  lie ! 
The  castle,  hall  and  tower,  is  mine, 
Kuilt  liy  old  Witikind  on  Tyne. 
The  wild-cat  will  defend  his  den, 
F"ights  for  her  nest  the  timid  wren; 
And  think'st  thou  I'll  forego  my  right 
For  dread  of  monk  or  monkish  knight? 
Up  and  away,  that  deepening  bell 
Doth  of  the  Bishop's  conclave  tell. 
Thither  will  I,  in  manner  due, 
As  Jutta  bade,  my  claim  to  sue; 
And,  if  to  right  me  they  are  loth, 
Then  woe  to  church  and  chapter  both  !  " 
Now  shift  the  scene,  and  let  the  curtain 

fall, 
And  our  next  entry  be  Saint  Cuthbert's 

hall. 


CANTO   FOURTH. 
I. 
Full  many  a  bard  hath  sung  the  solemn 

gloom 
Of    the   long  Gothic   aisle  and  stone- 

ribb'd  roof, 
O'er-canopying  shrine,   and  gorgeous 

tomb, 
Carved  screen,  and  altar  glimmering  far 

aloof, 
And    blending    with    the    shade,  —  a 

matchless  proof 
Of    high    devotion,    which    hath    now 

wax'd  cold; 
Yet   legends  say,  that   Luxury's  brute 

hoof 


Intruded  oft  within  such  sacred  fold. 
Like  step  of  Bel's  false  priest,  track'd  in 
his  fame  of  old. 

Well  pleased  am  I,  howe'er,  that  when 

the  rout 
Of  our  rude  neighbors  whilome  deign'd 

to  come, 
Uncall'd,  and  eke  unwelcome,  to  sweep 

out 
And  cleanse  our  chancel  from  the  rags 

of  Rome, 
They  spoke  not  on  our  ancient  fame 

the  doom 
To  which  their  bigot  zeal   gave  o'er 

their  own. 
But    spared    the    marlyr'<l    saint    and 

storied  tomb, 
Tho'   papal    miracles    had  graced  the 

stone. 
And  tho'  the  aisles  still  loved  the  organ's 

swelling  tone. 

And  deem  not,  tho'  'tis  now  my  part 

to  paint 
A  Prelate  sway'd  by  love  of  power  and 

gold. 
That  ail  who  wore  the  mitre  of  our  Saint 
Like  to  ambitious  Aldingar  I  hold; 
Since  both  in  modern  times  and  days  of 

old 
It  sate  on  those  whose  virtues  might 

atone 
Their  predecessors'  frailties  trebly  told; 
Matthew  and  Morton  we  as  such  may 

own  — 
And    such    (if    fame    speak    truth)    the 

honor'd  Barrington. 


But  now  to  earlier  and  to  ruder  times, 
As    subject   meet,    I    tune  my  rugged 

rhymes. 
Telling  how  fairly  the  chapter  was  met. 
And  rood  and  Iwoks  in  seemly  order 

set; 
Huge  brass-clasp'd  volumes,  which  the 

hand 
Of  studious  priest  but  rarely  scann'd. 
Now  on  fair  carved  desk  display'd, 
'Twas  theirs  the  solemn  scene  to  aid. 
O'erheadwithmany  ascutcheongraced, 
.'^nd  quaint  devices  interlaced. 


3^6 


HAROLD    THE  DAUNTLESS. 


Canto  IV. 


A  labyrinth  of  crossing  rows, 

The  roof  in  lessening  arches  shows; 

Beneath   its  shade  placed  proud  and 

high, 
With  footstool  and  with  canopy, 
Sate  Aldingar,  — and  prelate  ne'er 
More  haughty  graced  Saint  Cuthbert's 

chair; 
Canons  and  deacons  were  placed  below. 
In  due  degree  and  lengthen 'd  row. 
Unmoved  and  silent  each  sat  there, 
Like  image,  in  his  oaken  chair; 
Nor    head,   nor   hand,  nor  foot  they 

stirr'd. 
Nor  lock  of  hair,  nor  tress  of  beard; 
And  of  their  eyes  severe  alone 
The    twinkle   show'd    they  were  not 

stone. 


The  Prelate  was  to  speech  address'd, 
Each   head    sunk    reverent    on    each 

breast ; 
But  ere  his  voice  was  heard  —  without 
Arose  a  wild  tumultuous  shout, 
Offspring  of  wonder  mix'd  with  fear. 
Such  as  in  crowded  streets  we  hear 
Hailing  the  flames,  that,  bursting  out. 
Attract  yet  scare  the  rabble  rout. 
Ere  it  had  ceased,  a  giant  hand 
Shook  oaken  door  and  iron  band, 
Till  oak  and  iron  both  gave  way, 
Clash'd  the  long  bolts,  the  hinges  bray. 

And,  ere  upon  angel  or  saint  they  can 
call, 

Stands  Harold  the  Dauntless  in  midst  of 
the  hall. 


"  Now  save  ye,  my  masters,  both  rochet 

and  rood. 
From  Bishop  with  mitre  to  Deacon  with 

hood ! 
For  liere  stands  Count  Harold,  old  Witi- 

kind's  son, 
Come  to  sue  for  the  lands  which  his  an- 
cestors won." 
The  Prelate  look'd  round  him  with  sore 

troubled  eye. 
Unwilling  to  grant,  yet  afraid  to  deny; 
While  each  Canon  and  Deacon  who  hoard 

the  Dane  speak, 
To  be  safely  at  home  would  have  fasted 

a  week 


Then  Aldingar  roused  him,  and  answer'd 

again :  — 
"  Thou  suest  for  a  boon  which  thou  canst 

not  obtain; 
The  Church  hath  no  fiefs  for  an  uncliris- 

ten'd  Dane. 
Thy  father  was  wise,  and  his  treasure  hath 

given. 
That  the  priests  of  a  chantry  might  hymn 

him  to  heaven; 
And  the  fiefs  which  whilome  he  possess'd 

as  his  due, 
Have   lapsed   to   the   Church,  and  been 

granted  anew 
To  Anthony  Conyers  and  Albcric  Vere, 
For  the  service  Saint  Cuthbert's  blest  ban 

ner  to  bear, 
When  the  bands  of  the  North  come  to  foray 

the  Wear; 
Then  disturb  not  our  conclave  with  wran- 
gling or  blame. 
But  in  peace  and  in  patience  pass  hence 

as  ye  came." 

V. 

Loud  laugh'dthestern  Pagan : — "They're 

free  from  the  care 
Of  fief  and  of  service,  both  Conyers  and 

Vere,  — 
Six  feet  of  your  chancel  is  all  they  will 

need, 
A  buckler  of  stone  and  a  corslet  of  lead. — 
Ho,    Gunnar  !  —  the    tokens;"  —  and, 

sever'd  anew, 
A   head    and    a    hand    on    the    altar    he 

threw. 
Then  shudder'd  with  terror  both  Canon 

and  Monk, 
They  knew  the  glazed  eye  and  the  coun- 
tenance shrunk. 
And  of  Anthony  Conyers  the  half-grizzled 

hair, 
And  the  scar  on  the  hand  of  Sir  Alberic 

Vere. 
There  was  not  a  churchman  or  priest  that 

was  there, 
But  grew  pale  at  the  sight,  and  betook 

him  to  prayer. 

VI. 

Count  Harold  laugh 'd  at  their  looks  of 

fear :  — ■ 
"  Was  this  the  hand  should  your  banner 

bear? 


Canto  IV. 


HAROLD    THE  DAUNTLESS. 


i^ 


Was    that    the    head    should    wear    the 

casque 
III  liattle  at  the  Church's  task? 
Was  it  to  such  you  gave  the  place 
Of  Harold  with  the  heavy  mace? 
Find  me  between  the  Wear  and  Tyne 
A  knight  will  wield  this  club  of  mine,  — 
Give  him  my  (lefs,  and  I  will  say 
There's  wit  beneath  the  cowl  of  gray." 
He  raised  it,  rough  with  many  a  stain, 
Caught  from  crush'd  skull  and  spouting 

brain  ! 
He  vvheel'd  it  that  it  shrilly  sung, 
And  the  aisles  echo'd  as  it  swung, 
Then  dash'd  it  down  with  sheer  descent. 
And  split  King  Osric's  monument.— 
"  How  like  ye  this  music  !     How  trow  ye 

the  hand 
That  can  wield  such  a  mace  may  be  reft 

of  its  land? 
No    answer  ?  —  I    spare    ye    a   space    to 

agree, 
And  Saint  Cuthbert  inspire  you,  a  saint  if 

he  be. 
Ten   strides   through    your    chancel,  ten 

strokes  on  your  bell, 
And  again  I  am  with  you  — grave  fathers, 

farewell." 

VII. 

He  turn'd  from  their  presence,  he  clash'd 

the  oak  door. 
And  the  clang  of  his  stride  died  away  on 

the  floor; 
And  his  head  from  his  lx)Som  the  Prelate 

uprears 
With  a  ghost-seer's  look  when  the  ghost 

disappears. 
"  Ye  priests  of  Saint  Cuthbert,  now  give 

me  your  rede, 
For  never  of  counsel  had  Bishop  more 

need ! 
Were  the  arch-fiend  incarnate  in  flesh  and 

in  bone, 
The  language,  the   look,  and  the  laugh 

were  his  own. 
In  the  bounds  of  Saint  Cuthbert  there  is 

not  a  knight 
Dare  confront  in  our  quarrel  yon  goblin 

in  fight; 
Then  rede   me    aright    to   his    claim   to 

reply, 
'Tis  unlawful  to  grant,  and  'tis  death  to 

deny." 


On  venison  and   malmsie   that   morning 

had  fed 
The  Cellarer  Vinsauf  —  'twas  thus  that 

he  said :  — 
"  Delay    till    to-morrow    the    Chapter's 

reply; 
Let  the  feast  be  spread  fair,  and  the  wine 

be  pour'd  high : 
If  he's  mortal  he  drinks,  — if  he  drinks, 

he  is  ours  — 
His  bracelets  of  iron,  —  his  bed  in  our 

towers." 
This  man  had  a  laughing  eye, 
Trust  not,  friends,  when  such  you  spyV, 
A  beaker's  depth  he  well  could  drain. 
Revel,  sport,  and  jest  amain  — 
The  haunch  of  the  deer  and  the  grape's 

bright  dye  ".'.. 

Never  bard  loved  them  better  than  I ; 
But  sooner  than  Vinsauf   (rll'd  me    my 

wine, 
Pass'd  me  his  jest,  and  laugh'd  at  mine. 
Though  the  buck  were  of  Bearpark,  of 

Bordeaux  the  vine. 
With  the  dullest  hermit  I'd  rather  dine 
On  an  oaken  cake  and  a  draught  of  the 

Tyne. 

IX. 

Walwayn  the   leech    spoke    next.       He 

knew 
Each  plant  that  loves  the  sun  and  dew. 
But  special  those  whose  juice  can  gain 
Dominion  o'er  the  blood  and  brain; 
The  peasant  who  saw  him  by  pale  moon- 
beam 
Gathering  such  herbs  by  bank  and  stream, 
Deem'd  his  thin  form  and  soundless  tread 
W^ere  those  of  wanderer  from  the  dead.  — 
"Vinsauf,  thy   wine,"  he   said,  "hath 

power, 
Our  gyves  are  heavy,  strong  our  tower; 
Yet  three  drops  from  this  flask  of  mine, 
More   strong  than  dungeons,  gyves,  or 

wine. 
Shall  give  him  prison  under  ground 
More  dark,  more  narrow,  more  profound. 
Short  rede,  good  rede,  let  Harold  have — 
A  dog's  death,  and  a  heathen's  grave." 
I  have  lain  on  a  sick  man's  bed. 
Watching  for  hours  for  the  leech's  tread, 
As  if  I  deem'd  that  his  presence  alone 
Were  of  power  to  bid  my  pain  begone; 


368 


HAROLD    THE  DAUNTLESS. 


Canto  IV, 


I  have  listed  his  words  of  comfort 
given, 

As  if  to  oracles  from  heaven; 

I  have  counted  his  steps  from  my  cham- 
ber door, 

And  bless'd  them  when  they  were  heard 
no  more;  — 

But  sooner  than  Walwayn  my  sick  couch 
should  nigh, 

My  choice  were,  by  leech-craft  unaided, 
to  die. 


"  Such  service  done  in  fervent  zeal 
The  Church  may  pardon  and  conceal," 
The  doubtful  Prelate  said,  "  but  ne'er 
The  counsel  ere  the  act  should  hear. — 
Anselm  of  Jarrow,  advise  us  now. 
The  stamp  of  wisdom  is  on  thy  brow; 
Thy  days,  thy  nights,  in  cloister  pent. 
Are  still  to  mystic  learning  lent;  — 
Anselm  of  Jarrow,  in  thee  is  my  hope, 
Thou  well  mayst  give  counsel  to  Prelate 
or  Pope." 

XI. 

Answer'd  the   Prior :  —  "  'Tis   wisdom's 

use 
Still  to  delay  what  we  dare  not  refuse : 
Ere  granting  the  boon  he  comes  hither  to 

ask. 
Shape  for  the  giant  gigantic  task; 
Let  us  see  how  a  step  so  sounding  can 

tread 
In  paths  of  darkness,  danger,  and  dread; 
He   may  not,  he   will   not,  impugn  our 

decree. 
That  calls  but  for  proof  of  his  chivalry; 
And  were  Guy  to  return,  or  Sir  Bevis  the 

Strong, 
Our  wilds  have  adventure  might  cumber 

them  long  — 
The  Castle  of  Seven  Shields" —  "  Kind 

Anselm,  no  more ! 
The  step  of    the   Pagan  approaches  the 

door." 
The    churchmen  were    hush'd.       In    his 

mantle  of  skin, 
With  his  mace  on  his  shoulder.  Count 

Harold  strode  in. 
There  was  foam  on  his  lips,  there  was  fire 

in  his  eye, 
For,  chafed  by  attendance,  his  fury  was 

nigh. 


"  Ho  !  Bishop,"  he  said,  "dost  thou  grant 

me  my  claim? 
Or  must  I  assert  it  by  falchion  and  flame  ?" 


"On  thy  suit,  gallant  Harold,  "the  Bishop 
replied. 

In  accents  which  trembled,  "we  may  not 
decide, 

Until  proof  of  your  strength  and  your 
valor  we  saw  — 

'Tis  not  that  we  doubt  them,  but  such  is 
the  law."  — 

"  And  would  you,  Sir  Prelate,  have  Har- 
old make  sport 

For  the  cowls  and  the  shavelings  that  herd 
in  thy  court  ? 

Say  what  shall  he  do? — From  the  shrine 
shall  he  tear 

The  lead  bier  of  thy  patron,  and  heave  i( 
in  air. 

And  thro'  the  long  chancel  make  Cuth. 
bert  take  wing. 

With  the  speed  of  a  bullet  dismiss'd  from 
the  sling?  "  — 

"  Nay,  spare  such  probation,"  the  Cel- 
larer said, 

"  From  the  mouth  of  our  minstrels  thy 
task  shall  be  read. 

While  the  wine  sparkles  high  in  the  gob- 
let of  gold. 

And  the  revel  is  loudest,  thy  task  shall 
be  told; 

And  thyself,  gallant  Harold,  shall,  hear- 
ing it,  tell 

That  the  Bishop,  his  cowls,  and  his  shave- 
lings, meant  well." 


Loud  revell'd  the  guests,  and  the  goblets 

loud  rang. 
But  louder  the  minstrel,  Hugh  Mcneville, 

sang; 
And  Harold,  the  hurry  and  pride  of  whose 

soul, 
E'en  when  verging  to  fury,  own'd  music's 

control. 
Still  bent  on  the  harper  his  broad  sable  eye. 
And  often  untasted  the  goblet  pass'd  by; 
Than  wine,  or  than  wassail,  to  him  was 

more  dear 
The  minstrel's  high  tale  of  enchantment 

to  hear; 


iTanto  IV. 


HAROLD    THE  DAUNTLESS. 


369 


And  the  Bishop  that  day  might  of  Vinsauf 
complain 

That  his  art  had  but  wasted  his  wine- 
casks  in  vain. 

XIV. 
THE   CASTLE    OF   THE   SEVEN   SHIELDS. 

./   Ballad. 
The  Druid  Urien  liad  daughters  seven, 
Their    skill    could    call    the    moon    from 

heaven: 
So   fair  their    forms    and   so  high    their 

fame, 
That  seven  proud  kings  for  their  suitors 

came. 

King  Mador  and  Rhys  came  from  Powis 
and  Wales, 

Unshorn  were  their  hair,  and  unpruned 
were  their  nails; 

From  Strath-Clwyde  was  Ewain,  and 
Ewain  was  lame. 

And  the  red-bearded  Donald  from  Gallo- 
way came. 

Lot,  King  of  Lodon,  was  hunchback'd 
from  youth; 

Dunmail  of  Cumbria  had  never  a  tooth; 

Hut  Adolf  of  Bambrough,  Northumber- 
land's heir. 

Was  gay  and  was  gallant,  was  young  and 
was  fair. 

There  was  strife  'mongst  the  sisters,  for 

each  one  would  have 
For  husband  King  Adolf,  the  gallant  and 

brave ; 
And  envy  bred  hate,  and  hate  urged  them 

to  blows. 
When  the   firm  earth  was  cleft,  and  the 

Arch-fiend  arose ! 

He  swore  to  the  maidens  their  wish  to 
fulfil  — 

They  swore  to  the  foe  they  would  work 
by  his  will. 

A  spindle  and  distaff  to  each  hath  he  given, 

"  Now  hearken  my  spell,"  said  the  Out- 
cast of  Heaven. 

"  Ye  shall  ply  these  spindles  at  midnight 

hour. 
And  for  every  spindle  shall   rise  si  tower. 


Where  the  right  shall  be  feeble,  the  wrong 
shall  have  power. 

And  there  shall  ye  dwell  with  your  para- 
mour." 

Beneath  the  pale  moonlight  they  sate  on 

the  wold. 
And  the  rhymes  which  they  chanted  must 

never  be  told; 
And  as  the  black  wool  from  the  distaff 

they  sped. 
With  blood  from' their  bosom  they  mois- 

ten'd  the  thread. 

As  light  danced  the  spindles  beneath  the 

cold  gleam. 
The    castle    arose    like    the   birth    of    a 

dream — 
The  seven  towers  ascended  like  mist  from 

the  ground. 
Seven  portals  defend  them,  seven  ditches 

surround. 

Within  that  dread  castle  seven  monarchs 
were  wed. 

But  six  of  the  seven  ere  the  morning  lay 
dead; 

With  their  eyes  all  on  fire,  and  their 
daggers  all  red, 

Seven  damsels  surround  the  Northum- 
brian's bed. 

"  Six    kingly  bridegrooms  to    death  we 

have  done. 
Six  gallant    kingdoms   King  Adolf  hath 

won. 
Six  lovely  brides  all  his  pleasures  to  do. 
Or  the  bed  of  the  seventh  will  be  hus- 

bandless  too." 

Well  chanced  it  that  Adolf  the  night  when 
he  wed. 

Had  confess'd  and  had  sain'd  him  ere 
boune  to  his  bed; 

He  sprung  from  the  couch  and  the  broad- 
sword he  drew. 

And  there  the  seven  daughters  of  Urien 
he  slew. 

The    gate   of    the    castle   he  Ijolted  and 

seal'd. 
And  hung  o'er  each  arch-stone  a  crown 

and  a  shield ! 


67<^ 


Harold  the  dauntless. 


Ganto  V 


To  the  cells  of  Saint  Dunstan  then  wended 

his  way, 
And    died    in  his    cloister    an    anchorite 

gray. 

Seven  monarchs'  wealth  in  that  castle  lie 

stow'd, 
The  foul  fiends  brood  o'er  them  like  raven 

and  toad. 
Whoever  shall   guesten   these  chambers 

within, 
From    curfew    to    matins,    that    treasure 

shall  win. 

But  manhood  grows   faint  as  the  world 

waxes  old  ! 
There  lives  not  in  Britain  a  champion  so 

bold, 
So  dauntless  of  heart,  and  so  prudent  of 

brain, 
As  to  dare  the  adventure  that  treasure  to 

gain. 

The  waste  ridge  of  Cheviot  shall  wave 
with  the  rye. 

Before  the  rude  Scots  shall  Northumber- 
land fly, 

And  the  flint  cliffs  of  Bambro'  shall  melt 
in  the  sun, 

Before  that  adventure  be  perill'd  and  won. 


"  And  is  this  my  probation?  "  wild  Har- 
old he  said, 

"  Within  a  lone  castle  to  press  a  lone 
bed?  — 

Good  even,  my  Lord  Bishop, —  Saint 
Cuthbert  to  borrow. 

The  Castle  of  Seven  Shields  receives  me 
to-morrow." 


CANTO   FIFTH, 
I. 
Denmark's    sage     courtier     to     her 

princely  youth. 
Granting  his  cloud  an  ouzel  or  a  whale. 
Spoke,    though   unwittingly,   a  partial 

truth; 
For  Fantasy  embroiders  Nature's  veil. 
The    tints  of   ruddy  eve,   or   dawning 

pale, 


Of  the  swart  thunder-cloud,  or  silver 
haze. 

Are  but  the  ground-work  of  the  rich 
detail. 

Which   Fantasy  with   pencil  wild  por- 
trays. 
Blending  what  seems  and  is,  in  the  rapt 
muser's  gaze. 

Nor  are  the  stubborn  forms  of  earth 
and  stone 

Less  to  the  Sorceress's  empire  given; 

For  not  with  unsubstantial  hues  alone. 

Caught  from  the  varying  surge,  or 
vacant  heaven, 

From  bursting  sunbeam  or  from  flash- 
ing levin. 

She  limns  her  pictures:  on  the  earth, 
as  air. 

Arise  her  castles,  and  her  car  is  driven; 

And  never  gazed  the  eye  on  scene  so  fair, 
But  of  its  boasted  charms  gave  Fancy 
half  the  share. 


Up  a  wild  pass  went  Harold,  bent  to 
prove, 

Hugh  Meneville,  the  adventure  of  thy 
lay; 

Gunnar  pursued  his  steps  in  faith  and 
love. 

Ever  companion  of  his  master's  way. 

Midward  their  path,  a  rock  of  granite 
gray 

From  the  adjoining  cliff  had  made  de- 
scent, — 

A  barren  mass  —  yet  with  her  droop- 
ing spray 

Had   a    young   birch-tree   crown'd   its 
battlement. 
Twisting  her  fibrous  roots  through  cranny, 
flaw,  and  rent. 

This  rock  and  tree  could  Guniini's 
thought  engage 

Till  F"ancy  brought  the  tear-drop  to  his 
eye. 

And  at  his  master  ask'd  the  timid 
Page; — 

"  What  is  the  emblem  that  a  bard 
should  spy 

In  that  rude  rock  and  its  green  can- 
opy? " 


Canto  V. 


HAROLD    THE  DAUNTLESS. 


371 


•And  Harold  said :  —  "  Like  to  the  hel- 
met lirave 
Of  warrior  slain  in  fight  it  seems  to  lie, 
And  these  same   drooping  boughs  do 
o'er  it  wave 
Not  all  unlike  the  plume  his  lady's  favor 
gave."  — 

"Ah,  no!"    replied  the  Page;    "the 

ill-starr'd  love 
Of  some  poor  maid  is  in  the  emblem 

shown. 
Whose  fates  are  willi  some  hero's  in- 
terwove. 
And    rooted    on   a    heart   to   love  im- 

known : 
And  as    the    gentle    dews    of    heaven 

alone 
Nourish  these  drooping  boughs,  and  as 

the  scathe 
Of  the  red  lightning  rends  both  tree 

and  stone. 
So  fares  it  with  her  unrequited  faith,  — 
Iler  sole  relief  is  tears  —  her  only  refuge 

death."  — 


"Thou  art  a  fond  fantastic  boy," 
Ilnrold  replied,  "  to  females  coy. 

Yet  prating  still  of  love; 
Evt-n  so  amid  the  clash  of  war 
I  know  thou  lovest  to  keep  afar, 
Though  destined  by  thy  evil  star 

With  one  like  me  to  rove. 
Whose  business  and  whose  joys  are  found 
Upon  the  bloody  battle-ground. 
Yet,  foolish  trembler  as  thou  art, 
Thou  hast  a  nook  of  my  rude  heart, 
And  thou  and  I  will  never  part;  — 
Harold  would  wrap  the  world  in  flame 
Ere  injury  on  Gunnar  came  !  " 


The  grateful  Page  made  no  reply, 
But  turn'd  to  Heaven  his  gentle  eye. 
And  clasp'd  his  hands,  as  one  who  said : — 
"My  toils — mywanderingsareo'erpaid  !" 
Then  in  a  gayer,  lighter  strain, 
Compell'd  himself  to  speech  again; 

And,  as  they  flow'd  along, 
His  words  took  cadence  soft  and  slow 
And  liquid,  like  dissolving  snow, 

They  melted  into  song :  — 


"What  tho'  thro'  fields  of  carnage  wide 
I  may  not  follow  Harold's  stride, 
Yet  who  with  faithful  Gunnar's  pride 

Lord  Harold's  feats  can  see? 
And  dearer  than  the  couch  of  pride 
He  loves  the  bed  of  gray  wolf's  hide, 
When  slumbering  by  Lord  Harold's  side 

In  forest,  field,  or  lea."  — 


"  P>reak  off !  "  said  Harold,  in  a  tone 
Where  hurry  and  surprise  were  shown, 

With  some  slight  touch  of  fear,  — 
"  Break  off !  we  are  not  here  alone; 
A  Palmer  form  comes  slowly  on  ! 
Piy  cowl,  and  staff,  and  mantle  known, 

My  monitor  is  near. 
Now  mark  him,  Gunnar,  heedfully. 
He  pauses  by  the  blighted  tree  — 
Dost  see  him,  youth?  — Thou  couldst  not 

see 
When  in  the  vale  of  Galilee 

I  first  l)ehcld  his  form. 
Nor  when  we  met  that  other  while 
In  Cephalonia's  rocky  isle. 

Before  the  fearful  storm,  — 
Dostseehim  now?"    The  Page,  distraught 
With  terror,  answer'd :  —  "I  see  naught. 

And  there  is  naught  to  see, 
Save  that  the  oak's  scathed  boughs  fling 

down 
Upon  the  path  a  shadow  brown. 
That,  like  a  pilgrim's  dusky  gown, 

Waves  with  the  waving  tree." 


Count  Harold  gazed  upon  the  oak 
As  if  his  eyestrings  would  have  broke, 

And  then  resolvedly  said:  — 
"  Be  what  it  will  yon  phantom  gray  — 
Nor  heaven  nor  hell  shall  ever  say 
That  for  their  shadows  from  his  way 

Count  Harold  turn'd  dismay 'd; 
I'll  speak  him,  tho'  his  accents  fill 
My  heart  with  that  unwonted  thrill 

Which  vulgar  minds  call  fear. 
I  will  subdue  it !  "  —  Forth  he  strode. 
Paused    where    the    blighted     oak-tree 

show'd 
Its  salile  shadow  on  the  road. 
And,  folding  on  his  bosom  broad 

His  arms,  said:  — "  Speak  —  I  hear." 


372 


HAROLD    THE  DAUNTLESS. 


Canto  V. 


The  Deep  Voice  said:  —  "  O  wild  of  will, 
Furious  thy  purpose  to  fulfill  — 
Ileart-sear'd  and  unrepentant  still. 
How  long,  O  Harold,  shall  thy  tread 
Disturb  the  slumbers  of  the  dead? 
Each  step  in  thy  wihl  way  thou  makest, 
Tlie  ashes  of  the  dead  thou  wakest; 
ATid  shout  in  triumph  o'er  thy  path 
The  fiends  of  bloodshed  and  of  wrath. 
In  this  thine  hour,  yet  turn  and  hear! 
For  life  is  brief  and  judgment  near." 


Then  ceased  The  Voice.  — The  Dane  re- 
plied 
In  tones  where  awe  and  inborn  pride 
l'"or  mastery  strove  :  —  "  In  vain  ye  chide 
The  wolf  for  ravaging  the  flock, 
Or  with  its  hardness  taunt  the  rock,  — 
I  am  as  they  —  my  Danish  strain 
Sends  streams  of  fire  through  every  vein. 
Ariiid  thy  realms  of  ghoul  and  ghost, 
Say,  is  the  fame  of  Eric  lost, 
Or  Witikind's  the  Waster,  known 
Where  fame  or  spoil  was  to  be  won; 
Whose  galleys  ne'er  bore  off  a  shore 
They  left  not  black  with  flame?  — 
He  was  my  sire,  — and,  sprung  of  him, 
That  rover  merciless  and  grim. 
Can  I  be  soft  and  tame? 
Part  hence,  and  with  my  crimes  no  more 

upbraid  me, 
I    am    that    Waster's    son,    and   am    but 
what  he  made  me." 


The  Phantom   groan'd;  — the  mountain 

shook  arovmd. 
The    fawn  and  wild   doc   started  at  the 

sound, 
The    gorse  -and    fern    did   wildly   round 

them  wave, 
As   if  some  sudden   storm    the    impulse 

gave. 
"All  thou  hast  said  is  truth. —Yet  on 

the  head 
Of  that  bad  sire  let  not  the  charge  be  laid. 
That  he,  like  thee,  with  unrelenting  pace, 
From  grave  to  cradle  ran  the  evil  race  :  — • 
Relentless  in  his  avarice  and  ire, 
Churches  and  towns   he  gave  to   sword 

and  fire; 


Shed  blood  like  water,  wasted  every 
land. 

Like  the  destroying  angel's  burning 
brand; 

Fulfill'd  whate'er  of  ill  might  be  in- 
vented, 

Yes- — ^ all  these  things  he  did  —  he  did, 

but  he   KKPENTEI)  ! 

Perchance  it  is   part  of  his   punishment 

still, 
That  his   offspring  pursues  his  example 

of  ill. 
P)Ut    thou,   when  thy  tempest    f>f   wrath 

shall  next  shake  thee. 
Gird  thy  loins  for  resistance,  my  son,  and 

awake  thee; 
If  thou  yield'st  to  thy  fury,  how  tempted 

soever. 
The  gate  of  repentance  shall  ope  for  thee 

never!  " 

XI. 
"He   is  gone,"  said  Lord   Harold,  and 

gazed  as  he  spoke; 
"There  is  naught   on  the    path   ])ut   the 

shade  of  the  oak. 
He  is  gone,  whose  strange  presence  my 

feeling  oppress'd. 
Like  the  night-hag  that  sits  on  the  slum- 

berer's  breast. 
My  heart  beats  as  thick   as  a  fugitive's 

tread. 
And  cold  dews  drop  from  my  brow  and 

my  head.  — 
Ho!    Gunnar,  the   flasket   yon    almoner 

gave ; 
He   said   that  three   drops  would  recall 

from  the  grave. 
For   the   first  time   Count    Harold  owns 

leechcraft  has  power, 
Or,  his  courage  to  aid,  lacks  the  juice  of 

a  flower  !  " 
The  page  gave  the  flasket,  which  Wal- 

wayn  had  fill'd 
With  the  juice  of  wild  roots  that  his  art 

had  distill'd  — 
So  baneful  their  influence  on  all  that  had 

breath. 
One  drop  had  been  frenzy,  and  two  had 

been  death. 
Harold  took  it,  but  drank  not;    for  jubi- 
lee shrill. 
And  music  and  clamor  were  heard  on  the 

hill, 


Canto  V. 


HAROLD    THE  DAUNTLESS. 


373 


And  down  the  steep  pathway,  o'er  stock 

and  o'er  stone, 
The  train  of  a  bridal  came  blithesomely 

on; 
There   was  song,  there  was  pipe,  there 

was  timbrel,  and  still 
The    burden   was:     "Joy    to    the    fair 

Metelill!" 


Harold  might  see  from  his  high  stance, 
Himself  unseen,  that  train  advance 

With  mirth  and  melody;  — 
On  horse  and  foot  a  mingled  throng, 
Measuring  their  steps  to  bridal  song 

And  bridal  minstrelsy; 
And  ever  when  the  blithesome  rout 
Lent  to  the  song  their  choral  shout, 
Redoubling  echoes  roU'd  about. 
While  echoing  cave  and  cliffs  sent  out 

The  answering  symphony 
Of  all  those  mimic  notes  which  dwell 
In  hollow  rock  and  sounding  dell. 


Joy  shook  his  torch  above  the  band, 
By  many  a  various  passion  fann'd;  — 
As  elemental  sparks  can  feed 
On  essence  pure  and  coarsest  weed, 
Gentle,  or  stormy,  or  refined, 
Joy  takes  the  colors  of  the  mind. 
Lightsome  and  pure,  but  unrepress'd, 
He  fired  the  bridegroom's  gallant  breast; 
More  feebly  strove  with  maiden  feftr. 
Yet  still  joy  glimmer'd  through  the  tear 
On  the  bride's  blushing  cheek,  that  shows 
Like  dewdrop  on  the  budding  rose; 
While  Wulfslane's  gloomy  smile  declared 
The  glee  that  selfish  avarice  shared, 
And  pleased  revenge  and  malice  high 
Joy's  semblance  took  in  Jutta's  eye. 
On  dangerous  adventure  sped. 
The  witch  deem'd  Harold  with  the  dead. 
For  thus  that  morn  her  Demon  said :  — 
"  If,  ere  the  set  of  sun,  be  tied 
The    knot    'twixt    bridegroom    and    his 

bride, 
The  Dane  shall  have  no  power  of  ill 
O'er  William  and  o'er  Metelill." 
And  the  pleased  witch  made  answer :  — 

"  Then 
Must  Harold  have  pass'd  from  the  paths 

of  men ! 


Evil  repose  may  his  spirit  have,  — 

May  hemlock  and  mandrake  find  root  in 
his  grave,  — 

May  his  death-sleep  be  dogged  by  dreams 
of  dismay. 

And  his  waking  be  worse  at  the  answer- 
ing day." 


Such  was  their  various  mood  of  glee 

Blent  in  one  shout  of  ecstasy. 

But  still  when  Joy  is  brimming  highest, 

Of  Sorrow  and  Misfortune  nighest. 

Of  Terror  with  her  ague  cheek, 

And  lurking  Danger,  sages  speak :  — 

These  haunt  each  path,  but  chief    they 

lay 
Their  snares  beside  the  primrose  way.  — 
Thus  found  that  bridal  band  their  path 
Beset  by  Harold  in  his  wrath. 
Trembling  beneath  his  maddening  mood, 
High  on  a  rock  the  giant  stood; 
His  shout  was  like  the  doom  of  death 
Spoke  o'er  their  heads  that  pass'd  beneath. 
His  destined  victims  might  not  spy 
The  reddening  terrors  of  his  eye,  — 
The  frown  of  rage  that  writhed  his  face, — 
The  lip  that  foam'd  like  boar's  in  chase; 
But  all  could  see  —  and,  seeing,  all 
Bore  back  to  shun  the  threaten'd  fall  — 
The  fragment  which  their  giant  foe 
Rent  from  the  cliff  and  heaved  to  throw 

XV. 

Backward  they  bore;  — yet  are  there  two 

For  battle  who  prepare : 
No  pause  of  dread  Lord  William  knew 

Ere  his  good  blade  was  bare; 
And  Wulfstane  bent  his  fatal  yew, 
But  ere  the  silken  cord  he  drew. 
As  hurl'd  from  Hecla's  thunder.  Hew 

That  ruin  through  the  air  ! 
Full  on  the  outlaw's  front  it  came. 
And  all  that  late  had  human  name, 
And  human  face,  and  human  frame, 
That  lived,  and  moved,  and  had  free  will 
To  choose  the  path  of  good  or  ill, 

Is  to  its  reckoning  gone; 
And  naught  of  Wulfstane  rests  behind, 

Save  that  beneath  that  stone, 
ILilf-buried  in  the  dinted  clay, 
A  red  and  shapeless  mass  there  lay 

Of  mingled  flesh  and  bone  ! 


374 


HAROLD    THE  DAUNTLESS. 


Canio  VI. 


As  from  the  bosom  of  the  sky 

The  eagle  darts  amain, 
Three  bounds  from  yonder  summit  high 

Placed  Harold  on  the  plain. 
As  the  scared  wild-fowl  scream  and  fly, 

So  fled  the  bridal  train; 
As  'gainst  the  eagle's  peerless  might 
The  noble  falcon  dares  the  fight, 

But  dares  the  fight  in  vain, 
So  fought  the  bridegroom;    from  his  hand 
The  Dane's  rude  mace  has  struck  his  brand, 
Its  glittering  fragments  strew  the  sand, 

Its  lord  lies  on  the  plain. 
Now,    Heaven !    take    noble    William's 

part. 
And  melt  that  yet  unmelted  heart. 
Or,  ere  his  bridal  hour  depart, 

The  hapless  bridegroom's  slain  ! 


Count  Harold's  frenzied  rage  is  high. 

There  is  a  death-fire  in  his  eye. 

Deep  furrows  on  his  brow  are  trench'd, 

His  teeth  are  set,  his  hand  is  clench'd. 

The  foam  upon  his  lip  is  white, 

His  deadly  arm  is  up  to  smite  ! 

But  as  the  mace  aloft  he  swung, 

To  stop  the  blow  young  Gunnar  sprung, 

Around  his  master's  knees  he  clung. 

And  cried:  —  "  In  mercy  spare  ! 
O,  think  upon  the  words  of  fear 
Spoke  by  that  visionary  Seer, 
The  crisis  he  foretold  is  here,  — 

Grant  mercy  —  or  despair  ! '' 
This  word  suspended  Harold's  mood. 
Yet  still  with  arm  upraised  he  stood. 
And  visage  like  the  headsman's  rude 

That  pauses  for  the  sign. 
"  O  mark  thee  with  the  blessed  rood," 
The    page    implored;     "speak    word    of 

good , 
Resist  the  fiend,  or  be  subdued  !  " 

He  sign'd  the  cross  divine  — 
Instant  his  eye  hath  human  light, 
I^ess  red,  less  keen,  less  fiercely  bright; 
His  brow  relax'd  the  obdurate  frown, 
The  fatal  mace  sinks  gently  down. 

He  turns  and  strides  away; 
Yet  oft,  like  revellers  who  leave 
Unfinish'd  feast,  looks  back  to  grieve, 
As  if  repenting  the  re])rieve 

He  granted  to  his  prey. 


Yet  still  of  forbearance  one  sign  hath  he 

given. 
And  fierce  Witikind's  son  made  one  step 

towards  heaven. 


But  tho'  liis  dreaded  footsteps  part. 
Death  is  behind  and  shakes  his  dart; 
Lord  William  on  the  plain  is  lying. 
Beside  him  Metelill  seems  dying  ! 
Bring  odors — essences  in  haste  — 
And  lo  !   a  flasket  richly  chased,  — 
But  Jutta  the  elixir  proves 
Ere  pouring  it  for  those  she  loves.  — 
Then  Walwayn's  potion  was  not  wasted. 
For  when  three  drops  the  hag  had  tasted, 

So  disn)al  was  her  yell. 
Each  bird  of  evil  omen  woke, 
The  raven  gave  his  fatal  croak. 
And  shriek'd  the  night-crow  from  the  oak. 
The  screech-owl   from  the  thicket  broke. 

And  flutter'd  down  the  dell ! 
So  fearful  was  the  sound  and  stern. 
The  slumbers  of  the  full-gorged  erne 
Were  startled,  and  from  furze  and  fern 

Of  forest  and  of  fell, 
The  fox  and  fan)ish'd  wolf  replied, 
(For  wolves  then  prowl'dtheCheviot  side,) 
From  mountain  head  to  mountain  head 
The  unhallow'd  sounds  around  weresped; 
But  when  their  latest  echo  fled. 
The  sorceress  on  the  ground  lay  dead. 


Such  was  the  scene  of  blood  and  woes, 
With  which  the  bridal  morn  arose 

Of  William  and  of  Metelill; 
But  oft,  when  dawning  'gins  to  spread. 
The  summer  morn  peeps  dim  and  red 

Above  the  eastern  hill. 
Ere,  bright  and  fair,  upon  his  road 
The  King  of  Splendor  walks  abroad; 
So  when  this  cloud  had  pass'd  away. 
Bright  was  the  noontide  of  their  day, 
And  all  serene  its  setting  ray. 


CANTO   SIXTH. 
I. 
Well  do  I  hope  that  this  my  minstrel 

tale 
Will  tempt  no  traveller  from  southern 
fields. 


Canto  VI. 


HAROLD    THE  DAUNTLESS. 


375 


Whether  in  tilbury,  barouche,  or  mail. 
To  view  the  Castle  of  these  Seven  Proud 

Shields. 
Small  confirmation  its  condition  yields 
To  Meneville's  high  lay.  — No  towers 

are  seen 
On  the  wild  heath,  but  those  that  Fancy 

builds. 
And,  save  a  fosse  that  tracks  the  moor 

with  green. 
Is  naught   remains  to  tell  of  what  may 

there  have  been. 

And    yet    grave  authors,  with  the  no 
small  waste 

Of  their  grave  time,  have  dignified  the 
spot 

By  theories,  to  prove  the  fortress  placed 

By  Riiman  bands,  to  curb  the  invading 
Scot. 

Hutchinson,  Horsley, Camden,  I  might 
quote. 

But  rather  choose  the  theory  less  civil 

Of   boors,  who,  origin  of  things   for- 
got. 

Refer  still  to  the  origin  of  evil, 
And  for  their  master-mason  choose  that 
master-fiend  the  Devil. 


Therefore,  I  say,  it  was  on  fiend-built 
towers 

That  stout  Count  IlaroldlK-nt  his  won- 
dering gaze. 

When  evening  dew  was  on  the  heather 
flowers. 

And  the  last  sunbeams  made  the  moun- 
tain 1)laze, 

And  tinged  the  battlements  of  other 
days 

With  the  l)right  level  light  ere  sinking 
down.  — 

Illumined  thus,  the  Dauntless  Dane 
surveys 

The  Seven  Proud  Shields  that  o'er  the 
portal  frown. 
And  on  their  lilazons  traced  high  marks 
of  old  renown. 

A  wolf  North  Wales  had  on  his  armor- 
coat, 

And  Rhys  of  Powis-land  a  couchant 
stag; 


Strath-Clwyde's  strange  emblem  was 

a  stranded  lx)at, 
Donald  of  Galloway's  a  trotting  nag; 
A  corn-sheaf  gilt  was  fertile  Lodon's 

brag; 
A  dudgeon-dagger   was   by   Dunmail 

worn; 
Northumbrian  Adolf   gave  a  sea-beat 

crag 
Surmounted   by  a  cross  —  such   signs 

were  borne 
Upon  these  antique  shields,  all  wasted 

now  and  worn. 


These  scann'd.  Count  Harold  sought 

the  castle  door. 
Whose  ponderous  bolts  were  rusted  to 

decay; 
Yet  till  that  hour  adventurous  knight 

fori  lore 
The  unobstructed  passage  to  essay. 
More  strong   than   armed   warders  in 

array. 
And  obstacle  more  sure  than  bolt  or 

bar. 
Sate    in   the   portal   Terror  and   Dis- 
may, 
While   Superstition,    who   forbade   to 

war 
With  foes  of  other  mould  than  mortal 

clay. 
Cast  spells  across  the  gate,  and  barr'd 
'  the  onward  way. 

Vain  now  these  spells;    for  soon  with 

heavy  clank 
The   fecbly-faslen'd  gate  was  inward 

push'd. 
And,  as  it  oped,  thro'  that  emblazon'd 

rank 
Of  antique  shields,  the  wind  of  even- 
ing rush'd 
With  sound   most    like   a  groan,  and 

I  hen  was  hush'd. 
Is  none  who  on  such  spot  such  sounds 

could  hear 
But  to  his  heart  the  blood  had  faster 

rush'd; 
Yet  to  bold  Harold's  breast  that  throb 

was  dear  — 
It  spoke   of   danger  nigh,  but  had   no 

touch  of  fear. 


376 


HAROLD    THE   DAUNTLESS. 


Canto  VI. 


Yet  Harold  and  his  Page  no  signs  have 

traced 
Within   the    castle,    that    of    danger 

show'd, 
For  still  the  hills  and  courts  were  wild 

and  waste, 
As  thro'  their  precincts  the  adventurers 

trode. 
The  seven  huge  towers  rose  stately, 

tall,  and  broad. 
Each  tower  presenting  to  their  scrutiny 
A  hall  in   which  a   king  might  make 

abode, 
And  fast  beside,  garnish'd  both  proud 

and  high, 
Was  placed  a  bower  for  rest  in  which  a 

king  might  lie. 

As  if  a  bridal  there  of  late  had  been, 
Deck'd  stood   the  table  in  each  gor- 
geous hall; 
And  yet  it  was  two  hundred  years,  I 

ween, 
Since  date  of  that  unhallow'd  festival. 
Flagons,  and  ewers,  and  standing  cups 

were  all 
Of  tarnished   gold,  or    silver    nothing 

clear. 
With    throne    begilt,   and    canopy    of 

pall, 
And    tapestry  clothed  the  walls  with 

fragments  sear  — 
Frail  as  the  spider's  mesh  did  that  rich 

woof  appear. 


In   every  bower,   as  round   a  hearse, 

was  hung 
A    dusky    crimson    curtain    o'er    the 

bed. 
And   on   each   couch   in   ghastly   wise 

were  flung 
Tlie  wasted  relics  of  a  monarch  dead ; 
liarbaricornamentsaround  were  spread. 
Vests  twined  with  gold,  and  chains  of 

precious  stone. 
And  golden  circlets,  meet  fur  monarch's 

head ; 
While  grinn'd,  as  if  in  scorn  amongst 

them  thrown. 
The  wearer's  fleshless  sk.dl,  alike  with 

dust  bestrown. 


For   these    were   they   who,   drunken 

with  delight. 
On  pleasure's  opiate  pillow  laid  their 

head. 
For  whom  the   bride's  shy  footsteps, 

slow  and  light. 
Was  changed  ere  morning  to  the  mur- 
derer's tread. 
For  human  bliss  and  woe  in  the  frail 

thread 
Of  human  life  are  all  so  closely  twined, 
That  till  the  shears  of  Fate  the  texture 

shred. 
The   close    succession   cannot   be  dis- 

join'd. 
Nor  dare  we,  from  one  hour,  judge  that 

which  comes  behind. 


But  where  the  work  of  vengeance  had 

Ix-en  done, 
In  that  seventh  chamber,  was  a  sterner 

sight; 
There    of    the    witch-brides    lay    each 

skeleton. 
Still  in  thepostureastodeath  when  (light. 
For  this  lay  prone,  by  one  blow  slain 

outright; 
And  that,  as  one  who  struggled  long 

in  dying; 
One  bony  hand  held   knife,    as  if    to 

smite; 
One  bent  on  fleshless  knees,  as  mercy 

crying; 
One  lay  across  the  door,  as  kill'd  in  act 

of  flying. 

The   stern  Dane   smiled  this  charnel- 
house  to  see, — 

For    his   chafed    thought    return'd    to 
Metelill;  — 

And  "  Well,"  he  said,  "  hath  woman's 
perfidy. 

Empty  as  air,  as  water  volatile, 

Been  here  avenged.  — -  The  origin  of  ill 

Thro'  woman  rose,  the  Christian  doc- 
trine saith: 

Nor  deem  I,  Gunnar,  that  thy  minstrel 
skill 

Can  show  example  where  a  woman's 
breath 
I  lath      made     a     true-love     vow,     and 
tempted,  kept  her  faith." 


Canto  VI. 


HAROLD    THK  DAUNTLESS. 


377 


The  minstrel-lxjy  half  smiled,  half  sigh'd, 
And  his  half-filling  eyes  he  dried, 
Andsaid:  "The  theme  I  shimldbutwrong. 
Unless  it  were  my  dying  song, 
(Our  Scalds  have  said,  in  dying  hour 
The  northern  harp  has  treljle  power,) 
Else  could  I  tell  of  woman's  faith, 
Defying  danger,  scorn,  and  death. 
Firm  was  that  faith,  — -as  diamond  stone 
Pure  and  unHaw'd,  ^  her  love  unknown, 
And  unrequited;  —  firm  and  pure, 
Her  stainless  faith  could  all  endure; 
From  clime  to  clime,  from  place  to  place, 
Through  want,  and  danger,  and  disgrace, 
A  wanderer's  wayward  steps  could  trace. 
All  this  she  did,  and  guerdon  none 
Required,  save  that  her  burial-stone 
Should  make  at  length  the  secret  known, 
'Thus  hath  a  faithful  woman  done.'  — 
Not  in  each  breast  such  truth  is  laid. 
But  Eivir  was  a  Danish  maid."  — 


"  Thou  art  a  wild  enthusiast,"  said 
Count  Harold,  "for  thy  Danish  maid; 
And  yet,  young  Gunnar,  I  will  own 
Hers  were  a  faith  to  rest  upon. 
But  Eivir  sleeps  beneath  her  stone, 
.And  all  resembling  her  are  gone. 
What  maid  e'er  show'd  such  constancy 
In  plighted  faith,  like  thine  to  me? 
But  couch  thee,  boy;  the  darksome  shade 
Falls  thickly  round,  nor  be  dismay'd 

Because  the  dead  are  by. 
They  were  as  we;    our  little  day 
O'erspent,  and  we  shall  be  as  they. 
Yet  near  me,  Gunnar,  be  thou  laid, 
Thy  couch  upon  my  mantle  made. 
That  thou  mayst  think,  should  fear  invade. 

Thy  master  slumbers  nigh." 
Thus  couch'd  they  in  that  dread  abode, 
Until  the  beams  of  dawning  glow'd. 


An  alter'd  man  Lord  Harold  rose, 
When  he  beheld  that  dawn  unclose  — 

There's  trouble  in  his  eyes, 
And  traces  on  his  brow  and  cheek 
Of  mingled  awe  and  wonder  speak: 

"  My  page,"  he  said,  "  arise;  — 
Leavewe  this  place,  my  page." — No  more 
He  utter'd  till  the  castle  door 


They  cross'd,  but  there  he  paused  and 

said :  — 
"  My  wildness  hath  awaked  the  dead  — 

Disturb'd  the  sacred  tomb ! 
Methought  this  night  I  stood  on  high. 
Where  Hecla  roars  in  middle  sky, 
.And  in  her  cavern'd  gulfs  could  spy 

The  central  place  of  doom; 
And  there  before  my  mortal  eye 
Souls  of  the  dead  came  flitting  by, 
VV'hom  fiends,  with  many  a  ficndisli  cry. 

Bore  to  that  evil  den ! 
My  eyes  grew  dizzy,  and  my  brain 
Was  wilder'd,  as  the  elvish  train, 
With  shriek  and  howl,  dragg'd  on  amain 

Those  who  had  late  been  men. 


"  With  haggard  eyes  and  streaming  hair, 
Jutta  the  Sorceress  was  there. 
And  there  pass'd  Wulfstane,  lately  slain, 
All  crush'd  and  foul  with  bloody  stain.  — 
More  had  I  seen,  but  that  uprose 
A  whirlwind  wild,  and  swept  the  snows; 
And  with  such  sound  as  when  at  need 
A  champion  spurs  his  horse  to  speed. 
Three  armed  knights  rush  on,  who  lead 
Caparison'd  a  sable  steed. 
Sable  their  harness,  and  there  came 
Thro'  their  closed  visors  sparks  of  flame. 
The  first  proclaimed,  in  sounds  of  fear:  — 
'  Harold  the  Dauntless,  welcome  here '. ' 
The  next  cried: —  '  Jubilee  !  we've  won 
Count  Witikind  the  Waster's  son ! ' 
And  the  third  rider  sternly  spoke: — 
'  Mount,  in  the  name  of  Zernebock  !  — 
From  us,  O  Harold,  were  thy  powers,  — 
Thy  strength,  thy  dauntlessness are  ours; 

Nor  think,  a  vassal  thou  of  hell. 
With  hell  canst  strive.'    The  fiend  spoke 

true ! 
My  inmost  soul  the  summons  knew, 

As  captives  know  the  knell 
That  says  the  headsman's  sword  is  bare, 
And,  with  an  accent  of  despair. 

Commands  them  quit  their  cell. 
I  felt  resistance  was  in  vain. 
My  foot  had  that  fell  stirrup  ta'en, 
My  hand  was  on  the  fatal  mane. 

When  to  my  rescue  sped 
That  Palmer's  visionary  form, 
And  —  like  the  passing  of  a  storm  — 

The  demons  yell'd  and  fled  ! 


;7S 


HAROLD    THE    DA  L.\  1'LL.SS. 


Canto  \  I. 


"  His  sable  cowl  flung  back,  reveal'd 
The  features  it  before  conceal'd; 

And,  Gunnar,  I  could  find 
In  him  whose  counsels  strove  to  stay 
So  oft  my  course  on  wilful  way, 

My  father  Witikind  ! 
Doom'd  for  his  sins,  and  doom'd  for  mine, 
A  wanderer  upon  earth  to  pine 
Until  his  son  shall  turn  to  grace, 
And  smooth  for  him  a  resting-place.  — 
Gunnar,  he  must  not  haunt  in  vain 
This  world  of  wretchedness  and  pain; 
I'll  tame  my  wilful  heart  to  live 
In  peace — to  pity  and  forgive  — 
And  thou,  for  so  the  Vision  said, 
Must  in  thy  Lord's  repentance  aid. 
Thy  mother  was  a  prophetess. 
He  said,  who  by  her  skill  could  guess 
How  close  the  fatal  textures  join 
Which  knit  thy  thread  of  life  with  mine; 
Then,  dark,  he  hinted  of  disguise 
She  framed  to  cheat  too  curious  eyes, 
That  not  a  moment  might  divide 
Thy  fated  footsteps  from  my  side. 
Methought  while  thus  my  sire  did  teach, 
I  caught  the  meaning  of  his  speech. 
Yet  seems  its  purport  doubtful  now." 
His  hand  then  sought  his  thoughtful  brow, 
Then  first  he  mark'd  that  in  the  tower 
His  glove  was  left  at  waking  hour. 


Trembling  at  first,  and  deadly  pale. 
Had  Gunnar  heard  the  visional  tale; 
But  when  he  learn'd  the  dubious  close. 
He  blush'd  like  any  opening  rose. 
And,  glad  to  hide  his  tell-tale  cheek. 
Hied  back  that  glove  of  niail  to  seek; 
When  soon  a  shriek  of  deadly  dread 
Summon'd  his  master  to  his  aid. 


What  sees  Count  Harold  in  that  bower. 

So  late  his  resting-place?  — 
The  semljlance  of  the  Evil  Power, 

Adored  by  all  his  race ! 
Odin  in  living  form  stood  there, 
His  cloak  the  spoils  of  Polar  bear; 
For  plumy  crest  a  meteor  shed 
Its  gloomy  radiance  o'er  his  head. 
Vet  vfil'd  its  hagt^ard  majesty 
To  the  wild  lightnings  of  his  eye. 


Such  height  was  his,  as  when  in  stone 
O'er  Upsal's  giant  altar  shown: 

So  flow'd  his  hoary  beard; 
Such  was  his  lance  of  mountain-pine, 
So  did  his  sevenfold  buckler  shine;  — 
But  when  his  voice  he  rear'd, 

I   Deep,  without  harshness,  slow  and  strong 
The  powerful  accents  roll'd  along, 

I   And,  while  he  spoke,  his  hand  was  laid 
On  Captive  Gunnar's  shrinking  head. 


"  Harold,"  he  said,  "  what  rage  is  thine, 
To  quit  the  worship  of  thy  line, 

To  leave  thy  Warrior-God?  — 
With  me  is  glory  or  disgrace. 
Mine  is  the  onset  and  the  chase, 
Embattled  hosts  before  my  face 

Are  wither'd  by  a  nod. 
Wilt  thou  then  forfeit  that  high  seat 
Deserved  by  many  a  dauntless  feat, 
Among  the  heroes  of  thy  line, 
Eric  and  fiery  Thorarine?  — 
Thou  wilt  not.     Only  can  I  give 
The  joys  for  which  the  valiant  live, 
Victory  and  vengeance  —  only  I 
Can  give  the  joys  for  which  they  die. 
The  immortal  tilt —  the  banquet  full, 
Thebrimmingdraughtfromfoenian'sskull. 
Mine  art  thou,  witness  this  thy  glove. 
The  faithful  pledge  of  vassal's  love." 


"  Tempter,"  said  Harold,  firm  of  heart, 
"I  charge  thee,  hence  !  whate'er  thou  art, 
I  do  defy  thee  — and  resist 
The  kindling  frenzy  of  my  breast, 
Waked  by  thy  words;  and  of  my  mail. 
Nor  glove,  nor  buckler,  splent,  nor  nail. 
Shall  rest  with  thee  —  that  youth  release. 
And  God,  or  Demon,  part  in  peace." — 
"  Eivir,"  the  Shape  replied,  "  is  mine, 
Mark'd  in  the  birth-hour  with  my  sign. 
Think'st   thou   that  priest  with  drops  of 

spray 
Could  wash  that  blood-red  mark  away? 
Or  that  a  borrow'd  sex  and  name 
Can  abrogate  a  Godhead's  claim?" 
Thrill'd  this  strange  speech  thro'  Harold's 

brain. 
He  clenched  his  teeth  in  high  disdain, 
For  not  his  new-born  faith  subdued 
I  Some  tokens  of  his  ancient  mood ; — 


Canto  VI. 


HAROLD    THE   DAUNTLESS. 


379 


"  Now,  by  the  hope  so  lately  given 
Of  better  trust  and  purer  heaven, 
I  will  assail  thee,  fiend!  " — Then  rose 
His  mace,  and  with  a  storm  of  blows 
The  mortal  and  the  Demon  close. 


Smoke  roll'd  above,  fire  flash'd  around, 
Darken'd  the  sky  and  shook  the  ground; 

But  not  the  artillery  of  hell. 
The  bickering  lightning,  nor  the  rock 
Of  turrets  to  the  earthquake's  shock. 

Could  Harold's  courage  quell. 
Sternly  the  Dane  his  purpose  kept, 
And  blows  on  blows  resistless  heap'd, 

Till  quail'd  that  Demon  Form, 
And  —  for  his  power  to  hurt  or  kill 
Was  bounded  by  a  higher  will  — 

Evanish'd  in  the  storm. 
Nor  paused  the  Champion  of  the  North, 
But  raised  and  bore  his  Eivir  forth. 
From  that  wild  scene  of  fiendish  strife. 
To  light,  to  liberty,  and  life ! 


He  placed  her  on  a  bank  of  moss, 

A  silver  runnel  Ijubbled  by. 
And  new-born  thoughts  his  soul  engross, 
And  tremors  yet  unknown  across 

His  stuliborn  sinews  fly. 
The  while  with  timid  hand  the  dew 
Upon  her  brow  and  neck  he  threw. 
And  mark'd  how  life  with  rosy  hue 
On  her  pale  cheek  revived  anew. 

And  glimmer'd  in  her  eye. 
Inly  he  said :  —  '*  That  silken  tress,  — 
What    blindness    mine    that    could    not 

guess ! 
Or  how  could  page's  rugged  dress 

That  lx)som's  pride  belie? 
O,  dull  of  heart,  thro'  wild  and  wave 
In  search  of  blood  and  death  to  rave, 

With  such  a  partner  nigh  !." 

XVIII. 
Then  in  a  mirror'd  pool  he  peer'd. 
Blamed  his  rough  locks  and  shaggy  beard, 
The  stains  of  recent  conflict  clear'd,  — 

And  thus  the  Champion  proved, 
That  he  fears  now  who  never  fear'd, 

And  loves  who  never  loved. 


And  Eivir  —  Hfe  is  on  her  cheek. 
And  yet  she  will  not  move  or  speak. 

Nor  will  her  eyelid  fully  ope; 
Perchance  it  loves,  that  half-shut  eye. 
Through  its  long    fringe,    reserved    and 

shy. 
Affection's  opening  dawn  to  spy; 
And  the  deep  blush,  which  bids  its  dye 
O'er  cheek,  and  brow,  and  bosom  fly. 

Speaks  shame- facedness  and  hope. 


But  vainly  seems  the  Dane  to  seek 

For  terms  his  new-born  love  to  speak, — 

For    words,    save    those    of     wrath    and 

wrong. 
Till  now  were  strangers  to  his  tongue; 
So,  when  he  raised  the  blushing  maid, 
In  blunt  and  honest  terms  he  said, 
('Twere  well  that   maids,    when   lovers 

woo. 
Heard  none  more  soft,  were  all  as  true) : — 
"  Eivir  !  since  thou  for  many  a  day 
Hast  follow'd  Harold's  wayward  way, 
It  is  but  meet  that  in  the  line 
Of  after-life  I  follow  thine. 
To-morrow  is  Saint  Cuthbert's  tide. 
And  we  will  grace  his  altar's  side, 
A  Christian  knight  and  Christian  bride; 
And  of  Witikind's  son  shall  the  marvel 

l)e  said. 
That  on  the  same  morn  he  was  chrislen'd 

and  wed." 

CONCLUSION. 
And  now,  Ennui,  what  ails  thee,  weary 

maid  ? 
And  why  these  listless  looks  of  yawn- 
ing sorrow? 
No  need  to  turn  the  page,  as  if  'twere 

lead. 
Or  fling  aside  the  volume  till  to-morrow. 
Be  cheer'd  —  'tis  ended  —  and  I  will 

not  borrow. 
To  try  thy  patience  more,  one  anecdote 
From   Bartholine,  or   Perinskiold,  or 

Snorro. 
Then    pardon   thou  thy  minstrel,  who 

hath  wrote 
A  Tale  six  cantos  long,  yet  scorn'd  to  add 

a  note. 


CONTRIBUTIONS  to  MINSTRELSY 

OF  THE 

SCOTTISH  BORDER. 


IMITATIONS  OF  THE  ANCIENT  BALLAD. 


THOMAS   THE   RHYMER. 

IN  THREE   PARTS. 


PART  FIRST.  — ANCIENT. 

Few  personages  are  so  renownefl  in  tradition  as  Thomas  of  Ercildoune,  known  by  the 
appellation  of  The  Khynicr.  Uniting,  or  supposing  to  unite,  in  his  person  the  powers  of 
poetical  composition  and  of  vaticination,  his  memory,  even  after  the  lapse  of  five  hundred 
years,  is  regarded  with  veneration  by  his  countrymen.  To  give  anything  like  a  certain 
history  of  this  remarkable  man  would  Ix;  indeed  difficult ;  but  the  curious  may  derive  some 
satisfaction  from  the  particulars  here  brought  together. 

It  is  agreed  on  all  hands,  that  the  residence,  and  probably  the  birthplace,  of  this  ancient 
bard  was  l>>cildoune,  a  village  situated  upon  the  I.eader,  two  miles  above  its  junction  with 
the  Tweed.  The  ruins  of  an  ancient  tower  are  still  pointed  out  as  the  Rhymer's  castle. 
The  uniform  tradition  bears,  that  his  surname  was  Lermont,  or  Learmont ;  and  that  the 
appellation  of  The  Rhymer  was  conferred  on  him  in  consequence  of  his  poetical  composi- 
tions.    There  remains,  nevertheless,  some  doubt  upon  the  subject. 

We  are  better  able  to  ascertain  the  period  at  which  Thomas  of  Ercildoune  lived,  being 
the  latter  end  of  the  thirteenth  century.  I  am  inclined  to  place  his  death  a  little  farther 
back  than  Mr.  I'inkerton.  who  supposes  that  hewasalive  in  1300.  —  {List  of  Scottish  Poets.) 

It  cannot  lie  doubted  that  Thomas  of  Krcildoune  was  a  remarkable  and  important  person 
in  his  own  time,  since,  very  shortly  after  his  death,  we  find  him  celebrated  as  a  prophet  and 
as  a  poet.  Whether  he  himself  made  any  pretensions  to  the  first  of  these  characters,  or 
whether  it  was  gratuitously  conferred  upon  him  by  the  credulity  of  jMJsterity,  it  seems  diffi- 
cult to  decide.  If  we  may  believe  Mackenzie,  Learmont  only  versified  the  prophecies  de- 
livered by  Ehza,  an  inspired  nun  of  a  convent  at  Haddington.     But  of  this  there  seems 

381 


382 


CONTRIBUTIOXS    TO  MINSTRELSY. 


not  to  be  the  most  distant  proof.  On  the  contrary,  all  ancient  authors,  who  quote  the 
Rhymer's  prophecies,  uniformly  suppose  tlieni  to  have  Ix-en  emitted  by  himself. 

The  popular  tale  bears,  that  'J'homas  was  carried  oft,  at  an  early  age,  to  the  Fairy  Land 
where  he  acquired  all  the  knowledge  which  made  him  afterwards  so  famous.  After  seven 
years'  residence,  he  was  permitted  to  return  to  the  earth,  to  enlighten  and  astonish  his  country- 
men by  his  prophetic  powers;  still,  however,  remaining  bound  to  return  to  his  royal  mis- 
tress, when  she  should  intimate  her  pleasure.  Accordingly,  while  Thomas  was  making 
merry  with  his  friends  in  the  Tower  of  Ercildoune,  a  person  came  running  in,  and  told, 
with  marks  of  fear  and  astonishment,  that  a  hart  and  hind  had  left  the  neighboring  forest, 
and  were,  composedly  and  slowly,  parading  the  street  of  the  village.  The  prophet  instantly 
arose,  left  his  habitation,  and  followed  the  wonderful  animals  to  the  forest,  whence  he  was 
never  seen  to  return.  According  to  the  popular  belief,  he  still  ''droes  his  weird"  in  Fain,- 
Land,  and  is  one  day  expected  to  revisit  earth.  In  the  mean  while,  his  memory  is  held  in 
the  most  profound  respect.  The  Eildon  Tree,  from  beneath  the  shade  of  which  he  delivered 
his  prophecies,  now  no  longer  exists  ;  but  the  spot  is  marked  by  a  large  stone,  called  Eildon 
Tree  -Stone.  A  neighboring  rivulet  takes  the  name  of  the  Bogle  Burn  (Goblin  Brook)  from 
the  Rhymer's  supernatural  visitants. 

It  seemed  to  the  Editor  unpardonable  to  dismiss  a  person  so  important  in  Border  tradi- 
tions as  the  Rhymer,  without  some  further  notice  than  a  simple  commentary  upon  the 
following  ballad.  It  is  given  from  a  copy,  obtained  from  a  lady  residing  not  far  from  Er- 
cildoune, corrected  and  enlarged  by  one  in  Mrs.  Brown's  MSS.  The  former  copy,  however, 
as  might  be  expacted,  is  far  more  minute  as  to  local  description.  To  this  old  tale  the  Editor 
has  ventured  to  add  a  Second  Part,  consisting  of  a  kind  of  canto,  from  the  printed  proph- 
ecies vulgarly  ascribed  to  the  Rhymer ;  and  a  Third  I'art.  entirely  modern,  founded  upon 
the  tradition  of  his  having  returned  with  the  hart  and  the  hind  to  the  Land  of  Faery.  To 
make  his  f)eace  with  the  more  severe  antiquaries,  the  Editor  has  prefixed  to  tlie  Second 
Part  some  remarks  on  Learmont's  prophecies. 


Prue  Thomas  lay  on  Huntlie  bank;* 
A  ferlie  t  he  spied  wi'  his  ce; 

Vnd  there  he  saw  a  ladye  bright. 
Come  riding  down  by  the  Eildon  Tree. 

[ier  shirt  was  o'  the  grass-green  silk. 
Her  mantle  o'  the  velvet  fyne; 

\t  ilkat  lett  of  her  horse's  mane, 
Hung  fifty  siller  bells  and  nine. 

Prue  Thomas  he  piill'd  aff  his  cap, 
And  louted  §  low  down  to  his  knee:  — 

'  All  hail,  thou  mighty  Queen  of  Heaven  ! 
For  thy  peer  on  earth  1  never  did  see." — 

'  O  no,  O  no,  Thomas,"  she  said, 
"That  name  does  not  bclang  to  me; 

[  am  but  the  Queen  of  fair  Elfiand, 
That  am  hither  come  to  visit  thee. 

*  Huntley  Bank  and  the  adjoining  ravine,  called 
rem  immemorial  tradition  The  Khynier's  Glen, 
were  ultimately  included  in  the  domain  of  Abl)ots- 
ord.  The  scenery  of  this  glen  forms  the  back- 
rround  of  Edwin  Landseer's  portrait  of  .Sir 
kV.ilter  Scott,  painted  in  1833. 

t  Wonder 

X  Each. 

S  Bowed. 


"  Harp  and  carp,  Thomas,"  she  said; 

"  Harp  and  carp  along  wi'  me; 
And  if  ye  dare  to  kiss  my  lips, 

Sure  of  your  bodie  I  will  he."- 

"  Betide  me  weal,  betide  me  woe, 
That     weird  II     shall     never    daunton 
me." — 

Sync  he  has  kiss'd  her  rosy  lips, 
All  underneath  the  Eildon  Tree. 

"  Now,  ye  maun  go  wi'  me,"  she  said; 

"True  Thorhas,  ye  maun  go  wi'  me; 
And  ye  maun  serve  me  seven  years. 

Thro'  weal  or  woe  as  may  chance  to 
be." 

She  mounted  on  her  milk-white  steed; 

She's  ta'en  true  Thomas  up  l>chind: 
And  aye,  whene'er  her  bridle  rung, 

The  steed  flew  swifter  than  the  wind. 

O  they  rade  on,  and  farther  on; 

The  steed^aed  swifter  than  the  wind; 
Until  ihey  reach'd  a  desert  wide. 

And  living  land  was  left  behind. 

II  Destiny  sliall  not  alarm  me. 


Part  II. 


THOMAS    THE   RHYMER. 


383 


"  Light    down,    light   down,    now    true 
Thomas, 

And  lean  your  head  upon  my  knee; 
Abide  and  rest  a  little  space. 

And  I  will  shew  you  ferlies  three. 

''  O  see  ye  not  yon  narrow  road. 

So  thick  beset  with  thorns  and  briers? 

That  is  the  path  of  righteousness, 
Though  after  it  but  few  enquires. 

"  And  see  ye  not  that  braid  braid  road, 
That  lies  across  that  lily  leven? 

That  is  the  path  of  wickedness, 

Though  some  call  it  the  road  to  heaven. 

"  And  see  not  ye  that  bonny  road. 
That  winds  about  the  fernie  brae? 

That  is  the  road  to  fair  Elfland, 

Where  thou  and  I  this  night  maun  gae. 

"'  But,  Thomas,  ye  maun  hold  your  tongue, 
Whatever  ye  may  hear  or  see; 

For,  if  ye  speak  word  in  Elflyn  land, 
Ye'Il  ne'er  get  back  to  your  ain  coun- 
trie." 

O  they  rade  on,  and  farther  on. 

And  they  waded  through  rivers  aboon 
the  knee, 

And  they  saw  neither  sun  nor  moon, 
But  they  Jicard  the  roaring  of  the  sea. 


It  was  mirk  mirk  night,  and  there  was 
nae  stern  light,* 
And  they  waded  through  red  blude  to 
the  knee. 
For  a'  the  blude  that's  shed  on  earth 
Rins  through  the  springs  o'  that  coun- 
trie. 

Syne  they  came  on  to  a  garden  green, 
And  she  pu'd  an  apple  frae  a  tree  t  -- 

"  Take  this  for  thy  wages,  true  Thomas; 
It  will  give  thee  the  tongue  that  can 
never  lie." — 

"  My  tongue  is  mine  ain,"  true  Thomas 
said; 

"  A  gudely  gift  ye  wad  gie  to  me ! 
I  neither  dought  to  buy  nor  sell. 

At  fair  or  tryst  where  I  may  be. 

"I    dought    neither  speak   to  prince  or 
peer. 

Nor  ask  of  grace  from  fair  ladye." — 
"  Now  hold  thy  peace  !  "  the  lady  said, 

"  For  as  I  say,  so  must  it  be." — 

He  has  gotten  a  coat  of  the  even  cloth. 
And  a  pair  of  shoes  of  velvet  green; 

And    till    seven    years    were    gane    and 
past. 
True  Thomas  on  earth  was  never  seen. 


I'ART  SECOND.  —  ALTERED   FROM   ANCIENT  PROPHECIES. 

The  i^ropliecies,  ascribed  to  Thomas  of  Ercildoune,  have  been  the  principal  means  of 
securing  to  him  remembrance  "  amongst  the  sons  of  his  people."  The  author  of  Sir  Tristrcm 
would  long  ago  have  joined,  in  the  vale  of  oblivion,  "Clerk  of  Tranent,  who  wrote  the  ad- 
venture of  Schir  Guwaiii,"  if,  by  good  hap,  tlie  same  current  of  ideas  respecting  antiquity, 
which  causes  Virgil  to  tje  regarded  as  a  magician  by  the  Lazzaroni  of  Naples,  had  not  exalted 
the  Uard  of  Ercildoune  to  the  prophetic  character.  Perhaps,  indeed,  he  himself  affected  it 
during  liis  life.  We  know,  at  least,  for  certain,  that  a  belief  in  his  supernatural  knowledge 
was  current  soon  after  his  death.  His  prophecies  are  alluded  to  by  Barbour,  by  Wintown, 
and  by  Henry  the  Minstrel,  or  Blind  Harry,  as  he  is  usually  termed.  None  of  these 
authors,  however,  give  the  words  of  any  of  the  Rhymer's  vaticinations,  but  merely  narrate, 
historically,  his  having  predicted  the  events  of  which  they  speak.  The  earliest  of  the 
prophecies  ascribed  to  him,  which  is  now  extant,  is  quoted  by  Mr.  Pinkerton  from  a  MS. 
It  is  supposed  to  be  a  response  from  Thomas  of  Ercildoune  to  a  question  from  the  heroic 
Countess  of  March,  renowned  for  the  defence  of  the  Castle  of  Dunbar  against  the  English, 
and  termed,  in  the  familiar  dialect  of  her  time,  Black  Agnes  of  Dunbar.     This  prophecy  is 

*  Star  light. 

t  The  traditional  commentary  u|>on  this  ballad  informs  us,  that  the  apple  was  the  produce  of  the 
fatal  Tree  of  Knowledge,  and  that  die  garden  was  the  terrestrial  paradise.  The  repugnance  of 
Thomas  to  be  debarred  the  use  of  falsehood,  when  he  niijdit  lind  it  cunvenieut,  has  k  comic  effect. 


3^4 


CONTRIBUTIONS    TO  MINSTRELSY. 


remarkable,  in  so  far  as  it  bears  very  little  resemblance  to  any  verses  published  in  the  printed 
copy  of  the  Rhymer's  supposed  prophecies. 

Corspatrick  (Comes  Patrick)  Earl  of  March,  but  more  commonly  taking  his  title  from 
his  castle  of  Dunbar,  acted  a  noted  part  during  the  wars  of  Edward  I.  in  Scotland.  As 
Thomas  of  Ercildoune  is  said  to  have  delivered  to  him  his  famous  prophecy  of  King  .Alex- 
ander's death,  the  Editor  has  chosen  to  introduce  him  into  the  following  ballad.  All  the 
prophetic  verses  are  selected  from  Hart's  publication.  * 


When  seven  years  were  come  and  gane, 
The   sun    blinked    fair   on   pool   and 
stream; 

And  Thomas  lay  on  Huntlie  Bank, 
Like  one  awaken' d  from  a  dream. 

He  heard  the  trampling  of  a  steed. 
He  saw  the  flash  of  armor  flee, 

And  he  beheld  a  gallant  knight 

Come  riding  down  by  the  Eildon-tree. 

He  was  a  stalwart  knight,  and  strong; 

Of  giant  make  he  'pear'd  to  be: 
He  stirr'd  his  horse,  as  he  were  wode, 

Wi'  gilded  spurs,  of  faushion  free. 

Says — "Well     met,     well     met,     true 

Thomas ! 

Some  uncouth  ferlies  show  to  me." — 

Says  —  "Christ   thee  save,  Corspatrick 

brave  ! 

Thrice  welcume,  good  Dunbar,  to  me ! 

"  Light  down,  light  down,  Corspatrick 
brave ! 
And  I  will  show  thee  curses  three, 
Shall  gar  fair  Scotland  greet  and  grane. 
And   change   the   green  to   the   black 
livery. 

"  A  storm  shall  roar  this  very  hour, 
From  Ross's  hill  to  Solway  sea." — 

"  Ye  lied,  ye  lied,  ye  warlock  hoar. 
For  the  sun  shines  sweet  on  fauld  and 
lea. ' ' 

He  put  his  hand  on  the  Earlie's  head; 
He  show'd  him  a  rock  beside  the  sea, 


Where  a  king  lay  stiff  beneath  his  steed,  + 
And  steel-dight  nobles  wiped  their  ee. 

"The    neist    curse    lights    on    Branxton 
hills: 

By  Flodden's  high  and  heathery  side. 
Shall  wave  a  banner  red  as  blude. 

And  chieftains  throng  wi'  meikle  pride. 

"A  Scottish  king  shall  come  full  keen. 

The  ruddy  lion  beareth  he; 
A  feather'd  arrow  sharp,  I  ween 

Shall  make  him  wink  and  warre  to  see. 

"  When  he  is  bloody,  and  all  to  bledde. 
Thus  to  his  men  he  still  shall  say:  — 

'  For  God's  sake,  turn  ye  back  again. 
And  give  yon  southern  folk  a  fray  !    . 

Why  should  I  lose  the  right  is  mine? 
My  doom  is  not  to  die  this  day.'  \ 

"  Yet  turn  ye  to  the  eastern  hand. 
And  woe  and  wonder  ye  sail  see; 

How  forty  thousand  spearmen  stand. 
Where    yon    rank    river    meets    the 
sea." 

"  There  shall  the  lion  lose  the  gylte. 
And  the  lil)bards§  bear  it  clean  away; 

At  Pinkyn  Cleuch  there  shall  be  spilt 
Much  gentil  bluid  that  day." — 

"  Enough,  enough,  of  curse  and  ban; 

Some  blessings  show  thou  now  to  me. 
Or,  by  the  faith  o'  my  bodie,"  Corspatrick 
said, 
"  Ye  shall  rue  the  day  ye  e'er  saw 
me!" — 


*  Prophecies  supposed  to  have  been  delivered  by  True  Thomas,  Bede,  Merlin,  etc.,  published 
by  Andro  Hart,  1615.  An  exact  reprint  of  Hart's  volume,  from  the  copy  in  the  library  at  Abbots, 
ford,  under  the  care  of  the  learned  antiquary  Mr.  David  Laing  of  Edinburgh,  was  announced  in  1833 
as  soon  to  appear. 

t  King  Alexander  III.,  killed  by  a  fall  from  his  horse  near  Kinghom. 

X  The  uncertainty  which  long  prevailed  in  Scotland,  concerning  the  fate  of  James  IV.,  is 
well  known. 

§  Leopards  of  Plantagenet.  The  Scottish  banner  is  a  lion  on  a  field  guUi ;  the  English 
banner  then  was  the  three  leopards. 


Part  III. 


THOMAS   THE  RHYMER. 


385 


"  The  first  of  blessings  I  shall  thee  show. 
Is  by  a  burn,  that's  call'd  of  bread;* 

Where  Saxon  men  shall  tine  the  lx>w. 
And  find  their  arrows  lack  the  head. 

"  Beside  that  brigg,  out  ower  that  burn. 
Where  the  water  bickereth  bright  and 
sheen, 

Shall  many  a  fallen  courser  spurn. 

And  knights  shall  die  in  battle  keen.    ' 

"  Beside  a  headless  cross  of  stone, 

The  libbards  there  shall  lose  the  gree: 

The  raven  shall  come,  the  erne  shall  go. 
And  drink  the  Saxon  bluid  sae  free. 

The  cross  of  stone  they  shall  not  know, 
So  thick  the  corses  there  shall  be." — 


"  But  tell  me,  now,"  said  brave  Dunbar, 
"True  Thomas,  tell  now  unto  me. 

What  man  shall  rule  the  isle  Britain, 
Even  from  the  north  to  the  southern 
sea?  "  — 

"  A  French  Queen  shall  bear  the  son.t 
Shall  rule  all  Britain  to  the  sea; 

He  of  the  Bruce's  blood  shall  come. 
As  near  as  in  the  ninth  degree. 

"  The  waters  worship  shall  his  race; 
Likewise   the   waves   of   the   farthest 
sea; 
For  they  shall  ride  over  ocean  wide. 
With   hempen   bridles,  and  horse  of 
tree. " 


PART  THIRD.  — MODERN. 

Thomas  THE  Rhymer  was  renowned  among  his  contemporaries,  as  the  author  of  the  cele- 
brated romance  of  Sir  Tristrem.  Of  this  once-admired  poem  only  one  copy  is  now  known 
to  exist,  which  is  in  the  Advocates'  Library.  The  Editor,  in  1S04,  publishad  a  small  edition 
of  this  curious  work ;  which,  if  it  does  not  revive  the  reputation  of  the  Bard  of  Ercildoune, 
is  at  least  the  earliest  specimen  of  Scottish  poetry  hitherto  published.  Some  account  of 
this  romance  has  already  been  given  to  the  world  in  Mr.  Ellis's  Sfecimens  of  Ancient 
Poetry,  vol.  i.  p.  165  ;  iii.,  p.  410  ;  a  work  to  which  our  predecessors  and  our  posterity  are 
alike  obliged  ;  tlie  former,  for  the  preservation  of  the  best-selected  examples  of  their  poetical 
taste ;  and  the  latter,  for  a  history  of  the  English  language,  which  will  only  cease  to  be  in- 
teresting with  the  existence  of  our  mother-tongue,  and  all  that  genius  and  learning  have 
recorded  in  it.  It  is  sufficient  here  to  mention,  that  so  great  was  the  reputation  of  the 
romance  of  Sir  Tristrem,  that  few  were  thought  capable  of  reciting  it  after  the  manner  of 
the  author. 

The  following  attempt  to  commemorate  the  Rhymer's  poetical  fame,  and  the  traditional 
account  of  his  marvellous  return  to  Fairy  Land,  being  entirely  modern,  would  have  been 
placed  with  greater  propriety  among  the  class  of  Modern  Ballads,  had  it  not  been  for  its 
immediate  connection  with  the  first  and  second  parts  of  the  same  story. 


When  seven  years  more  were  come  and 
gone, 

Was  war  through  Scotland  spread, 
And  Ruberslaw  show'd  high  Dunyon  X 

His  beacon  blazing  red. 

Then  all  by  bonny  Coldingknowf 
Pitched  palliouns  II  took  their  room, 

*  Bannock,  or  Breed  Bum.    One  of  Thomas's 
rhymes  preserved  by  tradition  runs  thus  :  — 
The  bum  of  breid 
Shall  run  fou  reid. 
The  bannock  is  the  name  given  by  the  Scots  to  a 
thick  round  cake  of  unleavened  bread. 

t  James  VL,  son  of  Mary  Queen  of  France 
and  Scotland. 

X  Hills  near  Jedburjih.  ||  Tents. 

§  An  ancient  tower  near  Ercildoune,  belonginf 


And  crested  helms,  and  spears  a-rowe, 
Glanced  gayly  through  the  broom. 

The  Leader,  rolling  to  the  Tweed, 

Resounds  the  ensenzie;ir 
They  roused  the  deer  from  Caddenhead, 

To  distant  Torwoodlee.  ** 

to  a  family  of    the  name  of   Home.      One  of 
Thomas's  prophecies  is  said  to  have  run  thus :  — 

"  Vengeance  1  vengeance !  when  and  where  ? 
On   the  hour  of    Coldingknow  now   and   ever 
mair !  " 

The  spot  is  rendered  classical  by  its  having 
given  its  name  to  the  beautiful  melody,  The 
Broom  of  the  CoTvdenkno^vs. 

IF  Ensenxie  —  War-cry,  or  gathering  word. 

**  Places  in  Selkirkshire. 


386 


CONTRTBUTIOXS    TO   MINSTRELSY. 


The  feast  was  spread  in  Ercikloiine, 
In  Lcarmont's  high  and  ancient  hall; 

And  there  were  knights  of  great  renown, 
And  ladies,  laced  in  pall. 

Nor  lacked  they,  while  they  sat  at  dine, 

The  music  nor  the  tale, 
Nor  gol)lets  of  the  blood-red  wine. 

Nor  mantling  quaighs*  of  ale. 

True  Thomas  rose,  with  harp  in  liand, 
When  as  the  feast  was  done: 

(In  minstrel  strife,  in  Fairy  Land, 
The  elfin  harp  he  won.) 

Hushed  were  the  throng,  both  liml)  ami 
tongue, 

And  harpers  for  envy  pale; 
And  armed  lords  lean'd  on  their  swords. 

And  hearken'd  to  the  tale. 

In  numbers  high,  the  witching  tale 

The  prophet  poured  along; 
No  after  l)ard  might  e'er  avail 

Those  numbers  to  prolong. 

Yet  fragments  of  the  lofty  strain 
Float  down  the  tide  of  years, 

As,  buoyant  on  the  stormy  main, 
A  parted  wreck  appears. 

He  sung  King  Arthur's  Table  Round  : 

The  Warrior  of  the  Lake; 
How  courteous  Gawaine  met  the  wound. 

And  bled  for  ladies'  sake. 

But  chief,  in  gentle  Tristrem's  praise, 

The  notes  melodious  swell; 
Was  none  excelled  in  Arthur's  days, 

The  knight  of  Lionelle. 

For  Marke,  his  cowardly  uncle's  right, 

A  venom'd  wound  he  bore; 
When  fierce  Morholde  he  slew  in  fight, 

Upon  the  Irish  shore. 

No  art  the  poison  might  withstand; 

No  medicine  could  be  found, 
Till  lovely  Isolde's  lily  hand 

Had  probed  the  rankling  wound. 


*  Quaighs  —  Wooden     cups,    composed    of 
jtaves  hooped  together. 


With  gentle  hand  and  soothing  tongue 

She  bore  the  leech's  part; 
And,  while  she  o'er  his  sick-bed  hung. 

He  paid  her  with  his  heart. 

O  fatal  was  the  gift,  I  ween  ! 

For,  doomed  in  evil  tide. 
The  maid  must  be  rude  Cornwall's  queen, 

His  cowardly  uncle's  bride. 

Their  loves,  their  woes,  the  gifted  bard, 

In  fairy  tissue  wove; 
Where    lords,    and    knights,    and    Indie* 
bright, 

In  gay  confusion  strove. 

The  Garde  Joyeuse,  amid  the  tale, 
High  reared  its  glittering  head; 

And  Avalon's  enchanted  vale 
In  all  its  wonders  spread. 

Brangwain  was  there,  and  Segramore, 
And  fiend-born  Merlin's  gramarye; 

Of  that  famed  wizard's  mighty  lore, 
O  who  could  sing  but  he? 

Through  many  a  maze  the  winning  song 

In  changeful  jiassion  led, 
Till  bent  at  length  the  listening  throng 

O'er  Tristrem's  dying  bed. 

His  ancient  wounds  their  scars  expand. 
With  agony  his  heart  is  wrung; 

O  where  is  Isolde's  lilye  hand. 
And  where  her  .soothing  tongue? 

Shccomes  !  shccomes  ! — likeflashof  flame 

Can  lovers'  footsteps  fly: 
She  comes  !  she  conies  !  —  she  only  came 

To  see  her  Tristrcm  die. 

She  saw  him  die;  her  latest  sigh 
Joined  in  a  kiss  his  parting  breath, 

The  gentlest  pair  that  Britain  bare. 
United  are  in  death. 

There  paused  the  harp:  its  lingering  sound 

Died  slowly  on  the  ear; 
The  silent  guests  still  bent  around. 

For  still  they  seemed  to  hear. 

Then  woe  broke  forth  in  murmurs  weak : 
Nor  ladies  heaved  alone  the  sigh; 


Part  III. 


THOMAS    THE  RHYMER. 


387 


But  half  ashamed,  the  rugged  cheek 
Did  many  a  gauntlet  dry. 

On  Leader 'sstream  and  Learmont'stower, 

The  mists  of  evening  close; 
In  camp,  in  castle,  or  in  bower, 

Each  warrior  sought  repose. 

Lord  Douglas,  in  his  lofty  tent, 
Dreamed  o'er  the  woeful  tale; 

When  footsteps  light,  across  the  bent, 
The  warrior's  ear  assail. 

He  starts,  he  wakes :  —  "  What,  Richard, 
ho! 

Arise,  my  page,  arise  ! 
What  venturous  wight,  at  dead  of  night, 

Dare  step  where  Douglas  lies?  "  — 

Then  forth  they  rushed :  by  Leader's  tide, 
A  selcouth  *  sight  they  see  — 

A  hart  and  hind  pace  side  by  side, 
As  white  as  snow  on  Fairnalie.t 

Beneath  the  moon,  with  gesture  proud. 
They  stately  move  and  slow; 

Nor  scare  they  at  the  gathering  crowd. 
Who  marvel  as  they  go. 

To  Learmont's  tower  a  message  sped, 

As  fast  as  page  might  run; 
And  Thomas  started  from  his  bed. 

And  soon  his  clothes  did  on. 

First  he  woxe  pale,  and  then  woxe  red; 

Never  a  word  he  spake  but  three:  — 
"  My  sand  is  run;  my  thread  is  spun; 

This  sign  regardeth  me." 

The  elfin  harp  his  neck  around. 
In  minstrel  guise,  he  hung; 

*  Wondrous. 

t  An  ancient  seat  upon  the  Tweed  in  Selkirk- 
shire. 


And  on  the  wind,  in  doleful  sound, 
Its  dying  accents  rung. 

Then  forth  he  went;  yet  turned  him  oft 

To  view  his  ancient  hall : 
On  the  gray  tower,  in  lustre  soft, 

The  autumn  moonbeams  fall. 

And  Leader's  waves,  like  silver  sheen, 
Danced  shimmering  in  the  ray; 

In  deepening  mass,  at  distance  seen. 
Broad  Soltra's  mountains  lay. 

"  Farewell,  my  fathers'  ancient  tower ! 

A  long  farewell,"  said  he : 
"  The  scene  of  pleasure,  pomp,  or  power. 

Thou  never  more  shalt  be. 

"  To  Learmont's  name  no  foot  of  earth 

Shall  here  again  belong. 
And,  on  thy  hospitable  hearth, 

The  hare  shall  leave  her  young. 

"  Adieu  !  adieu  !  "  again  he  cried, 
All  as  he  turn'd  him  roun'  — 

"  Farewell  to  Leader's  silver  tide  ! 
Farewell  to  Ercildoune  !  " 

The    hart    and    hind    approached    the 
place, 

As  lingering  yet  he  stood; 
And  there,  before  Lord  Douglas'  face, 

With  them  he  crossed  the  flood. 

Lord  Douglas  leaped  on  his  berry-brown 
steed. 

And  spurred  him  the  Leader  o'er; 
But,  though  he  rode  with  lightning  speed. 

He  never  saw  them  more. 

Some  said  to  hill,  and  some  to  glen. 
Their  wondrous  course  had  been; 

But  ne'er  in  haunts  of  living  men 
Again  was  Thomas  seen. 


CONTRIBUTION'S    TO  MINSTRELSY. 


GLENFINLAS;  OR,  LORD  RONALD'S  CORONACH.* 

The  simple  tradition,  upon  whicli  the  following  stanzas  are  founded,  runs  thus :  While 
two  Highland  hunters  were  passing  the  night  in  a  solitary  bothy  (a  hut  built  for  the  pur- 
pose of  hunting),  and  making  merry  over  their  venison  and  whiskey,  one  of  them  expressed 
a  wish  that  they  had  pretty  lasses  to  complete  their  party.  The  words  were  scarcely  ut- 
tered, when  two  beautiful  young  women,  habited  in  green,  entered  the  hut,  dancing  and 
singing.  One  of  the  hunters  was  seduced  by  the  siren  who  attached  herself  particularly  to 
him,  to  leave  the  hut :  the  other  remained,  and,  suspicious  of  the  fair  seducers,  continued 
to  play  upon  a  trump,  or  Jew's  harp,  some  strain,  consecrated  to  the  Virgin  Mary.  Day 
at  length  came,  and  the  temptress  vanished.  Searching  in  the  forest,  he  found  the  bones 
of  his  unfortunate  friend,  who  had  been  torn  to  pieces  and  devoured  by  the  fiend  into  whose 
toils  he  had  fallen.     The  place  was  from  thence  called  the  Glen  of  the  Green  Women. 

Glenlinlas  is  a  tract  of  forest-ground,  lying  in  the  Highlands  of  Perthshire,  not  far  from 
(!aliender  in  Menteith.  It  was  formerly  a  royal  forest,  and  now  belongs  to  the  Earl  of 
Moray.  This  country,  as  well  as  the  adjacent  district  of  Balquidder,  was,  in  times  of 
yore,  chiefly  inhabited  by  the  Macgregors.  To  the  west  of  the  Forest  of  Glenfinlas  lies 
Loch  Katrine,  and  its  romantic  avenue,  called  the  Trosachs.  Benledi,  Benmore,  and  Ben- 
voirlich,  are  mountains  in  the  same  district,  and  at  no  great  distance  from  Glenfinlas. 
The  river  Teith  passes  Callender  and  the  Castle  of  Doune,  and  joins  the  Forth  near  Stir- 
ling. The  Pass  of  Lenny  is  immediately  above  Callender,  and  is  the  principal  access  to 
the  Highlands,  from  that  town.  Glenartney  is  a  forest,  near  Benvoirlich.  The  whole 
forms  a  sublime  tract  of  alpine  scenery. 

This  ballad  first  appeared  in  the  Tales  of  Wonder,  by  Lewis. 

For  them  the  viewless  forms  of  air  obey, 

Their  bidding  heed,  and  at  their  beck  repair ; 
They  know  what  spirit  brews  the  stormful  day, 

And  heartless  oft,  like  moody  madness,  stare, 
To  see  the  phantom-train  their  secret  work  prepare.  — Collins. 


O  HONE  a  rie' !  O  hone  a  rie' !  t 
The  pride  of  Albin's  line  is  o'er, 

And  fall'n  Glenartney's  stateliest  tree; 
We    ne'er    shall    see    Lord    Ronald 
more !  — 

O,  sprung  from  great  Macgillianore, 
The  chief  that  never  fear'd  a  foe. 

How  matchless  was  thy  broad  claymore, 
How  deadly  thine  unerring  bow  ! 

Well  can  the  Saxon  widows  tell,  t 
How,  on  theTeith's  resounding  shore, 

The  boldest  Lowland  warriors  fell. 
As  down  from  Lenny's  pass  you  bore. 

Bui  o'er  his  hills,  in  festal  day, 

How  blazed  Lord  Ronald's  beltane- 
tree, ^ 
Wiiile  youths  and  maids  the  light  strath- 
spey 
So  nimbly  danced  with  Highland  glee  ! 


Cheer'd  by  the  strength  of  Ronald's  shell. 
E'en  age  forgot  his  tresses  hoar; 

But  now  the  loud  lament  we  swell, 
O  ne'er  to  see  Lord  Ronald  more ! 

From  distant  isles  a  chieftain  came. 
The  joys  of  Ronald's  halls  to  find, 

And  chase  with  him  the  dark-brown  game, 
That  bounds  o'er  Albin's  hills  of  wind. 

Twas  Moy;    whom  in  Columba's  isle 
The  Seer's  prophetic  spirit  found, "-^ 

As,  with  a  minstrel's  fire  the  while. 
He  waked  his  harp's  harmonious  sound. 

Full  many  a  spell  to  him  was  known, 
W^hich  wandering  spirits  shrink  to  hear; 

And  many  a  lay  of  potent  tone. 
Was  never  meant  for  mortal  ear. 

For  there,  'tis  said,  in  mystic  mood, 
High  converse  with  the  dead  they  hold. 


*  Coronach  —  is  the  lamentation  for  a  deceased  warrior,  sung  by  the  aged  of  the  clan. 

*  O  hone  a  rie'  —  "  Alas  for  the  chief  !  " 

t   The  term  Sassenach,  or  Saxon,  is  apjilied  bv  the  Higlilanders  to  their  Low  Country  neighbors. 


GLENFINLAS ;    OR,  LORD   RONALD'S   CORONACH.  389 


And  oft  espy  the  fated  shroud, 

That  shall  the  future  corpse  enfold. 

O  so  it  fell,  that  on  a  day, 

To  rouse  the  red  deer  from  their  den, 
The  Chiefs  have  ta'en  their  distant  way. 

And  scour 'd  the  deep  Glenfinlas  glen. 

No  vassals  wait  their  sports  to  aid, 
To  watch  their  safety,  deck  their  board; 

Their  simple  dress,  the  Highland  plaid. 
Their  trusty  guard,  the  Highland  sword. 

Three  summer  days,  through  brake  and 
dell. 

Their  whistling  shafts  successful  flew; 
And  still,  when  dewy  evening  fell. 

The  quarry  to  their  hut  they  drew. 

In  gray  Glenfinlas'  deepest  nook 

The  solitary  -cabin  stood. 
Fast  by  Moneira's  sullen  brook. 

Which  murmurs   through  that    lonely 
wood. 

Soft  fell  the  night,  the  sky  was  calm, 
When  three  successive  days  had  flown; 

And  summer  mist  in  dewy  balm 

Steep'd  heathy  bank  and  mossy  stone. 

The  moon,  half-hid  in  silvery  flake. 
Afar  her  dubious  radiance  shed, 

Quivering  on  Katrine's  distant  lakes 
And  resting  on  Benledi's  head. 

Now  in  their  hut,  in  social  guise. 
Their  sylvan  fare  the  Chiefs  enjoy; 

And  pleasure  laughs  in  Ronald's  eyes, 
As  many  a  pledge  he  quaffs  to  Moy. 

"  What  lack  we  here  to  crown  our  bliss. 
While  thus  the  pulse  of  joy  beats  high  ? 

Wiiat,  but  fair  woman's  yielding  kiss. 
Her  panting  breath  and  melting  eye? 

"  To  chase  the  deer  of  yonder  shades. 
This  morning  left  their  father's  pile 

The  fairest  of  our  mountain  maids, 
The  daughters  of  the  proud  Glengyle. 

"  Long  have  I  sought  sweet  Mary's  heart, 
And  dropp'd  the  tear,  and  heaved  the 
sigh; 

But  vain  the  lover's  wily  art. 
Beneath  a  sister's  watchful  eye. 


"  But  thou  mayst  teach  that  guardian  fair, 
While  far  with  Mary  I  am  flown, 

Of  other  hearts  to  cease  her  care, 
And  find  it  hard  to  guard  her  own. 

"  Touch  but  thy  harp,  thou  soon  shall  see 
The  lovely  Flora  of  Glengyle, 

Unmindful  of  her  charge  and  me, 

Hang  on  thy  notes,  'twixt  tear  andsmile. 

"  Or,  if  she  choose  a  melting  tale. 

All  underneath  the  greenwood  bough. 

Will  good  St.  Oran's  rule  prevail,^ 
Stern  huntsman  of  the  rigid  brow  !"  — 

'*  Since    Enrick's    fight,    since    Morna's 
death. 

No  more  on  me  shall  rapture  rise, 
Responsive  to  the  panting  breath, 

Or  yielding  kiss,  or  melting  eyes. 

"  E'en  then,  when  o'er  the  heath  of  woe, 
Where  sunk  myhopes  of  love  and  fame, 

I  bade  my  harp's  wild  wailings  flow. 
On  me  the  Seer's  sad  spirit  came. 

"The  last  dread  curse  of  angry  heaven, 
With  ghastly  sights  and  sounds  of  woe. 

To  dash  each  glimpse  of  joy  was  given  — 
The  gift,  the  future  ill  to  know. 

"The   bark  thou   saw'st,   yon  summer 
morn, 

So  gayly  part  from  Oban's  bay. 
My  eye  beheld  her  dash'd  and  torn, 

Far  on  the  rocky  Colonsay. 

"Thy  Fergus  too  —  thy  sister's  son. 
Thou  saw'st,  with  pride,  the  gallant's 
power, 

As  marching  'gainst  the  Lord  of  Downe, 
He  left  the  skirts  of  huge  Benmore. 

"  Thou  only  saw'st  their  tartans  *  wave. 
As     down     Benvoirlich's     side    they 
wound, 
Heard'st   but    the   pibroch,t   answering 
brave 
To  many  a  target  clanking  round. 

*  Titrians  —  ihs  full  Highland  dress,  made  of 
the  checkered  stuff  so  termed. 

t  Pibroch  —  a  piece  of  martial  music,  adapted 
to  the  Highland  bagpipe. 


390 


CONTRIBUTIONS    TO   ^MINSTRELSY. 


"  I  heard  the  groans,  I  niark'd  the  tears, 
I  saw  the  wound  his  bosom  bore, 

When  on  the  serried  Saxon  spears 
He  pour'd  his  clan's  resistless  roar. 

"  And  thou,  who  bidst  me  think  of  bliss, 
And  bidst  my  heart  awake  to  glee. 

And  court,  like  thee,  the  wanton  kiss  — 
That  heart,  O  Ronald,  bleeds  for  thee  ! 

"I  see  the  death-damps  chill  thy  brow, 
I  hear  thy  Warning  Spirit  cry; 

The  corpse-lights  dance  —  they're  gone, 
and  now.  .  .  . 
No  more  is  given  to  gifted  eye  !  "  — 

"Alone  enjoy  thy  dreary  dreams. 
Sad  prophet  of  the  evil  hour ! 

Say,    should    we   scorn    joy's    transient 
beams. 
Because  to-morrow's  storm  may  lour? 

"  Or  false,  or  sooth,  thy  words  of  woe, 
Clangillian's  Chieftain  ne'er  shall  fear; 

His  blood  shall  bound  at  rapture's  glow. 
Though    doom'd  to  stain   the   Saxon 
spear. 

"  E'en  now,  to  meet  me  in  yon  dell 
My  Mary's  buskins  brush  the  dew." 

He  spoke,  nor  bade  the  Chief  farewell. 
But  call'd  his  dogs,  and  gay  withdrew. 

Within  an  hour  return'd  each  hound; 

In  rush'd  the  rousers  of  the  deer; 
They  howl'd  in  melancholy  sound. 

Then  closely  couch'd  beside  the  Seer. 

No  Ronald  yet,  though  midnight  came; 

And  sad  were  Moy's  prophetic  dreams, 
As,  bending  o'er  the  dying  flame. 

He  fed  the  watch-fire's  quivering 
gleams. 

Sudden  the  hounds  erect  their  ears. 
And  sudden  cease  their  moaning  howl; 

Close  press'dtoMoy,theymarktheir  fears 
By  shivering  limbs  and  stifled  growl. 

Untouch'd,  the  harp  began  to  ring, 
As  softly,  slowly,  oped  the  door; 

And  shook  responsive  every  string, 
As  light  a  footstep  press'd  the  floor. 


And  by  the  watch-fire's  glimmering  light. 
Close  by  the  minstrel's  side  was  seen 

A  huntress  maid,  in  beauty  bright. 
All  dropping  wet  her  robes  of  green. 

All  dropping  wet  her  garments  seem; 

Chill'd  was  her  cheek,  her  bosom  bare. 
As,  bending  o'er  the  dying  gleam. 

She  wrung  the  moisture  from  her  hair. 

With  maiden  blush,  she  softly  said :  — 
"  O  gentle  huntsman,  hast  thou  seen. 

In  deep  Glenfinlas'  moonlight  glade, 
A  lovely  maid  in  vest  of  green; 

"  With  her  a  Chief  in  Highland  pride; 

His  shoulders  bear  the  hunter's  bow, 
The  mountain  dirk  adorns  his  side. 

Far  on  the  wind  his  tartans  flow?  " — ■ 

"  And  who  art  thou?  and  who  are  they?  " 
All  ghastly  gazing,  Moy  replied  : 

"'And  why,  beneath  the  moon's  pale  ray, 
Dare  ye  thus  roam  Glenfinlas'  side  ?  " — 

"Where  wild  Loch  Katrine  pours  her  tide, 
Blue,  dark,  and  deep,  round  many  an 
isle. 

Our  father's  towers  o'erhang  her  side. 
The  castle  of  the  bold  Glengyle. 

"  To  chase  the  dun  Glenfinlas  deer, 
Our  woodland  course  thismorn  webore, 

And  haply  met,  while  wandering  here, 
The  son  of  great  Macgillianore. 

"  O  aid  me,  then,  to  seek  the  pair, 
Whom,  loitering  in  the  woods,  I  lost; 

Alone,  I  dare  not  venture  there, 

Where  walks,  they  say,  the  shrieking 
ghost."  — 

"  Yes,    many  a  shrieking   ghost    walks 
there ; 
Then,  first,  ray  own  sad  vow  to  keep. 
Here  will  I  pour  my  midnight  prayer, 
W'hich   still   must   rise  when   mortals 
sleep." — 

"  O  first,  for  pity's  gentle  sake, 

Guide  a  lone  wanderer  on  her  way ! 

For  I  must  cross  the  haunted  brake. 
And  reach  my  father's  towers  ere  day." 


GLENFINLAS ;    OR,   LORD  RONALD'S   CORONACH. 


391 


"  First,  three  times  tell  each  Ave-bead, 
And  thrice  a  Pater-noster  say; 

Then  kiss  with  me  the  holy  rede; 

So  shall  we  safely  wend  our  way."  — 

"O  shame  to  knighthood,  strange  and 
foul! 

Go,  doff  the  bonnet  from  thy  brow. 
And  shroud  thee  in  the  monkish  cowl. 

Which  best  befits  thy  sullen  vow. 

"  Not  so,  by  high  Dunlathmon's  fire. 
Thy  heart  was  froze  to  love  and  joy. 

When  gayly  rung  thy  raptured  lyre 
To  wanton  Morna's  melting  eye." 

Wild  stared  the  minstrel's  eyes  of  flame, 
And  high  his  sable  locks  arose, 

And  quidc  his  color  went  and  came, 
As  fear  and  rage  alternate  rose. 

"  And  thou  !  when  by  the  blazing  oak 
I  lay,  to  her  and  love  resign'd, 

Say,  rode  ye  on  the  eddying  smoke. 
Or  sail'd  ye  on  the  midnight  wind? 

"  Not  thine  a  race  of  mortal  blood. 
Nor  old  Glengyle's  pretended  line; 

Thy  dame,  the  Lady  of  the  Flood  — 
Th^  Jre,  the  Monarch  of  the  Mine." 

He  mutter'd  thrice  St.  Oran's  rhyme, 
And     thrice     St.    Fillan's     powerful 
prayer; * 

Then  turn'd  him  to  the  eastern  clime. 
And  sternly  shook  his  coal-black  hair. 

And,  bending  o'er  the  harp,  he  flung 
His  wildest  witch-notes  on  the  wind; 

And  'loud,  and  high,  and  strange,   they 
rung 
As  many  a  magic  change  they  find. 

Tall  wax'd  the  Spirit's  altering  form, 
Till  to  the  roof  her  stature  grew: 

Then,  mingling  with  the  rising  storm. 
With  one  wild  yell  away  she  flew. 

Rain  beats,  hail  rattles,  whirlwinds  tear : 
The  slender  hut  in  fragments  flew; 

But  not  a  lock  of  Moy's  loose  hair 
Was  waved  by  wind,  or  wet  by  dew. 


Wild  mingling  with  the  howling  gale. 
Loud  bursts  of  ghastly  laughter  rise; 

High  o'er  the  minstrel's  head  they  sail, 
And  die  amid  the  northern  skies. 

The  voice  of  thunder  shook  the  wood, 
As  ceased  the  more  than  mortal  yell; 

And,  spattering  foul,  a  shower  of  blood 
Upon  the  hissing  firebrands  fell. 

Next  dropp'd  from  high  a  mangled 
arm; 

The  fingers  strain'd  a  half -drawn  blade; 
And  last,  the  life-blood  streaming  warm. 

Torn  from  the  trunk,  a  gasping  head. 

Oft  o'er  that  head,  in  battling  field, 
Stream'd  the  proud  crest  of  high  Ben- 
more; 
That  arm  the  broad  claymore  could  wield, 
Which    dyed    the   Teith   with    Saxon 
gore. 

Woe  to  Moneira's  sullen  rills  ! 

Woe  to  Glenfinlas'  dreaVy  glen  ! 
There  never  son  of  Albin's  hills 

Shall  draw  the  hunter's  shaft  agen. 

E'en  the  tired  pilgrim's  burning  feet 
At  noon  shall  shun  that  sheltering  den. 

Lest,  journeying  in  their  rage,  he  meet 
The  wayward  Ladies  of  the  Glen. 

And  we — behind  the  Chieftain's  shield. 
No  more  shall  we  in  safety  dwell; 

None  leads  the  people  to  the  field  — 
And  we  the  loud  lament  must  swell. 

O  hone  a  rie' !  O  hone  a  rie' ! 

The  pride  of  Albin  s  line  is  o'er ! 
And  fall'n  Glenartney's  stateliest  tree; 

We  ne'er  shall  see  Lord  Ronald  more ! 

Lewis's  collection  produced  also  what  Scott 
iustly  calls  his  "  first  serious  attempts  in  verse  ; ' 
and  of  these  the  earliest  appears  to  have  been  the 
Glenfinlas.  Here  the  scene  is  laid  in  the  most 
favorite  district  of  his  favorite  Perthshire  High- 
lands; and  the  Gaelic  tradition  on  which  it  is 
founded  was  far  more  likely  to  draw  out  the 
secret  strength  of  his  genius,  as  well  as  to  arrest 
the  feelings  of  his  countrymen,  tlian  any  sub- 
ject with  which  the  stores  of  C^erman  diableru 
could  have  supplied  him.  —  Life  0/  Scott,  vol. 
ii.,  P   25- 


392 


CONTRIBUTIONS    TO  MINSTRELSY. 


THE   EVE  OF   ST.  JOHN. 

Smaylho'me,  or  Smallholm  Tower,  the  scene  of  the  following  ballad,  is  situated  on  the 
*  northern  boundary  of  Roxburghshire,  among  a  cluster  of  wild  rocks,  called  Sandiknow- 
Crags,  the  prof)erty  of  Hugh  Scott,  Esq.,  of  Harden  [Lord  Polwarth],  The  tower  is  a 
high  square  building,  surrounded  by  an  outer  wall,  now  ruinous.  The  circuit  of  the  outer 
court,  being  defended  on  three  sides  by  a  precipice  and  morass,  is  accessible  only  from  the 
west,  by  a  steep  and  rocky  path.  The  apartments,  as  is  usual  in  a  Border  keep,  or  fortress, 
are  placed  one  above  another,  and  communicate  by  a  narrow  stair  :  on  the  roof  are  two 
bartizans,  or  platforms,  for  defence  or  pleasure.  The  inner  door  of  the  tower  is  wood,  the 
outer  an  iron  gate;  the  distance  between  them  being  nine  feet,  the  thickness,  namely,  of 
the  wall.  From  the  elevated  situation  of  Smaylho'me  Tower,  it  is  seen  many  miles  in 
every  direction.  Among  the  crags  by  which  it  is  surrounded,  one,  more  eminent,  is  called 
the  Watchfold,  and  is  said  to  have  been  the  station  of  a  beacon,  in  the  times  of  war  with 
England.  Without  the  tower<ourt  is  a  ruined  chapel.  Brotherstone  is  a  heath,  in  the 
neighborhood  of  Smaylho'me  Tower. 

This  ballad  was  first  printed  in  Mr.  Lewis's  Tales  of  Wonder.  It  is  here  published 
with  some  additional  illustrations,  pirticularly  an  account  of  the  battle  of  Ancrani  Moor  ; 
which  seemed  proper  in  a  work  upon  Border  antiquities.  The  catastrophe  of  the  tale  is 
founded  upon  a  well-known  Irish  tradition.  The  ancient  fortress  and  its  vicinity  formed 
the  scene  of  the  Editor's  infancy,  and  seemed  to  claim  from  him  this  attempt  to  celebrate 
them  in  a  Border  tale. 


The  Baron  of  Smaylho'me  rose  with  clay, 

He  spurr'd  his  courser  on. 
Without  stop  or  stay  down  the  rocky  way. 

That  leads  to  Brotherstone. 

He  went  not  with  the  bold  Buccleuch, 

His  banner  broad  to  rear; 
He  went  not  'gainst  the  English  yew, 

To  lift  the  Scottish  spear. 

Yet  his  plate-jack*  was  braced,  and  his 
helmet  was  laced. 
And  his  vaunt-brace  of  proof  he  wore : 
At  his   saddle-gerthe  was   a  good  steel 
sperthe, 
Full  ten  pound  weight  and  more. 

The  Baron  return'd  in  three  days'  space. 
And  his  looks  were  sad  and  sour; 

And  weary  was  his  courser's  pace, 
As  he  reach'd  his  rocky  tower. 

He  came  not  from  where  Ancram  Moor  ' 
Ran  red  with  English  blood; 

Where  the  Douglas  true,  and  the  Iwld 
Buccleuch, 
'Gainst  keen  Lord  Evers  stood. 


*  The  plate-jack  is  coat-armor;  the  vaunt- 
brace  or  wam-brace,  armor  for  the  body ;  the 
sperthe,  a  battle-ax. 


Yet  was  his  helmet  hack'd  and  hew'd. 

His  acton  pierced  and  tore, 
His  axe  and   his  dagger  with  blood  im- 
brued, — 

But  it  was  not  English  gore. 

He  lighted  at  the  Chapellage, 

He  held  hiin  close  and  still; 
And  he  whistled  thrice  for  his  little  foot- 
page; 

His  name  was  English  Will. 

"Come  thou  hither,  my  little  foot-page. 

Come  hither  to  my  knee; 
Though  thou  art  young  and   tender  of 
age, 

I  think  thou  art  true  to  me. 

"  Come,  tell  me  all  that  thou  hast  seen. 

And  look  ihuu  tell  me  true  ! 
Since    I    from    Smaylho'me    tower  have 
been. 

What  did  thy  lady  do?  "  — 

"  My  lady,  each  night,  sought  the  lonely 
light, 
That  burns  on  the  wild  Watchfold; 
For,  from  height  to  height,  the  beacons 
bright 
Of  the  English  foemen  told. 


THE  EVE    OF  ST.  JOHN. 


393 


"The  bittern  clamor'd  (roni  the  moss. 
The  wind  blew  loud  and  shrill; 

Yet  the  craggy  pathway  she  did  cross 
To  the  eiry  Beacon  Hill. 

"  I  watch'd  her  steps,  and  silent  came 
Where  she  sat  her  on  a  stone;  — 

No  watchman  stood  by  the  dreary  flame, 
It  burned  all  alone. 

• '  The  second  night  I  kept  her  in  sight. 

Till  to  the  tire  she  came. 
And,  by  Mary's  might !  an  Armed  Knight 

Stood  by  the  lonely  flame. 

"  And  many  a  word  that  warlike  lord 

Did  speak  to  my  lady  there; 
But  the  rain  fell  fast,  and  loud  blew  the 
blast. 

And  I  heard  not  what  they  were. 

The  third  night  there  the  sky  was  fair. 
And  the  mountain-blast  was  still. 

As  again  I  watch'd  the  secret  pair. 
On  the  lonesome  Beacon  Hill. 

"And  I  heard  her  name  the  midnight  hour. 

And  name  this  holy  eve; 
And  say,  '  Come  this  night  to  thy  lady's 
bower, 

Ask  no  bold  Baron's  leave. 

"  '  He  lifts  his  spear  with  the  bold  Buc- 
cleuch; 
His  lady  is  all  alone; 
The  door  she'll  undo,  to  her  knight  so 
true. 
On  the  eve  of  good  St.  John.'  — 

*' '  I  cannot  come;    I  must  not  come: 

I  dare  not  come  to  thee; 
On  the  eve  of  St.  John  I  must  wander 
alone : 

In  thy  bower  I  may  not  be.'  — 

•'  '  Now,  out  on  thee,  fainthearted  knight ! 

Thou  shouldst  not  say  me  nay; 
For  the  eveis  sweet, andwhen  lovers  meet, 

Is  worth  the  whole  summer's  day. 

"  '  And  I'll  chain  the  blood-hound,  and 
the  warder  shall  not  sound, 
And  rushes  shall  be  strew'd  onthestair:    I 


So,  by  the  black-rood  stone,*and  by  holv 
St.  John, 
I  conjure  thee,  my  love,  to  be  there ! ' 

"  '  Though  the  blood-hound  be  mute,  and 
the  rush  beneath  my  foot, 
And  the  warder  his  bugle  should  not 
blow. 
Yet  there  sleepeth  a  priest  in  a  chamber 
to  the  east. 
And  my  footstep  he  would  know.'  — 

"'O  fear  not  the  priest,  who  sleepeth 
to  the  east ! 
For   to   Dryburgh  t  the    way  he   has 
ta'en; 
And  there  to  say  mass,  till  three  days  do 
pass. 
For  the  soul  of  a  knight  that  is  slayne.' 

"  He  turn'd  him  around,  and  grimly  he 
frown'd; 
Then  he  laugh'd  right  scornfully  — 
•  He  who  says  the  mass-rite  for  the  soul 
of  that  knight, 
May  as  well  say  mass  for  me ! 

•' '  At  the  lone  midnight  hour,  when  bad 
spirits  have  power. 
In  thy  chamber  will  I  be.' 
With  that  he  was  gone,  and  my  lady  left 
alone. 
And  no  more  did  I  see." 

Then  changed,   I  trow,  was   that   boW 
Baron's  brow, 
Yxoxn  the  dark  to  the  blood-red  high; 
"  Now,  tell  me  the  mien  of  the  knight 
thou  hast  seen. 
For,  by  Mary,  he  shall  die !  "  — 

"  His  arms  shone  full  bright,  in  the  bea 
con's  red  light: 
His  plume  it  was  scarlet  and  blue; 
On  his  shield  was  a  hound,  in  a  silver 
leash  bound. 
And  his  crest  was  a  branch  of  the  yew.' 

•  The  black-rood  of  Melrose  was  a  crucifix  of 
black  marble,  and  of  superior  sanctity. 

t  Dr>'burgh  Abbey  stands  on  the  banks  of  the 
Tweed.'  After  its  'dissolution,  it  became  the 
property  of  the  Haliburtons  of  Newmains,  and 
jifter^vards  the  seat  of  the  E^ls  of  Buchan. 


394 


CONTRIBUTIONS    TO  MINSTRELSY. 


"  Thou  liest,  thou  liest,  thou  little  foot- 

Loud  dost  thou  lie  to  me  ! 
For  that  knight  is  cold,  and  low  laid  in 
the  mould, 
All  under  the  Eildon-tree."  *  — 

"Yet  hear  but  my  word,  my  noble  lord  ! 

For  I  heard  her  name  his  name; 
And  that  lady  bright  she  called  the  knight 

Sir  Richard  of  Coldinghame  !  " 

rhe  bold  Baron's  brow  then  changed,  I 
trow, 
Froip  high  blood-red  to  pale  — 
"The  grave  is  deep  antl  dark  — and  the 
corpse  is  stiff  and  stark  — 
So  I  may  not  trust  thy  tale. 

"  Where    fair  Tweed  flows  round    holy 
Melrose, 
And  Eildon  slopes  to  the  plain, 
Full  three    nights   ago,  by  some  secret 
foe, 
That  gay  gallant  was  slain. 

"The  varying  light  deceived  thy  sight, 
And  the  wild  winds  drown 'd  the  name; 

For  the    Dryburgh    bells   ring,   and  the 
white  monks  do  sing, 
For  Sir  Richard  of  Coldinghame  !  " 

He  pass'd  the  court-gate,  and  he  oped 
the  tower-gate, 
And  he  mounted  the  narrow  stair. 
To  the  bartizan-seat,  where,  with  maids 
that  on  her  wait, 
He  found  his  lady  fair. 

That  lady  sat  in  mournful  mood; 

Ix)ok'd  over  hill  and  vale; 
Over  Tweed's  fair  flood,  and   Mertoun's 
wood. 

And  all  down  Teviotdale. 

"  Now     hail,     now     hail,     thou      lady 
bright!  "  — 
"  Now  hail,  thou  Baron  true  ! 

*  Eildon  is  a  high  hill,  terminatinp;  in  three 
v;onical  summits,  immediately  above  the  town  of 
Melrose,  where  are  the  admired  ruins  of  a  mag- 
nificeut  monastery.  Kildon-tree  is  said  to  be 
the  spot  where  Thomas  tlic  Rhymer  uttered 
prophecies. 


What  news,  what  news,   from   Ancram 
fight? 
What     news     from     the    bold    Buc- 
cleuch?  "  — 

"  The  Ancram  moor  is  red  with  gore, 

For  many  a  Southron  fell; 
And  Buccleuch  has  charged  us,  evermore, 

To  watch  our  beacons  well."  — 

The  lady  blush'd  red,  but  nothing  she 
said: 
Nor  added  the  Baron  a  word : 
Then  she  stepp'd  down  the  stair  to  her 
chamber  fair, 
And  so  did  her  moody  lord. 

In  sleep  the  lady  mourn'd,  and  the  Baron 
toss'd  and  turn'd. 
And  oft  to  himself  he  said :  — 
"  The  worms  around  him  creep,  and  his 
bloody  grave  is  deep.   *  *  * 
It  cannot  give  up  the  dead !  "  — 

It  was  near  the  ringing  of  malin-bell. 

The  night  was  well-nigh  done. 
When  a  heavy  sleep  on  that  baron  fell, 

On  the  eve  of  good  St.  John. 

The   lady  look'd  through   the    chambei 
fair, 
By  the  light  of  a  dying  flame; 
And  she   was  aware  of    a  knight  stood 
there  — 
Sir  Richard  of  Coldinghame  ! 

"Alas!  away!  away!"  she  cried, 
"  For  the  holy  Virgin's  sake  !"  — 

"Lady,  I  know  who  sleeps  by  thy  side. 
But,  lady,  he  will  not  awake. 

"  By  Eildon-tree,  for  long  nights  three, 

In  bloody  grave  have  I  lain; 
The  mass  and  the  death-prayer  are  said 
for  me, 

But,  lady,  they  are  said  in  vain. 

"By  the  Baron's  brand,  near  Tweed's 
fair  strand. 
Most  foully  slain,  I  fell;  J 

And  my  restless  sprite,  on  the  beacon's      | 
height. 
For  a  space  is  dooni'd  to  dwell, 


CADYOIV  CASTLE. 


395 


"At  our  trysting-place.for  a  certain  space, 

I  must  wander  to  and  fro: 
But  I  had  not  had  power  to  come  to  thy 
bower, 

Hadst  thou  not  conjured  me  so." 

Love  master'dfear — her  brow  shecross'd; 

"  How,  Richard,  hast  thou  sped? 
And  art  thou  saved,  or  art  thou  lost?  "  — 

The  vision  shook  his  head  ! 

"  Who  spilleth  life,  shall  forfeit  life; 

So  bid  thy  lord  believe : 
That  lawless  love  is  guilt  above. 

This  awful  sign  receive. 

He  laid  his  left  palm  on  an  oaken  beam: 
His  right  upon  her  hand; 


The  lady  shrunk,  and  fainting  sunk, 
For  it  scorch'd  like  a  fiery  brand. 

The  sable  score,  of  fingers  four. 
Remains  on  that  board  impress'd; 

And  for  evermore  that  lady  wore 
A  covering  on  her  wrist.^ 

There  is  a  nun  in  Dryburgh  bower, 

Ne'er  looks  upon  the  sun; 
There  is  a  monk  in  Melrose  tower. 

He  speaketh  word  to  none. 

That  nun,  who  ne'er  beholds  the  day,* 
That  monk,  who  speaks  to  none  — 
That     nun     was     Smaylho'me's     Lady 

gay, 

That  monk  the  bold  Baron. 


CADYOW   CASTLE. 

The  ruins  of  Cadyow  or  Cadzow  Castle,  the  ancient  baronial  residence  of  the  family  of 
Hamilton,  are  situated  upon  the  precipitous  banks  of  the  river  Evan,  about  two  miles  above 
its  junction  with  tlie  Clyde.  It  was  dismantled,  in  the  conclusion  of  the  Civil  Wars,  during 
the  reign  of  the  unfortunate  Mary,  to  whose  cause  the  house  of  Hamilton  devoted  them 
selves  witii  a  generous  zeal,  whicii  occasioned  their  temporary  obscurity,  and  very  nearly 
their  total  ruin.  The  situation  of  the  ruins,  embosomed  in  wood,  darkened  by  ivy  and 
creeping  shrubs,  and  overhanging  the  brawling  torrent,  is  romantic  in  the  highest  degree. 
In  the  inunediate  vicinity  of  Cadyow  is  a  grove  of  immense  oaks,  the  remains  of  the  Cale- 
donian Forest,  which  anciently  extended  through  the  south  of  Scotland,  from  the  eastern 
to  the  Atlantic  (Jcean.  Some  of  these  trees  measure  twenty-five  feet  and  upwards,  in  cir- 
cumference ;  and  the  state  of  decay,  in  which  they  now  appear,  shows  that  they  may  have 
witnessed  the  rites  of  the  Druids.  The  whole  scenery  is  included  in  the  magnificent  and' 
extensive  park  of  the  Duke  of  Hamilton.  There  was  long  preserved  in  this  forest  the  breed 
of  the  Scottish  wild  cattle,  until  their  ferocity  occasioned  their  being  extirpated,  about  forty 
years  ago.*  Their  appearance  was  beautiful,  Ijeing  milk-white,  with  black  muzzles,  horns, 
and  hoofs.  The  bulls  are  descrilied  by  ancient  authors  as  having  white  manes  ;  but  those 
of  latter  days  had  lost  that  peculiarity,  perhaps  by  intermixture  with  the  tame  breed.f 

In  detailing  the  death  of  the  Regent  Murray,  which  is  made  the  subject  of  the  following 
ballad,  it  would  Ix;  injustice  to  my  readers  to  use  other  words  than  those  of  Dr.  Robertson, 
whose  acctiunt  of  that  memorable  event  forms  a  beautiful  piece  of  historical  painting. 

"  Hamilton  of  Hothwellhaugh  was  the  person  who  committed  this  barbarous  action.  He 
had  Ixien  condemned  to  death  soon  after  the  battle  of  Langsidc,  as  we  have  already  related, 
and  owed  his  life  to  the  Regent's  clemency.  But  part  of  his  estate  had  been  bestowed  upon 
one  of  the  Regent's  favorites,^  who  seized  his  house,  and  turned  out  his  wife,  naked,  in  a 
cold  night,  into  the  open  fields,  where,  Ijefore  next  morning,  she  became  furiously  mad.  'J'his 
injury  made  a  deejier  impression  on  him  than  the  benefit  he  had  received,  and  from  that 
moment  he  vowed  to  be  revenged  of  the  Regent.     Party  rage  strengthened  and  inflamed 

*  The  editor  of  the  edition  of  1833  says  that  a  magnificent  herd  of  these  cattle  still  remained  till 
about  that  time  in  Cadyow  Forest. 

t  Thev  were  formerly  kept  in  the  park  of  Drumlanrig,  and  are  still  to  be  seen  at  Chillingham 
Castle  in  Northun)bcrl.uid. 

t  This  wns  .Sir  James  Uellenden,  Lord  Justice-Clerk,  whose  shameful  and  inhuman  rapacity 
occasioned  the  catastroplie  in  the  text.  —  Spottiswooub. 


396  CONTRIBUTIONS    TO  MINSTRELSY. 

his  fHlvate  tesentment.  His  kinsmen,  the  Hamiltons,  applauded  the  enterprise.  The 
maxim  of  that  age  justified  the  most  desperate  course  he  could  take  to  obtain  vengeance. 
He  foUowed  the  Regent  for  some  time,  and  watched  for  an  opportunity  to  strike  the  blow. 
He  resoh-ed  at  last  to  wait  till  his  enemy  should  arri^'e  at  Linlithgow,  through  which  he 
was  to  pass  in  his  way  from  Stirling  to  Edinburgh.  He  took  his  stand  in  a  wooden  gal- 
Very,  *  which  had  a  window  towards  the  street ;  spread  a  feather-bed  on  the  Hoor.  to  hinder 
the  noise  of  his  feet  from  being  heard,  hung  up  a  black  cloth  behind  him,  that  his  shadow 
might  not  be  observed  from  without,  and.  after  all  this  preparation,  calmly  expected  the 
Regent's  approach,  who  had  lodged,  during  the  night,  in  a  house  not  far  distant.  Some 
indistinct  information  of  the  danger  which  threatened  him  had  been  conveyed  to  the  Regent, 
and  he  paid  so  much  regard  to  it  that  he  resoWed  to  return  by  the  same  gate  through  which 
he  had  entered,  and  to  fetch  a  compass  round  the  town.  But.  as  the  crowd  about  the  gate 
was  great,  and  he  himself  unacquainted  with  fear,  he  proceeded  directly  along  the  street  ' 
and  the  throng  of  people  obliging  him  to  move  very  slowly,  gave  the  assassin  time  to  takr 
so  true  an  aim,  that  he  shot  him.  with  a  single  bullet,  through  the  lower  part  of  his  belly 
and  killed  the  horse  of  a  gentleman  who  rode  on  his  other  side.  His  followers  instantly 
endeavored  to  break  into  the  house  whence  the  blow  had  come ;  but  they  found  the  dooi 
strongly  banicaded,  and,  before  it  could  be  forced  open.  Hamilton  had  mounted  a  flee* 
horsct  which  stood  ready  for  him  at  a  back  passage,  and  was  got  far  beyond  their  reach. 
The  R^ent  died  the  same  night  of  his  wound.*'  —History  of  Siotland.  book  v. 

Bothwellhangh  rode  straight  to  Hamilton,  where  he  was  received  in  triumph ;  for  the 
ashes  of  tl»e  houses  in  Clydesdale,  which  had  been  burned  by  Murray's  army,  were  yet 
smoking ;  and  party  prejudice,  the  haUts  of  the  age,  and  the  enormity  of  the  provocation, 
seemed  to  his  kinsmen  to  justify  the  deed,  .^fter  a  short  abode  at  Hamilton,  this  fierce 
and  determined  man  left  Scotland,  and  served  in  France,  under  the  f>atronage  of  the  family 
of  Guise,  to  whom  he  was  doubtless  recommended  by  having  avenged  the  cause  of  their 
niece,  Queen  Mary,  apon  her  ungrateful  brother.  De  Thou  has  recorded  that  an  attempt 
was  made  to  eag^e  him  to  assassinate  Caspar  de  Coligni,  the  famous  admiral  of  France. 
and  the  buckler  oithe  Huguenot  cause.  But  the  character  of  Bothwellhaugh  was  mistaken. 
He  was  no  mercenary  trader  in  blood,  and  rejected  the  offer  with  contempt  and  indignation. 
He  had  no  authority,  he  said,  from  Scotland  to  commit  murders  in  France  ;  he  had  avenged 
his  own  just  quarrel,  but  he  would  neither  for  price  nor  prayer  avenge  that  of  another  man. 
—  TkuaHus,  chap.  46. 

The  R^ent's  death  happened  23rd  January,  1569.  It  is  applauded  or  stigmatized,  by 
contemporary  historians,  according  to  their  religious  or  party  prejudices.  The  triumph 
of  Blackwood  is  unbounded.  He  not  only  extols  the  pious  feat  of  Bothwellhaugh,  '•  who,'' 
he  observes,  ''satisfied  with  a  single  ounce  of  lead,  him  whose  sacrilegious  avarice  had 
stripped  the  metropolitan  church  of  St.  Andrews  of  its  covering ; "  but  he  ascribes  it  to  im- 
mediate divine  inspiration,  and  the  escape  of  Hamilton  to  little  less  than  the  miraculous 
interfoence  of  the  Deity.  —  Jebb,  voL  ii.  p.  263.  With  equal  injustice,  it  was,  by  others. 
made  the  ground  of  a  general  national  reflection ;  for,  when  Mather  urged  Bemey  to  assas- 
sinate Burleigh,  and  quoted  the  example  of  Poltrot  and  Bothwellhaugh,  the  other  conspira- 
tor answered  "  that  neyther  Poltrot  nor  Hambleton  did  attempt  their  enterpryse  without 
some  reason  or  consideration  to  lead  them  to  it ;  as  the  one,  by  hyre,  and  promise  of  prefer- 
ment or  rewarde;  the  other,  upon  desperate  mind  of  revenge,  for  a  lyttle  wrong  done  unto 
him,  as  the  i^iort  goethe,  according  to  the  vyle  traj'terous  disposysyon  of  the  hoole  natyon 
of  the  Scottes." —  Murdin's  StaU  Papers,  vol.  i.  p.  197. 

Addrased  to  the  Ri^  HonorabU  Lady  Anru  Hamilion.X 

When'  princely  Hamilton's  abode  ]  Then,  thrilling  to  the  harp's  gay  sound, 

Ennobled  Cadyow 's  Gothic  towers,        j       So  sweetly  rung  each  vaulted  wall. 

The  song  went  round,  the  goblet  flow'd,  \  And  echoed  light  the  dancer's  bound. 
And  revel  sped  the  laughing  hours.         (       As  mirth  and  music  cheer'd  the  hall. 

*  The  iKHise  to  wbidi  this  pnqecdng  gaUerv  was  attached  was  the  property  of  the  Archbishop  of 
St.  Andrews,  a  natural  brother  to  the  Doke  of  Chitelherault,  and  uncle  to  Bothwellhaugh.  Tliis, 
ainoB^  many  other  circamstanoes,  seems  to  ennce  the  aid  which  Bothwellhaugh  receiv^  from  his 
clan  in  effecting  his  porpose. 

t    The  gift  of  Lotd  John  Hamilton,  Commendator  of  Arbroath. 

X    Eldest  HanghtfT  of  Archibald,  9th  Duke  of  Hamilton. 


CAD  row  CASTLE. 


397 


But  Cadyow*s  towers,  in  ruin  laid. 
And  vaults,  by  ivy  mantled  o'er. 

Thrill  to  the  music  of  the  shade. 
Or  echo  Evan's  hoarser  roar. 

Yet  still,  of  Cadyow's  faded  fame. 
You  bid  me  tell  a  minstrel  tale. 

And  tune  my  harp,  of  Border  frame. 
On  the  wild  banks  of  Evandale. 

For  thou,  from  scenes  of  courtly  pride. 
From  pleasure's  lighter  scenes,  canst 
turn. 

To  draw  oblivion's  pall  aside. 

And  mark  the  long-forgotten  urn. 

Then,  noble  maid !  at  thy  command. 
Again  the  crumbled  halls  shall  rise. 

Lo !  as  on  Evan's  banks  we  stand. 
The  past  returns  —  the  present  flies. 

Where,    with   the    rock's   wood-ooTer'd 
side. 

Were  blended  late  the  ruins  green. 
Rise  turrets  in  fantastic  pride, 

.\nd  feudal  banners  flaunt  between : 

\VTiere  the  rude  torrent's  brawling  course. 
Was  shagg'd  with  thorn  and  tangling 
sloe. 

The  ashler  buttress  braves  its  force. 
And  ramparts  frown  in  battled  row. 

'Tis  night  —  the  shade  of  keep  and  spire 
Obscurely  dance  on  Evan's  stream; 

And  on  the  wave  the  warder's  fire 
Is  checkeririg  the  moonlight  beam. 

Fades  slow  their  light;  the  east  is  gray; 

The  weary  warder  leaves  his  tower; 
Steeds     snort,    uncoupled     stag-hounds 
bay. 

And  merry  hunters  quit  the  bower. 

The  drawbridge  falls —  they  hurry  out  — 
Clatters  each  plank  and  swinging  chain. 

As,  dashing  o'er,  the  jovial  rout 

Urge  the  shy  steed,  and  slack  the  rein. 

First  v>f  his  troop,  the  Chief  rode  on;* 
His  shouting  merry-men  throngbehind ; 

•  The  head  of  ihe  fainilv  of  Hamilton,  at  this 
period,  was  James,  Eari  ot  Arran.  Duke  ol  ChStel- 


The  steed  of  princely  Hamilton 

Was  fleeter  than  the  mountain  wind. 

From  the  thick  copse  the  roebucks  bound. 
The  startled  red-deer  scuds  the  plain. 

For  the  hoarse  bugle's  warrior-sound 
Has  roused  the  mountain  haunts  again. 

Through  the  huge  oaks  of  Evandale, 
Whose  limbs  a  thousand  years  have 
worn. 

What  sullen  roar  comes  down  the  gale. 
And  drowns  the  hunter's  pealii^  horn  ? 

Mightiest  of  all  the  beasts  of  chase. 
That  roam  in  woody  Caledon, 

Crashing  the  forest  in  his  race. 

The  Mountain  Bull  comes  thimderii^ 


Fierce,  on  the  hunter's  quiver'd  band. 
He  rolls  his  eyes  of  swarthy  glow. 

Spurns,  with  black  hoof  and  horn,  the 
sand. 
And  tosses  h^h  his  mane  of  snow. 

Aim'd  well,   the  Chieftain's  lance   has 
flown; 
Stni^ling  in  blood  the  savage  lies; 
His  roar  is  sunk  in  hoUow  groan  — 
Sound,  merry  huntsman !    sound  the 
pryu .'  ' 

Tis  noon  —  against  the  knotted  oak 

The  hunters  rest  the  idle  spear; 
Ctirls    through    the    trees    the    slender 
smoke. 
Where  yeoman   dig^t   the   woodland 
cheer. 

Proudly  the  Chieftain  mark'd  his  clan. 
On  greenwood  lap  all  careless  thrown. 

Yet  miss'd  his  eye  the  boldest  man 
That  bore  the  name  of  Hamilton. 

"  XNTiy  fills  not  Bothwellhaugh  his  place. 
Still  wont  our  weal  and  woe  to  share? 

Why  comes  he  not  our  sport  to  grace? 
WTiy    shares    he    not     our    hunter's 
fare!"  — 

hennlt.  in  FnuKje,  and  first  peer  d  the  Scottiih 
realm.  In  1569  he  was  appointed  by  0»e««Maiy 
ho-  Ueutenaot.eeneial  in  Soodaitd.  niMler  the  sin 
gular  title  of  her  adopted  father. 


398 


CONTRIBUTIONS    TO  MINSTRELSY. 


Stern  Claud  replied,^  with  darkening 
face, 

(Gray  Paisley's  haughty  lord  was  he,) 
"At  merry  feast,  or  buxom  chase. 

No  more  the  warrior  wilt  thou  see. 

"  Few  suns  have  set  since Woodhouselee  ^ 
Saw    Bothwellhaugh's   bright   goblets 
foam, 
When  to  his  hearths,  in  social  glee, 
The    war-worn     soldier    turn'd     him 
home. 

"  Thefe,  wan  from  her  maternal  throes. 
His  Margaret,  beautiful  and  mild, 

Sate  in  her  bower,  a  pallid  rose. 

And   peaceful    nursed    her    new-born 
child. 

'*  O  change  accursed !  past  are  those 
days; 

False  Murray's  ruthless  spoilers  came. 
And,  for  the  heart's  domestic  blaze. 

Ascends  destruction's  volumed  flame. 

"  What  sheeted  phantom  wanders  wild, 
Where  mountain  Eske  through  wood- 
land flows, 

Her  arms  enfold  a  shadowy  child  — 
Oh!  is  it  she,  the  pallid  rose? 

*'  The  wilder'd  traveller  sees  her  glide. 
And  hears  her  feeble  voice  with  awe  — 

'  Revenge,'  she  cries, '  on  Murray's  pride  ! 
And  woe  for  injured  Bothwellhaugh ! ' " 

He  ceased  —  and  cries  of  rage  and  grief 
Burst  mingling  from  the  kindred  band, 

And  half  arose  the  kindling  Chief, 
And  half  unsheathed  his  Arran  brand. 

But  who,  o'er  bush,  o'er  stream  and 
rock. 

Rides  headlong  with  resistless  speed. 
Whose  bloody  poniard's  frantic  stroke 

Drives  to  the  leap  his  jaded  steed;* 

Whose    cheek   is   pale,   whose   eyeballs 
glare. 
As  one  some  vision'd  sight  that  saw. 
Whose    hands    are     bloody,    loose    his 
hair  ?  — 
'Tis  he  !  'tis  he  !  'tis  Bothwellhaugh. 


From  gory  selle,*  and  reeling  steed. 
Sprung    the    fierce    horseman    with    a 
bound, 

And,  reeking  from  the  recent  deed, 
He  dash'd  his  carbine  on  the  ground. 

Sternly   he   spoke:  —  "  '  Tis   sweet    to 
hear 

In  good  greenwood  the  bugle  blown. 
But  sweeter  to  Revenge's  ear, 

To  drink  a  tyrant's  dying  groan. 

"  Your  slaughter'd  quarry  proudly  trode. 
At  dawning  morn,  o'er  dale  and  down. 

But  prouder  base-born  Murray  rode 
Through    old    Linlithgow's    crowded 
town. 

"  From  the  wild  Border's  humbled  side,^ 
In  haughty  triumph  marched  he. 

While  Knox  relax'd  his  bigot  pride, 
And  smiled,    the   traitorous   pomp    to 
see. 

"  But  can  stern  Power,  with  all  his  vaunt. 
Or  Pomp,  with  all  her  courtly  glare, 

The  settled  heart  of  Vengeance  daunt, 
Or  change  the  purpose  of  Despair  ! 

"  With  hackbut  bent,^  my  secret  stand. 

Dark  as  the  purposed  deed,  I  chose, 
And    mark'd,    where,    mingling    in    his 
band, 
Troop'd    Scottish    pikes   and    English 
bows. 

"  Dark  Morton,!  girt  with  many  a  spear, 
Murder's  foul  minion,  led  the  van; 

And    clash'd   their    broadswords    in   the 
rear 
The  wild  Macfarlanes'  plaided  clan." 

"  Glencairn    and   stout   Parkhead  *  were 
nigh. 

Obsequious  at  their  Regent's  rein, 
And  haggard  Lindesay's  iron  eye, 

That  saw  fair  Mary  weep  in  vain.^ 


*  Selle — saddle.  A  word  used  by  Spenser 
and  other  ancient  authors. 

t  Of  this  noted  person,  it  is  enough  to  say, 
that  lie  was  acti\'e  in  the  murder  of  David  Kizzio, 
and  at  least  privy  to  that  of  Damley. 


THE    GRAY  BROTHER. 


399 


parts  —  the    charger 


"  Mid  pennon'd  spears,  a  steely  grove. 
Proud  Murray's  plumage  floated  high; 

Scarce  could  his  trampling  charger  move. 
So  close  the  minions  crowded  nigh.i" 

"  From  the  raised  visor's  shade,  his  eye, 
Dark-rolling,  glanced  the  ranks  along. 

And  his  steel  truncheon,  waved  on  high, 
Seem'd  marshalling  the  iron  throng. 

"  But  yet  his  sadden'd  brow  confessed 
A  passing  shade  of  doubt  and  awe; 

Some  fiend  was  whispering  in  his  breast, 
'  Beware  of  injured  Bothwellhaugh ! ' 

"  The   death-shot 
springs  — 
Wild  rises  tumult's  startling  roar ! 
And  Murray's  plumy  helmet  rings  — 
—  Rings  on  the   ground,  to   rise   no 
more. 

♦'  What  joy  the  raptured  youth  can  feel, 
To  hear  her  love  the  loved  one  tell  — 

Or  he,  who  broaches  on  his  steel 
The  wolf,  by  whom  his  infant  fell ! 

"  But  dearer  to  my  injured  eye 
To  see  in  dust  proud  Murray  roll. 

And  mine  was  ten  times  trebled  joy, 
To  hear  him  groan  his  felon  soul. 

"  My  Margaret's  spectre  glided  near. 
With  pride  her  bleeding  victim  saw; 


And  shriek'd  in  his  death-deafen 'd  ear, 
'  Remember  injured  Bothwellhaugh  !' 

"  Then  speed  thee,  noble  Chatlerault ! 

Spread  to  the  wind  thy  banner'd  tree  !  « 
Each  warrior  bend  his  Clydesdale  bow  !— 

Murray  is  fall'n,  and  Scotland  free!" 

Vaults  every  warrior  to  his  steed; 

Loud  bugles  join  their  wild  acclaim : — 
"  Murray  is  fall'n,  and  Scotland  freed  ! 

Couch,  Arran!  couch  thy  spear  of 
flame!  " 

But,  see !  the  minstrel  vision  fails  — 
The   glimmering  spears  are  seen  no 
more, 

The  shouts  of  war  die  on  the  gales. 
Or  sink  in  Evan's  lonely  roar. 

For  the  loud  bugle,  pealing  high, 
The  blackbird  whistles  down  the 

And  sunk  in  ivied  ruins  lie 

The  banner'd  towers  of  Evandale. 

For  chiefs,  intent  on  bloody  deed, 
And  vengeance  shouting  o'er  the  slain, 

Lo !  high-born  Beauty  rules  the  steed. 
Or  graceful  guides  the  silken  rein. 

And  long  may  Peace  and  Plenty  own 
The  maids  who  list  the  minstrel's  tale; 

Nor  e'er  a  ruder  guest  be  known 
On  the  (air  banks  of  Evandale ! 


THE  GRAY   BROTHER. 


A   FRAGMENT. 

The  imjjerfect  state  of  this  ballad,  which  was  written  several  years  ago.  is  not  a  cir- 
cumstance affected  for  the  purpose  of  giving  it  that  f>eculiar  interest  which  is  often  found 
to  arise  from  ungratified  curiosity.  On  the  contrary,  it  was  the  Editor's  intention  to  have 
completed  the  tale,  if  he  had  found  himself  able  to  succeed  to  his  own  satisfaction.  Yield- 
ing to  the  opinion  of  persons,  whose  judgment,  if  not  biased  by  the  partiality  of  friendship, 
is  entitled  to  deference,  he  has  preferred  inserting  these  verses  as  a  fragment,  to  his  inten- 
tion of  entirely  suppressing  them. 

The  tradition  upon  which  the  tale  is  founded,  regards  a  house  upon  the  barony  of  Gil- 
merton,  near  I,asswade.  in  Mid-Lothian.  This  building,  now  called  Gilmerton  Grange, 
Was  originally  named  Burndale,  from  the  following  tragic  adventure.  The  barony  of  Gil- 
"i)erton  belonged,  of  yore,  to  a  gentleman  named  Heron,  wlio  had  one  beautiful  daughter. 

*  An  oak,  half-sawn,  with  the  motto  through,  is  an  ancient  cognizance  of  the  family  of  UamilloQ. 


400 


CONTRIBUTIOXS    TO  MINSTRELSY. 


This  young  lady  was  seduced  by  the  Abbot  of  Newbattle,  a  richly  endowed  abbey,  upon 
the  banks  of  the  South  Esk,  now  a  seat  of  the  Marquis  of  Lothian.  Heron  came  to  the 
knowledge  of  this  circumstance,  and  learned  also  that  the  lovers  carried  on  their  guilty 
intercourse  by  the  connivance  of  the  lady's  nurse,  who  lived  at  this  house  of  Gtlmerton 
Grange,  or  Burndale.  He  formed  a  resolution  of  bloody  vengeance,  undeterred  by  the 
supposed  sanctity  of  the  clerical  character,  or  by  the  stronger  claims  of  natural  affection. 
Choosing,  therefore,  a  dark  and  windy  night,  when  the  objects  of  his  vengeance  were 
engaged  in  a  stolen  interview,  he  set  fire  to  a  stack  of  dried  thorns  and  other  combustibles, 
which  he  had  caused  to  be  piled  against  the  house,  and  reduced  to  a  pile  of  glowing  ashes 
the  dwelling,  with  all  its  inmates.* 

The  scene  with  which  the  ballad  opens,  was  suggested  by  the  following  curious  passage, 
extracted  from  the  life  of  Alexander  Peden,  one  of  the  wandering  and  persecuted  teachers 
of  the  sect  of  Cameronians,  during  the  reign  of  Charles  II.  and  his  successor,  James.  This 
person  was  supposed  by  his  followers,  and,  perhaps,  really  beHeved  himself,  to  be  pos- 
sessed of  supernatural  gifts;  for  the  wild  scenes  which  ^they  frequented,  and  the  constant 
dangers  which  were  incurred  through  their  proscription,  deepened  upon  their  minds  the 
gloom  of  superstition,  so  general  in  that  age:  — 

"  About  the  same  time  he  [Peden]  came  to  Andrew  Normand's  house,  in  the  parish  of 
AUoway,  in  the  shire  of  Ayr,  being  to  preach  at  night  in  his  barn.  After  he  came  in,  he 
halted  a  little,  leaning  upon  a  chair-back,  with  his  face  covered ;  when  he  lifted  up  his 
head,  he  said,  '  They  are  in  this  house  that  I  have  not  one  word  of  salvation  unto  ; '  he 
halted  a  little  again,  saying,  '  This  is  strange,  that  the  devil  will  not  go  out,  that  we  may 
begin  our  work. '  Then  there  was  a  woman  went  out,  ill-looked  upon  almost  all  her  life, 
and  to  her  dying  hour,  for  a  witch,  with  many  presumptions  of  the  same.  It  escaped  me, 
in  the  former  passages,  what  John  Murhead  (whom  I  have  often  mentioned)  told  me,  that 
when  he  came  from  Ireland  to  Galloway,  he  was  at  family-worship,  and  giving  some  notes 
of  the  Scripture  read,  when  a  very  ill-looking  man  came,  and  sat  down  within  the  door,  at 
the  back  of  the  Italian  [partition  of  the  cottage]  :  immediately  he  halted  and  said,  '  There 
is  some  unhappy  body  just  now  come  into  this  house.  I  charge  him  to  go  out,  and  not 
stop  my  mouth ! '  This  person  went  out,  and  he  insisted  {vient  on),  yet  he  saw  him 
neither  come  in  nor  go  out."  —  The  Life  and  Prophecies  of  Mr.  Alexander  Peden,  lale 
Minister  of  the  Gospel  at  New  Glenlnce,  in  Galloway,  part  ii.,  §  26. 

A  friendly  correspondent  remarks,  "  that  the  incapacity  of  proceeding  in  the  p)erform- 
ance  of  a  religious  duty,  when  a  contaminated  person  is  present,  is  of  much  higher  antiq- 
uity than  the  era  of  the  Rev.  Mr.  Alexander  Peden."  —  Vide  Hygini  Fabulas.  cap.  26. 
"  Medea  Corintho  exiil,  Athenas,  ad  ^geutn  Pandionis filiunt  devenit  in  hospitium,  eique 
nupsit. 

"  Postea  sacerdos  Diaruz  Medeam  exagitare  capit,  regique  negabat  sacra  caste 

facere  posse,  eo  quod  in  ea  civitate  esset  tnulier  venejica  et  scelerata  ;  tunc  exulatur." 


While  through  vaultedroof  and  aislesaloof, 
The  holy  accents  rung. 

At  the  holiest  word  he  quiver'd  for  (ear, 
And  falter'd  in  the  sound  — 

And  when  he  would  the  chalice  rear, 
He  dropp'd  it  to  the  ground. 

"  The  breath  of  one  of  evil  deed 
Pollutes  our  sacred  day; 

He  has  no  portion  in  our  creed, 
No  part  in  what  I  say. 

"  A  being,  whom  no  blessed  word 
To  ghostly  peace  can  bring; 

•  This  tradition  was  communicated  to  me  by  John  Clerk,  Esq.,  of  Eldin,  author  of  an  "  Essay 
upon  Naval  Tactics,"  who  will  be  remembered  by  posterity  as  having  taught  the  genius  of  Britain 
to  concentrate  her  thunders,  and  to  launch  them  against  her  foes  with  an  unerring  aim. 


The  Pope  he  was  saying  the  high,  high 
mass, 
All  on  St.  Peter's  day, 
With  the  power  to  him   given,  by  the 
saints  in  heaven, 
To  wash  men's  sins  away. 

The  Pope  he  was  saying  the  blessed  mass, 
And  the  people  kneel'd  around. 

And  from  each  man's  soul  his  sins   did 
pass, 
As  he  kissed  the  holy  ground. 

And  all,  among  the  crowded  throng, 
Was  still  both  limb  and  tongue. 


THE    GRAY  BROTHER. 


40t 


A  wretch,  at  whose  approach  abhorr'd, 
Recoils  each  holy  thing. 

"Up,  up,  unhappy!  haste,  arise! 

My  adjuration  fear ! 
I  charge  thee  not  to  stop  my  voice. 

Nor  longer  tarry  here  !  " 

Amid  them  all  a  pilgrim  kneel'd, 

In  gown  of  sackcloth  gray; 
Far  journeying  from  his  native  field, 

lie  first  saw  Rome  that  day. 

I'Dr  forty  days  and  nights  so  drear, 

1  ween  he  had  not  spoke. 
And,  save  with  bread  and  water  clear. 

His  fast  he  ne'er  had  broke. 

Amid  the  penitential  flock, 

Seem'd  none  more  bent  to  pray; 

But,  when  the  Holy  Father  spoke, 
He  rose  and  went  his  way. 

Again  unto  his  native  land 

His  weary  course  he  drew. 
To  Lothian's  fair  and  fertile  strand. 

And  Pentland's  mountains  blue. 

His  unblest  feet  his  native  seat. 
Mid  Esk's  fair  woods,  regain; 

Through  woods  more  fair  no  stream  more 
sweet 
Rolls  to  the  eastern  main. 

ArLcl  lords  to  meet  the  pilgrim  came. 

And  vassals  bent  the  knee; 
For  all  mid  Scotland's  chiefs  of  fame, 
Was  none  more  famed  than  he. 

And  boldly  for  his  country,  still, 

In  battle  he  had  stood. 
Ay,  even  when  on  the  banks  of  Till 

Her  noblest  pour'd  their  blood. 

Sweet  are  the  paths,  O  passing  sweet ! 

By  Esk's  fair  streams  that  run. 
O'er  airy  steep,  through  copsewood  deep. 

Impervious  to  the  sun. 

There  the  rapt  poet's  step  may  rove. 
And  yield  the  muse  the  day; 

There  Beauty,  led  by  timid  Love, 
May  shun  the  tell-tale  ray; 


From  that  fair  dome,  where  suit  is  paid 

By  blast  of  bugle  free,i 
To  Auchendinny's  hazel  glade,- 

And  haunted  Woodhouselee. 

Who  knows  not  Melville's  beechy  grove,' 

And  Roslin's  rocky  glen,* 
Dalkeith,  which  all  the  virtues  love,* 

And  classic  Hawthornden?* 

Yet  never  a  path,  from  day  to  day. 
The  pilgrim's  footsteps  range, 

Save  but  the  solitary  way 
To  Burndale's  ruin'd  grange. 

A  woeful  place  was  that,  I  ween, 

As  sorrow  could  desire; 
For  nodding  to  the  fall  was  each  crum- 
bling wall, 

And  the  roof  was  scathed  with  fire. 

It  fell  upon  a  summer's  eve. 

While,  on  Carnethy's  head. 
The  last  faint  gleams  of  the  sun's  low 
beams  • 

Had  streak'd  the  gray  with  red; 

And  the  convent  bell  did  vespers  tell, 

Newbattle's  oaks  among. 
And  mingled  with  the  solemn  knell 

Our  Ladye's  evening  song; 

The  heavy  knell,  the  choir's  faint  swell. 
Came  slowly  down  the  wind. 

And  on  the  pilgrim's  ear  they  fell. 
As  his  wonted  path  he  did  find. 

Deep  sunk  in  thought,  I  ween,  he  was. 

Nor  ever  raised  his  eye. 
Until  he  came  to  that  dreary  place. 

Which  did  all  in  ruins  lie. 

He  gazed  on  the  walls,  so  scathed  with 
fire. 

With  many  a  bitter  groan  — 
And  there  was  aware  of  a  Gray  Friar, 

Resting  him  on  a  stone. 

"  Now,  Christ  thee  save !  "  said  the  Gray 
Brother; 

"  Some  pilgrim  thou  seemest  to  be." 
But  in  sore  amaze  did  Lord  Albert  gaze, 

Nor  answer  again  made  he. 


462 


CONTRIBUTIONS    TO  MINSTRELSY. 


"  O  come  ye  from  east,  or  come  ye  from 
west, 
Or  bring  reliques  from  over  the  sea; 
Or  come  ye  from  the  shrine  of  St.  James 
the  divine. 
Or  St.  John  of  Beverley?" 

"  I  come  not  from  the  shrine  of  St.  James 

the  divine, 

Nor  bring  reliques  from  over  the  sea; 

I  bring  but  a  curse  from  our  father,  the 

Pope, 

Which  forever  will  cling  to  me."  — 

•'  Now,  woeful  pilgrim,  say  not  so ! 

But  kneel  thee  down  to  me, 
And  shrive  thee  so  clean  of  thy  deadly  sin, 

That  absolved  thou  mayst  be."  — 


"  And     who     art      thou,      thou      Gray 
Brother, 
That  I  should  shrive  to  thee. 
When  He,  to  whom  are  given  the  keys 
of  earth  and  heaven. 
Has  no  power  to  pardon  me  ?  "  — 

"  Oh  I  am  sent  from  a  distant  clime, 

Five  thousand  miles  away, 
And  all  to  absolve  a  foul,  foul  crime. 

Done  here  'twixt  night  and  day." 

The  pilgrim  kneel'd  him  on  the  sand, 

And  thus  began  his  saye  — 
When  on  his  neck  an  ice-cold  hand 

Did  that  Gray  Brother  laye. 


BALLADS 

{TRANSLATED  OR  IMITATED) 

FROM  THE  GERMAN,  Etc. 


WILLIAM   AND   HELEN. 

[1796.] 

IMITATED   FROM   THE   "LENORE"  OF   BURGER. 


From  heavy  dreams  fair  Helen  rose, 
And  eyed  the  dawning  red :  — 

"  Alas,  my  love,  thou  tarriest  long ! 
O  art  thou  false  or  dead?  " 


With  gallant  Frederick's  princely  power 
He  sought  the  bold  Crusade; 

But  not  a  word  from  Judah's  wars 
Told  Helen  how  he  sped. 


With  Paynim  and  with  Saracen 
At  length  a  truce  was  made, 

And  every  knight  return'd  to  dry 
The  tears  his  love  had  shed. 


Our  gallant  host  was  homeward  bound 

With  many  a  song  of  joy; 
Green  waved  the  laurel  in  each  plume, 

The  badge  of  victory. 


And  old  and  young,  and  sire  and  son. 
To  meet  them  crowd  the  way. 


With  shouts,  and  mirth,  and  melody. 
The  debt  of  love  to  pay. 


Full  many  a  maid  her  true-love  met. 
And  sobb'd  in  his  embrace. 

And  fluttering  joy  in  tears  and  smiles 
Array'd  full  many  a  face. 


Nor  joy  nor  smile  for  Helen  sad; 

She  sought  the  host  in  vain; 
For  none  could  tell  her  William's  fate. 

If  faithless,  or  if  slain. 

VIII. 

The  martial  band  is  past  and  gone  ; 

She  rends  her  raven  hair. 
And  in  distraction's  bitter  mood 

She  weeps  with  wild  despair. 

IX. 

"  O  rise,  my  child,"  her  mother  said, 

"  Nor  sorrow  thus  in  vain; 
A  perjured  lover's  fleeting  heart. 

No  tears  recall  again."  — 


403 


404 


BALLADS  FROM   TILE    GERMAN. 


"  O  mother,  what  is  gone,  is  gone, 
What's  lost  for  ever  lorn : 

Death,  death  alone  can  comfort  me; 
O  had  I  ne'er  been  born ! 


"O  break,  my  heart,  — O  break  at  once  ! 

Drink  my  life-blood,  Despair  ! 
No  joy  remains  on  earth  for  me, 

For  me  in  Heaven  no  share."  — 


"O  enter  not  in  judgment,  Lord!  " 

The  pious  mother  prays; 
"  Impute  not  guilt  to  thy  frail  child ! 

She  knows  not  what  she  says. 


"O  say  thy  pater  noster,  child! 

O  turn  to  God  and  grace ! 
His  will,  that  turn'd  thy  bliss  to  bale. 

Can  change  thy  bale  to  bliss."  — 


"  O  mother,  mother,  what  is  bliss? 

O  mother,  what  is  bale? 
My  William's  love  was  Heaven  on  earth, 

Without  it  earth  is  Hell. 


"  Why  should  I  pray  to  ruthless  Heaven, 
Since  my  loved  William's  slain? 

I  only  pray'd  for  William's  sake. 
And  all  my  prayers  were  vain."  — 


"  O  take  the  sacrament,  my  child, 
And  check  these  tears  that  flow; 

By  resignation's  humlale  prayer, 
O  hallow'd  be  thy  woe  !  "  — 


"No  sacrament  can  quench  this  fire, 
Or  slake  this  scorching  pain; 

No  sacrament  can  bid  the  dead 
Arise  and  live  again. 


"  O  break,  my  heart,  —  O  lireak  at  once  ! 
Be  thou  my  god,  Despair  ! 


Heaven's  heaviest  blow  has  fallen  on  me. 
And  vain  each  fruitless  prayer."  — 


"  O  enter  not  in  judgment.  Lord, 
With  thy  frail  child  of  clay ! 

She  knows  not  what  her  tongue  has  spoke; 
Impute  it  not,  I  pray ! 


"  Forbear,  my  child,  this  desperate  woe, 

And  turn  to  God  and  grace; 
Well  can  devotion's  heavenly  glow 

Convert  thy  bale  to  bliss."  — 

XXI. 

"  O  mother,  mother,  what  is  bliss? 

O  mother,  what  is  bale? 
Without  my  William  what  were  Heaven, 

Or  with  him  what  were  Hell?  "  — 


Wild  she  arraigns  the  eternal  doom. 
Upbraids  each  sacred  power. 

Till,  spent,  she  sought  her  silent  room. 
All  in  the  lonely  tower. 


She  beat  her  breast,  she  wrung  her  hands. 

Till  sun  and  day  were  o'er. 
And  through  the  glimmering  lattice  shone 

The  twinkling  of  the  star. 


Tlien,  crash  !  the  heavy  drawbridge  fell 
That  o'er  the  moat  was  hung; 

And,  clatter  !  clatter  !  on  its  boards 
The  hoof  of  courser  rung. 


The  clank  of  echoing  steel  was  heard, 

As  off  the  rider  bounded; 
And  slowly  on  the  winding  stair 

A  heavy  footstep  sounded. 

XXVI. 
And  hark  !  and  hark  !  a  knock  —  Tap  ! 

tap! 
A  rustling  stifled  noise;  — 
Door-latch  and  tinkling  staples  ring;  — 
At  length  a  whispering  voice :  — 


WILLIAM  AND   HELEN. 


405 


XX  vn. 
"  Awake,  awake,  arise,  my  love  ! 

How,  Helen,  dost  thou  fare? 
Wakest  thou,  or  slecp'st?  laugh'st  thou, 
or  weep'st? 
Hast  thought  on  me,  my  fair?"  — 

XXVIII. 

"  My  love  !   my  love  !  —  so  late  by  night ! 

I  waked,  I  wept  for  thee: 
Much  have  I  borne  since  dawn  of  morn; 

Where  William,  could'st  thou  be  !  "  — 

XXIX. 

"  We  saddle  late  — from  Hungary 

I  rode  since  darkness  fell; 
And  to  its  bourne  we  both  return 

Before  the  matin-bell." 


"  O  rest  this  night  within  my  arms, 
And  warm  thee  in  their  fold ! 

Chill  howls  through  hawthorn  bush  the 
wind : — 
My  love  is  deadly  cold  "  — 

XXXI. 

"Let  the  wind  howl  thro'  hawthorn  bush  ! 

This  night  we  must  away; 
The  steed  is  wight,  the  spur  is  bright; 

I  cannot  stay  till  day. 

XXXII. 

"  Busk,    busk,     and     boune !  *      Thou 
mount'st  behind 

Upon  my  black  barb  steed. 
O'er  stock  and  stile,  a  hundred  miles, 

We  haste  to  bridal  bed."  — 


*'  To-night  —  to-night  a  hundred  miles  ! — 

O  dearest  William  stay  ! 
Thebellstrikestwelve — dark,dismalhour ! 

O  wait,  rny  love,  till  day  !  "  — 

XXXIV. 

"Look    here,    look    here  —  the    moon 
shines  clear  — 
Full  fast  I  ween  we  ride; 

*  /??«^  ^  to  dress.     /?«»<«?  ^  to  prepare  one's 
self  for  a  journey. 


Mount  and  away !  for  ere  the  day 
We  reach  our  bridal  bed. 

XXXV. 

"  The  black  barb  snorts,  the  bridle  rings; 

Haste,    busk,    and    bor  le,    and    seat' 
thee! 
The  feast  is  made,  the  chaml)er  spread, 

The  bridal  guests  await  thee."  — 

XXXVI. 
Strong  love  prevail'd:     She  busks,  she 
bounes. 
She  mounts  the  barb  behind. 
And  round  her  darling  William's  waist 
Her  hly  arms  she  twined. 

XXXVII. 

And,  hurry  !  hurry  !  off  they  rode, 

As  fast  as  fast  might  be; 
Spurn'd  from   the   courser's   thundering 
heels 

The  flashing  pebbles  flee. 

XXXVIII. 

And  on  the  right,  and  on  the  left. 
Ere  they  could  snatch  a  view. 

Fast,    fast    each    mountain,    mead,    and 
plain. 
And  cot,  and  castle,  flew. 

XXXIX. 

"Sit     fast  —  dost     fear?  —  The    moon 
shines  clear  — 
Fleet  goes  my  barb —  keep  hold! 
Fear'st  thou?  "  —  "  O  no  !  "  she  faintly 
said; 
"  But  why  so  stern  and  cold? 

XL. 
"  What  yonder  rings?  what  yonder  sings? 

Why  shrieks  the  owlet  gray?  " 
"  'Tis     death-bells'    clang,    'tis    funeral 
song, 
The  body  to  the  clay. 


"  With    song    and    clang,    at    morrow's 
dawn, 

Ye  may  inter  the  dead: 
To-night  I  ride  with  my  young  bride. 

To  deck  our  bridal  bed. 


4o6 


BALLADS  FROM   THE    GERMAN. 


•'  Come    with    thy  choir,   thou   coffin'd 
guest, 

To  swell  our  nuptial  song ! 
Come,  priest,  to  bless  our  marriage  feast ! 

Come  all,  come  all  along !  "  — 


Ceased  clang  and  song;   down  sunk  the 
bier ;    . 

The  shrouded  corpse  arose: 
And,  hurry  !  hurry  !  all  the  train 

The  thundering  steed  pursues. 


And,  forward !  forward  !  on  they  go; 

High  snorts  the  straining  steed; 
Thick  pants  the  rider's  laboring  breath. 

As  headlong  on  they  speed. 


"O  William,  why  this  savage  haste? 

And  where  thy  bridal  bed?  "  — 
*'  'Tis  distant  far,  low,  damp,  and  chill. 

And  narrow,  trustless  maid."  — 


"No  room  for  me?  "  —  "  Enough  for 
both;  — 
Speed,  speed,  my  barb,  thy  course  !  " 
O'er  thundering  bridge,  through  boiling 
surge, 
He  drove  the  furious  horse. 

XLVII. 
Tramp !    tramp !    along   the    land   they 
rode,* 
Splash  !  splash  !  along  the  sea; 
The  scourge  is  wight,  the  spur  is  bright. 
The  flashing  pebbles  flee. 

*  In  the  preface  to  the  edition  of  "  William 
and  Helen,  published  anonymously  in  1796,  Sir 
Walter  Scott  says  :  —  "  The  first  two  lines  of  the 
forty-seventh  stanza,  descriptive  of  the  speed  of 
the  lovers,  may  perhaps  bring  to  the  recollection 
of  many  a  passage  extremely  similar  in  a  transla- 
rion  of  "  Lenore,"  which  first  appeared  in  the 
Monthly  Magazine.  In  justice  to  himself,  the 
translator  thinks  it  his  duty  to  acknowledge  that 
his  curiosity  was  first  attracted  to  this  truly 
romantic  story  by  a  gentleman,  who  having 
heard  "  Lenore  "  once  read  in  manuscript,  could 
only  recollect  the  general  outlines,  and  a  part  of 
a  couplet   which,   from    the    singularity   of    its 


XLVIII. 
Fled  past  on  right  and  left  how  fast 

Each  forest,  grove,  and  bower  ! 
On  right  and  left  fled  past  how  fast 

Each  city,  town,  and  tower  ! 


"  Dost  fear  ?  dost  fear  ?   The  moon  shines 
clear. 

Dost  fear  to  ride  with  me?  — 
Hurrah  !  hurrah  !  the  dead  can  ride  !  " 

"  O  William,  let  them  be  !  — 


"  See  there,  see  there !     What  yonder 
swings 

And  creaks  mid  whistling  rain? "  — 
"  Gibbet  and  steel,  th'  accursed  wheel; 

A  murderer  in  his  chain. — 


"  Hollo !  thou  felon,  follow  here : 

To  bridal  bed  we  ride; 
And  thou  shalt  prance  a  fetter  dance 

Before  me  and  my  bride." 


And,  hurry  !  hurry  !  clash,  clash,  clash ! 

The  wasted  form  descends; 
And  fleet  as  wind  through  hdzel  bush 
The  wild  career  attends. 


Tramp  !  tramp  !  along  the  land  they  rode, 
Splash  !  splash  !  along  the  sea; 

The  scourge  is  red,  the  spur  drops  blood. 
The  flashing  pebbles  flee. 

LIV. 

How     fled     what      moonshine     faintly 
show'd ! 

How  fled  what  darkness  hid  ! 
How  fled  the  earth  beneath  their  feet. 

The  heaven  above  their  head ! 


structure  and  frequent  recurrence,  had  remained 
impressed  upon  his  memory.  If,  from  des|>air 
of  rendering  the  passage  so  happily,  the  property 
of  another  has  been  invaded,  the  translator 
makes  the  only  atonement  now  in  his  pwwer 
by  restoring  it  thus  publicly  to  the  rightful 
owner. 


THE    WILD  HUNTSMAN. 


407 


LV. 
«'Dost    fear?    dost    fear?      The   n 
shines  clear, 
And  well  the  dead  can  ride; 
Does  faithful  Helen  fear  for  them?' 
"  O  leave  in  peace  the  dead !  "  — 


"  Barb !  barb !  methinks  I  hear  the  cock; 

The  sand  will  soon  lie  run: 
Barb!  Barb!  I  smell  the  morning  air; 

The  race  is  wellnigh  done."  — 


Tramp  !  tramp  !  along  the  land  they  rode ; 

Splash  !  splash  !  along  the  sea; 
The  scourge  is  red,  the  spur  drojjs  blood, 

The  flashing  pebbles  flee. 

LVIII. 

"  Hurrah  !  hurrah  !  well  ride  the  dead; 

The  bride,  the  bride  is  come; 
And  soon  we  reach  the  bridal  bed. 

For,  Helen,  here's  my  home."  — 


Reluctant  on  its  rusty  hinge 

Revolved  an  iron  door. 
And  by  the  pale  moon's  setting  beam 

Were  seen  a  church  and  tower. 


With  many  a  shriek  and  cry  whiz  round 
The  liirds  of  midnight,  scared; 

And  rustling  like  autumnal  leaves 
Unhallowed  ghosts  were  heard. 


O'er  many  a  tomb  and  tombstone  pale 

He  spurr'd  the  fiery  horse, 
Till  sudden  at  an  open  grave 

He  check'd  the  wondrous  course. 


The  falling  gauntlet  quits  the  rein, 
Down  drops  the  casque  of  steel. 

The  cuirass  leaves  his  shrinking  side, 
The  spur  his  gory  heel. 

LXIII. 

The  eyes  desert  the  naked  skull. 
The  mould'ring  flesh  the  bone. 

Till  Helen's  lily  arms  entwine 
A  ghastly  skeleton. 

LXIV. 

The  furious  barb  snorts  fire  and  foam. 

And,  with  a  tearful  bound. 
Dissolves  at  once  in  empty  air. 
And  leaves  her  on  the  ground. 


Half  seen  by  fits,  by  fits  half  heard, 

Pale  spectres  flit  along. 
Wheel  round  the  maid  in  dismal  dance. 

And  howl  the  funeral  song: 


"  E'en  when    the   heart's   with    anguish 
cleft. 

Revere  the  doom  of  Heaven, 
Her  soul  is  from  her  lx)dy  reft: 

Her  spirit  is  forgiven  !  " 


THE  WILD    HUNTSMAN.* 
[1796.] 

This  is  a  translation,  or  rather  an  imitation,  of  the  Wilde  Jager  of  the  German  \>oc\. 
BUrger.  The  tradition  upon  which  it  is  founded  bears,  that  formerly  a  Wildgrave,  or  keeper 
of  a  royal  forest,  named  Falkenburg,  was  so  much  addicted  to  the  pleasures  of  tlie  chase, 
and  otherwise  so  extremely  profligate  and  cruel,  that  he  not  only  followed  this  unhallowed 
amusement  on  the  Sabbath,  and  other  days  consecrated  to  religious  duty,  hut  accompanied 
it  with  the  most  unheard  of  oppression  upon  the  poor  peasants  who  were  under  his  vassal- 

•  Published  (1796)  wi'h  "  William  and  Helen,"  enn'tled  "  The  Chase." 


4o8 


BALLADS  FROM   THE   GERMAN. 


age.  When  this  second  Nimrod  died,  the  people  adopted  a  superstition,  founded  probably 
on  the  many  various  uncouth  sounds  heard  in  the  depth  of  a  German  forest  during  the 
silence  of  the  night.  They  conceived  they  still  heard  the  cry  of  the  \Vildgrave"s  hounds ; 
and  the  well  known  cheer  of  the  deceased  hunter,  the  sounds  of  his  horse's  feet,  and  the 
rustling  of  the  branches  before  the  game,  the  pack,  and  the  sportsmen,  are  also  distinctly 
discriminated ;  but  the  phantoms  are  rarely,  if  ever,  visible.  Once,  as  a  benighted  Chasseur 
heard  this  infernal  chase  pass  by  him,  at  the  sound  of  the  halloo,  with  which  the  Spectre 
Huntsman  cheered  his  hounds,  he  could  not  refrain  from  crying  "  Gluck  zit  Falkcnbiirg  !  " 
[Good  sport  to  ye,  Falkenburg !]  "  Dost  thou  wish  me  good  sport  .■■ "  answered  a  hoarse 
voice ;  "  thou  shalt  share  the  game  ;  "  and  there  was  thrown  at  him  what  seemed  to  be  a 
huge  piece  of  foul  carrion.  The  daring  Chasseur  lost  two  of  his  best  horses  soon  after, 
and  never  jierfectly  recovered  the  personal  effects  of  this  ghostly  greeting.  This  tale, 
though  told  with  some  variations,  is  universally  believed  all  over  Germany. 

The  French  had  a  similar  tradition  concerning  an  aerial  hunter,  who  infested  the  forest 
of  Fontainebleau. 


The  Wildgrave  winds  his  bugle  horn, 
To  horse,  to  horse  !  halloo,  halloo  ! 

His  fiery  courser  snuffs  the  morn, 

And  thronging  serfs  their  lord  pursue. 

The  eager  pack,  from  couples  freed. 
Dash  through  the  brush,  the  brier,  the 
brake ; 
While  answering  hound,  and  horn,  and 
steed. 
The  mountain  echoes  startling  wake. 

The  beams  of  God's  own  hallow'd  day 
Had  painted  yonder  spire  with  gold. 

And,  calling  sinful  man  to  pray, 

Loud,   long,  and  deep   the    bell   had 
toll'd: 

But  still  the  Wildgrave  onward  rides; 

Halloo,  halloo  !   and,  hark  again  ! 
When  spurring  from  opposing  sides. 

Two  Stranger  Horsemen  join  the  train. 

Who  was  each  Stranger,  left  and  right. 
Well  may  I  guess,  but  dare  not  tell; 

The  right-hand  steed  was  silver  white. 
The  left,  the  swarthy  hue  of  Hell. 

The    right-hand    Horseman   young   and 
fair, 

His  smile  was  like  the  morn  of  May; 
The  left,  from  eye  of  tawny  glare, 

Shot  midnight  lightning's  lurid  ray. 

He  waved  his  huntsman's  cap  on  high. 
Cried:    "Welcome,    welcome,    noble 
lord! 

What  sport  can  earth,  or  sea,  or  sky, 
To  match  the  princely  chase,  afford  ?  " 


"  Cease  thy  loud  bugle's  clanging  knell," 
Cried  the  fair  youth,  with  silver  voice; 

"  And  for  devotion's  choral  swell 
Exchange  the  rude  unhallow'd  noise. 

"  To-day  the  ill-omen'd  chase  forbear. 
Yon  bell  yet  summons  to  the  fane; 

To-day  the  Warning  Spirit  hear, 

To-morrow    thou    mayst     mourn     in 
vain."  — 

"  Away,  and  sweep  the  glades  along  !  " 
The  Sable  Hunter  hoarse  replies; 

"To  muttering  monks  leave  matin-song. 
And  bells,  and  books,  and  mysteries." 

The  Wildgrave  spurr'd  his  ardent  steed, 
And,  launching  forward  with  a  bound, 

"  Who,  for  thy  drowsy  priestlike  rede. 
Would  leave  the  jovial  horn  and  hound? 

"  Hence,  if  our  manly  sport  offend  ! 

With  pious  fools  go  chant  and  pray :  — 
Well  hast  thou  spoke,  my  dark-brow'd 
friend; 

Halloo,  halloo  !  and,  hark  away  !  " 

The  Wildgrave  spurr'd  his  courser  light. 
O'er  moss  and  moor,  o'er  holt  and  hill; 

And  on  the  left  and  on  the  right. 

Each  stranger  Horseman  foUow'd  still. 

Up  springs,  from  yonder  tangled  thorn, 
.>\  stag  more  white  than  mountain  snow, 

And  louder  rung  the  Wildgrave's  horn, 
"  Hark  forward,  forward  !  holla,  ho  !  " 

A  heedless  wretch  has  cross'd  the  way; 
He  gasps  the  thundering  hoofs  below; 


THE    WILD  HUNTSMAN. 


409 


But,  live  who  can,  or  die  who  may, 
Still,  "  Forward,  forward !"  on  they  go. 

See,  where  yon  simple  fences  meet, 
A     field     with     Autumn's     blessings 
crown'd; 

See,  prostrate  at  the  Wildgrave's  feet, 
A  husbandman  with  toil  embrown'd: 

"  O  mercy,  mercy,  noble  lord  ! 

Spare  the  poor's  pittance,"  was  his  cry, 
"  Earn'd  by  the  sweat  these  brows  have 
pour'd. 

In  scorching  hour  of  fierce  July."  — 

Earnest  the  right-hand  Stranger  pleads, 
The  left  still  cheering  to  the  prey; 

The  impetuous  Earl  no  warning  heeds. 
But  furious  holds  the  onward  way. 

"  Away,  thou  hound  !  so  basely  born. 
Or     dread     the      scourge's      echoing 
blow!"  — 

Then  loudly  rung  his  bugle  horn, 

"  Hark  forward,  forward,  holla,  ho!" 

So  said,  so  done :  —  A  single  bound 
Clears  the  poor  laborer's  humble  pale, 

Wild  follows  man,  and  horse,  and  hound. 
Like  dark  December's  stormy  gale. 

And  man  and  horse,  and  hound  and  horn, 
Destructive  sweep  the  field  along; 

While,  joying  o'er  the  wasted  corn. 
Fell    Famine   marks    the    maddening 
throng. 

Again  uproused,  the  timorous  prey 
Scours  moss  and  moor,  and  holt  and 
hill; 

Hard  run,  he  feels  his  strength  decay. 
And  trusts  for  life  his  simple  skill. 

Too  dangerous  solitud'j  appear'd; 

He  seeks  the  shelter  of  the  crowd; 
Amid  the  flock's  domestic  herd 

His  harmless  head  he  hopes  to  shroud. 

O'er  moss  and  moor,  and  holt  and  hill. 
His    track    the    steady    blood-hounds 
trace; 

O'er  moss  and  moor,  unwearied  still. 
The  furious  Earl  pursues  the  chase. 


Full  lowly  did  the  herdsman  fall :  — 
"O  spare,  thou  noble  Baron,  spare 

These  herds,  a  widow's  little  all; 

These     flocks,     an     orphan's     fleecy 
care !  "  — 

Earnest  the  right-hand  Stranger  pleads. 
The  left  still  cheering  to  the  prey; 

The  Earl  nor  prayer  nor  pity  heeds, 
But  furious  keeps  the  onward  way. 

"  Unmanner'd  dog !  To  stop  my  sport. 
Vain  were  thy  cant  and  beggar  whine. 

Though  human  spirits,  of  thy  sort. 

Were  tenants  of  these  carrion  kine!  " 

Again  he  winds  his  bugle-horn, 

"  Hark  forward,  forward,  holla,  ho !  " 

And  through  the  herd,  in  ruthless  scorn, 
He  cheers  his  furious  hounds  to  go. 

In  heaps  the  throttled  victims  fall; 

Down  sinks  their  mangled  herdsman 
near; 
The  murderous  cries  the  stag  appal,  — 

Again  he  starts,  new-nerved  by  fear. 

With  blood  besmear'd,  and  white  with 
foam. 

While  big  the  tears  of  anguish  pour, 
He  seeks,  amid  the  forest's  gloom, 

The  humble  hermit's  hallow'd  bower, 

But  man  and  horse,  and  horn  and  hound, 
Fast  rattling  on  his  traces  go; 

The  sacred  chapel  rung  around 

With,  "  Hark  away !  and,  holla,  ho !  " 

All  mild,  amid  the  rout  profane. 

The  holy  hermit  pour'd  his  prayer:  — 

"  Forbear  with  blood  God'shousetostain; 
Revere  his  altar,  and  forbear ! 

"The  meanest  brute  has  rights  to  plead. 
Which,  wrong'd  by  cruelty,  or  pride. 

Draw  vengeance  on  the  ruthless  head:  — 
Be  warn'd  at  length,  and  turn  aside." 

Still  the  Fair  Horseman  anxious  pleads; 

The  Black,  wild  whooping,  points  the 
prey :  — 
Alas  !  the  Earl  no  warning  heeds. 

But  frantic  keeps  the  forward  way. 


4IO 


BALLADS  FROM   THE    GERMAN 


*'  Holy  or  not,  or  right  or  wrong, 
Thy  altar,  and  its  rites,  I  spurn; 

Not  sainted  martyrs'  sacred  song, 

Not  God  himself,  shall  make  me  turn  ! ' ' 

He  spurs  his  horse,  he  winds  his  horn, 
"Hark  forward,  forward,  holla,  ho  !  " 

But  off,  on  whirlwind's  pinion  borne. 
The  stag,  the  hut,  the  hermit,  go. 

And    horse    and    man,    and    horn    and 
hound. 

And  clamor  of  the  chase,  was  gone; 
For  hoofs,  and  howls,  and  bugle-sound, 

A  deadly  silence  reign'd  alone. 

Wild  gazed  the  affrighted  Earl  around; 

He  strove  in  vain  to  wake  his  horn. 
In  vain  to  call;  for  not  a  sound 

Could  from  his  anxious  lips  be  borne. 

He  listens  for  his  trusty  hounds; 

No  distant  baying  reach'd  his  ears : 
His  courser,  rooted  to  the  ground. 

The  quickening  spur  unmindful  bears. 

Still  dark  and  darker  frown  the  shades, 
Dark  as  the  darkness  of  the  grave; 

And  not  a  sound  the  still  invades. 
Save  what  a  distant  torrent  gave. 

High  o'er  the  sinner's  humbled  head 
At  length  the  solemn  silence  broke; 

And,  from  a  cloud  of  swarthy  red. 
The  awful  voice  of  thunder  spoke :  — 

"  Oppressor  of  creation  fair  ! 

Apostate  Spirits'  hardcn'd  tool ! 
Scorner  of  God  !     Scourge  of  the  poor  ! 

The  measure  of  thy  cup  is  full. 

"  Be  chased  forever  through  the  wood; 

Forever  roam  the  affrighted  wild; 
And  let  thy  fate  instruct  the  proud, 

God's  meanest  creature  is  his  child." 


IVas  hush'd :  One  flash,  of  sombre  glare, 
With  yellow  tinged  the  forests  brown; 

Uprose  the  Wildgrave's  bristling  hair. 
And  horror  chill'd  each  nerve  and  bone. 

Cold  pour'd  the  sweat  in  freezing  rill; 

A  rising  wind  began  to  sing; 
And  louder,  louder,  louder  still. 

Brought  storm  and  tempest  on  its  wing. 

Earth  heard  the  call;  —  her  entrails  rend; 

From  yawning  rifts,  with  many  a  yell, 
Mix'd  with  sulphureous  flames,  ascend 

The  misbegotten  dogs  of  hell. 

What  ghastly  Huntsman  next  arose. 
Well  may  I  guess,  but  dare  not  tell; 

His  eye  like  midnight  lightning  glows, 
His  steed  the  swarthy  hue  of  hell. 

The  Wildgrave  flies  o'er  bush  and  thorn, 
With  many  a  shriek  of  helpless  woe; 

Behind  him  hound,  and  horse,  and  horn. 
And,  "  Hark  away,  and  holla,  ho !  " 

With  wild  despair's  reverted  eye. 

Close,    close    behind    he    marks    the 
throng. 

With  bloody  fangs  and  eager  cry; 
In  frantic  fear  he  scours  along. 

Still,  still  shall  last  the  dreadful  chase, 
Till  time  itself  shall  have  an  end; 

By  day,  they  scour  earth's  cavern'd  space. 
At  midnight's  witching  hour,  ascend. 

This  is  the  horn,  and  hound,  and  horse, 
That  oft  the  lated  peasant  hears; 

Appall'd,  he  signs  the  frequent  cross. 
When  the  wild  din  invades  his  ears. 

The  wakeful  priest  oft  drops  a  tear 
For  human  pride,  for  human  woe. 

When,  at  his  midnight  mass  he  hears 
The  infernal  cry  of,  "  Holl*'    ho  !  " 


THE  FIRE-KING. 


4" 


THE   FIRE-KING. 

"  The  blessings  of  the  evil  Genii,  which  are  curses,  were  upon  him.  "  —  Eastern  Tale. 

[1801.] 

This  ballad  was  written  at  the  request  of  Mr.  Lewis,  to  be  inserted  in  his  Tales  of 
Wonder*  It  is  the  third  in  a  series  of  four  ballads,  on  the  subject  of  Elementary  Spirits. 
The  story  is,  however,  partly  historical ;  for  it  is  recorded,  that  during  the  struggles  of  the 
Latin  kingdom  of  Jerusalem,  a  Knight-Templar,  called  Saint  Alban,  deserted  to  the  Sara- 
cens, and  defeated  the  Christians  in  many  combats,  till  he  was  finally  routed  and  slain,  in 
a  conflict  with  King  Baldwin  under  the  walls  of  Jerusalem. 


Bold  knights  and  fair  dames,  to  my  harp 

give  an  ear, 
Of  love,  and  of  war,  and  of  wonder  to 

hear, 
And  you  haply  may  sigh,  in  the  midst  of 

your  glee. 
At   the  tale  of  Gjunt  Albert,  and  fair 

Rosalie. 

O  see  you  that  castle,  so  strong  and  so 

high? 
And  see  you  that  lady,  the  tear  in  her  eye  ? 
And  see  you  that  palmer,  from  Palestine's 

land. 
The  shell  on  his  hat,  and  the  staff  in  his 

hand  ?  — 

"Now  palmer,  gray  palmer,  O  tell  unto 

me, 
What  news  bring  you  home  from  the  Holy 

Countrie? 
And  how  goes  the  warfare  by  Galilee's 

strand? 
And  how  fare  our  nobles,  the  flower  of 

the  land?  "  — 

"O  well  goes  the  warfare  by  Galilee's 
wave. 

For  Gilead,  and  Nablous,  and  Ramah  we 
have; 

And  well  fare  our  nobles  by  Mount  Leba- 
non, 

For  the  Heathen  have  lost,  and  the  Chris- 
tians have  won." 

A  fair  chain  of  gold  mid  her  ringlets  there 

hung; 
O'er  the  palmer's  gray  locks  the  fair  chain 

has  she  flung : 


"  O  palmer,  gray  palmer,  this  chain  be 

thy  fee. 
For  the  news  thou  hast  brought  from  the 

Holy  Countrie. 

"  And,  palmer,  good  palmer,  by  Galilee's 
wave, 

O  saw  ye  Count  Albert,  the  gentle  and 
brave  ? 

When  the  Crescent  went  back,  and  the 
Red-cross  rush'd  on, 

O  saw  ye  him  foremost  on  Mount  Leba- 
non? "  — 

"O   lady,   fair   lady,  the  tree  green   it 

grows; 
O  lady,  fair  lady,  the  stream  pure  it  flows; 
Your  castle  stands  strong,  and  your  hopes 

soar  on  high; 
But,  lady,  fair  lady,  all  blossoms  to  die. 

"  The  green  boughs  they  wither,  the  thun- 
derlx)lt  falls. 

It  leaves  of  your  castle  but  levin-scorch'd 
walls; 

The  pure  stream  runs  muddy;  the  gay 
hope  is  gone; 

Count  Albert  is  prisoner  on  Mount  Leba- 
non." 

O  she's  ta'en  a  horse,  should  be  fleet  at 

her  speed; 
And  she's  ta'en  a  sword,  should  be  sharp 

at  her  need; 
And  she  has  ta'en  shipping  for  Palestine's 

land. 
To  ransom  Count  Albert  from  Soldanrie's 

hand. 


•  Published  in  i8oi. 


412 


BALLADS  FROM   THE    GERMAN: 


Small  thought  had  Count  Albert  on  fair 
Rosalie, 

Small  thought  on  his  faith,  or  his  knight- 
hood, had  he: 

A  heathenish  damsel  his  light  heart  had 
won, 

The  Soldan's  fair  daughter  of  Mount 
Lebanon. 

"  O  Christian,  brave   Christian,  my  love 

wouldst  thou  be, 
Three  things  must  thou  do  ere  I  hearken 

to  thee; 
Our  laws  and  our  worship  on  thee  shalt 

thou  take, 
And  this  thou  shalt  first  do  for  Zulema's 

sake. 

"  And,  next,  in  the  cavern,  where  burns 

evermore 
The  mystical  flame  which  the  Curdmans 

adore, 
Alone,  and  in  silence,  three  nights  shalt 

thou  wake. 
And  this  thou  shalt  next  do  for  Zulema's 

sake. 

"  And,  last,  thou  shalt  aid  us  with  coun- 
sel and  hand, 

To  drive  the  Frank  robber  from  Pales- 
tine's land; 

For  my  lord  and  my  love  then  Count 
Albert  I'll  take, 

When  all  this  is  acconiplish'd  for  Zulema's 
sake." 

He  has  thrown  by  his  helmet,  and  cross- 
handled  sword. 

Renouncing  his  knighthood,  denying  his 
Lord; 

He  has  ta'en  the  green  caftan,  and  turban 
put  on, 

For  the  love  of  the  maiden  of  fair  Leba- 
non. 

And  in  the  dread  cavern,  deep,  deep  under 

ground. 
Which  fifty  steel  gates  and  steel  portals 

surround, 
He  has  watch'd  until  daybreak,  but  sight 

saw  he  none. 
Save  the  flame  burning  bright  on  its  altar 

of  stone. 


Amazed  was  the    Princess,   the   Soldan 

amazed, 
Sore  murmur'd  the  priests  as  on  Albert 

they  gazed; 
They    search'd    all    his    garments,    and, 

under  his  weeds, 
They  found,  and  took  from  him,  his  rosary 

beads. 

Again  in  the  cavern,  deep,  deep   under 

ground. 
He  watch'd  the  lone  night,  while    the 

winds  whistled  round; 
Far  off  was  their  murmur,   it  came  not 

more  nigh. 
The  flame  burn'd  unmoved,  and  naught 

else  did  he  spy. 

Loud  murmur'd  the  priests,  and  amazed 
was  the  King, 

While  many  dark  spells  of  their  witch- 
craft they  sing; 

They  search'd  Albert's  body,  and,  lo  !  on 
his  breast 

Was  the  sign  of  the  Cross,  by  his  father 
impress'd. 

The  priests  they  erase  it  with  care  and 

with  pain. 
And  the  recreant  return'd  to  the  cavern 

again; 
But,  as  he  descended,  a  whisper   there 

fell: 
It  was  his   good  angel,  who  bade  him 

farewell ! 

High  bristled  his  hair,  his  heart  flutter'd 
and  beat. 

And  he  turn'd  him  five  steps,  half  re- 
solved to  retreat; 

But  his  heart  it  was  harden'd,  his  pur- 
pose was  gone. 

When  he  thought  of  the  Maiden  of  fair 
Lebanon. 

Scarce  pass'dhe  the  archway,  the  thresh- 
old scarce  trode. 

When  the  winds  from  the  four  points  of 
heaven  were  abroad; 

They  made  each  steel  portal  to  rattle  and 

ring. 
And,  borne  on  the  blast,  came  the  dr»*ad 
P'ire-King, 


THE  FTRE-KING. 


413 


Full  sore  rock'd  the  cavern  whene'er  he 
drew  nigh, 

The  fire  on  the  altar  blazed  bickering  and 
high; 

In  volcanic  explosions  the  mountains  pro- 
claim 

The  dreadful  approach  of  the  Monarch 
of  Flame. 

Unmeasured    in    height,    undistinguish'd 

in  form, 
His  breath  it  was  lightning,  his  voice  it 

was  storm; 
I  ween  the  stout  heart  of  Count  Albert 

was  tame. 
When  he  saw  in  his  terrors  the  Monarch 

of  Flame. 

In  his  hand  a  broad  falchion  blue-glim- 
mer'd  through  smoke. 

And  Mount  Lebanon  shook  as  the  mon- 
arch he  spoke :  — 

"  With  this  brand  shalt  thou  conquer, 
thus  long,  and  no  more, 

Till  thou  bend  to  the  Cross,  and  the  Vir- 
gin adore." 

The  cloud-shrouded  Arm  gives  the  wea- 
pon;   and  see  ! 

The  recreant  receives  the  charm'd  gift 
on  his  knee; 

The  thunders  growl  distant,  and  faint 
gleam  the  fires, 

As,  borne  on  the  whirlwind,  the  phan- 
tom retires. 

Count  Albert  has  arm'd  him  the  Paynim 

among. 
Though    his  heart   it   was  false,  yet  his 

arm  it  was  strong; 
And  the  Red-cross  wax'd  faint,  and  the 

Crescent  came  on, 
From  the  day  he  commanded  on  Mount 

Lebanon. 

From   Lebanon's   Forests    to    Galilee's 

wave, 
The  sands  of  Samaar  drank  the  blood  of 

the  brave; 
Till    the    Knights    of    the    Temple    and 

Knights  of  Saint  John, 
With  Salem's  King  Baldwin,  against  him 

came  on.  I 


The  war-cymbals  clatter'd,  the  trumpets 

replied. 
The  lances  were  couch'd,  and  they  closed 

on  each  side; 
And  horsemen  and  horses  Count  Albert 

o'erthrew. 
Till   he   pierced  the  thick  tumult    King 

Baldwin  unto. 

Against  the  charm'd  blade  which  Count 
Albert  did  wield. 

The  fence  had  been  vain  of  the  King's 
Red-cross  shield; 

But  a  Page  thrust  him  forward  the  mon- 
arch before, 

And  cleft  the  proud  turban  the  renegade 
wore. 

So  fell  was  the  dint,  that  Count  Albert 
stoop'd  low 

Before  the  cross'd  shield,  to  his  steel 
saddle-bow; 

And  scarce  had  he  bent  to  the  Red-cross 
his  head,  — 

^' Bottne  Grace,  N^otre  Dame!''''  he  un- 
wittingly said. 

Sore  sigh'd  the  charm'd  sword,  for  its 
virtue  was  o'er. 

It  sprung  from  his  grasp,  and  was  never 
seen  more; 

But  true  men  have  said,  that  the  light- 
ning's red-wing 

Did  waft  back  the  brand  to  the  dread 
Fire-King. 

He  clench'd  his  set  teeth,  and  his  gaunt- 

leted  hand; 
He  stretch'd,  with  one  buffet,  that  Page 

on  the  strand; 
As  back  from   the  stripling  the  broken 

casque  roU'd, 
You  might  see  the   blue  eyes,  and  the 

ringlets  of  gold. 

.Short  time  had  Count  Albert  in  horror 

to  stare 
On  those  death-swimming  eyeballs  and 

blood-clotted  hair; 
For  down  came  the  Templars,  like  Ce- 

dron  in  flood, 
And  dyed  their  long  lances  in   Saracen 

blood. 


414 


BALLADS   FROM    THE    GERMAN. 


The  Saracens,  Curdmans,  and  Ishmaelites 
yield 

To  the  scallop,  the  saltier,  and  crossletcd 
shield; 

And  the  eagles  were  gorged  with  the  in- 
fidel dead, 

From  Bethsaida's  fountains  to  Naphtha- 
li's  head. 

The  Battle  is  over  on  Bethsaida's  plain. — 

Oh,  who  is  yon  Paynim  lies  stretch'd  mid 
the  slain? 

And  who  is  yon  Page  lying  cold  at  his 
knee? 

Oh,  who  but  Count  Albert  and  fair  Rosa- 
lie ! — 


The  Lady  was  buried  in  Salem's  bless'd 
bound, 

The  Count  he  was  left  to  the  vulture  and 
hound : 

Her  soul  to  high  mercy  Our  Lady  did 
bring; 

His  went  on  the  blast  to  the  dread  Fire- 
King. 

Yet  many  a  minstrel,  in  harping,  can  tell. 
How    the    Red-cross    it    conquer'd,    the 

Crescent  it  fell : 
And  lords   and   gay  ladies  have    sigh'd, 

mid  their  glee, 
At    the    tale   of  Count  Albert    and   fair 

Rosalie. 


FREDERICK   AND   ALICK 


[iSoi.] 

This  tale  is  imitated  rather  than  translated,  from  a  fragment  introduced  in  Goethe's 
"Claudina  von  Villa  liella,"  wlien;  it  is  sung  by  a  member  of  a  gang  of  banditti,  to  engage 
the  attention  of  the  family,  while  Ills  companions  break  into  the  castle.  It  owes  any  little 
merit  it  may  possess  to  my  friend  Mr.  Lewis,  to  whom  it  was  sent  in  an  extremely 
lude  state,  and  who,  after  some  material  improvements,  piiblislied  it  in  his  Tales  of 
Wonder. 


Frederick  leaves  the  land  of  France, 
Homeward  hastes  his  steps  to  measure, 

Careless  casts  the  parting  glance 
On  the  scene  of  former  pleasure. 

Joying  in  his  prancing  steed. 

Keen  to  prove  his  untried  blade, 

Hope's  gay  dreams  the  soldier  lead 
Over  mountain,  moor,  and  glade. 

Helpless,  ruin'd,  left  forlorn, 

Lovely  Alice  wept  alone; 
Mourn'd  o'er  love's  fond  contract  torn, 

Hope,  and  peace,  and  honor  flown. 

Mark  her  breast's  convulsive  throbs, 
See,  the  tear  of  anguish  flows  !  — 

Mingling  soon  with  bursting  sobs. 
Loud  the  laugh  of  frenzy  rose. 

Wild  she  cursed,  and  wild  she  pray'd; 
Seven  long  days  and  nights  are  o'er; 


Death  and  pity  brought  his  aid, 
As  the  village  bell  struck  four. 

Far  from  her,  and  far  from  France, 
Faithless  Frederick  onward  rides; 

Marking,  blithe,  the  morning's  glance 
Mantling  o'er  the  mountain's  sides. 

Heard  ye  not  the  boding  sound. 
As  the  tongue  of  yonder  tower, 

Slowly,  to  the  hills  around. 

Told  the  fourth,  the  fated  hour? 

.Starts  the  steed,  and  snuffs  the  air. 
Yet  no  cause  of  dread  appears; 

Bristles  high  the  rider's  hair. 

Struck  with  strange,  mysterious  fears 

Desperate  as  his  terrors  rise. 
In  the  steed  the  spur  he  hides; 

From  himself  in  vain  he  flies; 
Anxious,  restless,  on  he  rides. 


THE  BATTLE    OF  SEMPACH. 


415 


Seven  long  days,  and  seven  long  nights, 
Wild  he  wander'd,  woe  the  while  ! 

Ceaseless  care,  and  causeless  fright. 
Urge  his  footsteps  many  a  mile. 

Dark  the  seventh  sad  night  descends; 

Rivers  swell  and  rain-slreams  pour, 
While  the  deafening  thunder  lends 

All  the  terrors  of  its  roar. 

WY-ary,  wet,  and  spent  with  toil. 

Where  his  head  shall  Frederick  hide  ? 

Where,  but  in  yon  ruin'd  aisle. 
By  the  lightning's  flash  descried. 

To  the  portal,  dank  and  low, 

Fast  his  steed  the  wanderer  bound : 

Down  a  ruin'd  staircase  slow. 
Next  his  darkling  way  he  wound. 

Long  drear  vaults  before  him  lie  ! 

Glimmering  lights  are  seen  to  glide  ! — 
"  Blessed  Mary,  hear  my  cry  ! 

Deign  a  sinner's  steps  to  guide !  " 

Often  lost  their  quivering  beam. 
Still  the  lights  move  slow  before. 

Till  they  rest  their  ghastly  gleam 
Right  against  an  iron  door. 

Thundering  voices  from  within, 
Mix'd  with  peals  of  laughter,  rose; 


As  they  fell,  a  solemn  strain 

Lent  its  wild  and  wondrous  close ! 

Midst  the  din,  he  seem'd  to  hear 
Voice  of  friends,  by  din  removed; — 

Well  he  knew  that  solemn  air, 
'Twas  the  lay  that  Alice  loved.  — 

Hark  !   for  now  a  solemn  knell. 

Four  times  on  the  still  night  broke; 

Four  times,  at  its  deaden'd  swell. 
Echoes  from  the  ruins  spoke. 

As  the  lengthened  clangors  die. 

Slowly  opes  the  iron  door ! 
Straight  a  banquet  met  his  eye. 

But  a  funeral's  form  it  wore ! 

Coffins  for  the  seats  extend; 

All  with  black  the  board  was  spread; 
Girt  by  parent,  brother,  friend, 

Long  since  numbered  with  the  dead  ! 

Alice,  in  her  grave-clothes  bound. 
Ghastly,  smiling,  points  a  seat; 

All  arose,  with  thundering  sound; 
All  the  expected  stranger  greet. 

High  their  meagre  arms  they  wave. 
Wild  their  notes  of  welcome  swell :  — 

"  Welcome,  traitor,  to  the  grave  ! 
Perjured,  bid  the  light  farewell!  " 


THE   BATTLE  OF   SEMPACH.* 

[1818.] 

These  verses  are  a  literal  translation  of  an  ancient  Swiss  ballad  upon  the  battle  of  Sem- 
pach,  fought  9th  July,  1386,  teing  the  victory  by  which  the  Swiss  cantons  establislied  tlieir 
independence:  the  author,  Albert  Tchudi,  denominated  the  Souter,  from  his  profession  of 
a  slioemaker.  He  was  a  citizen  of  Lucerne,  esteemed  liighly  among  his  countrymen,  both 
for  his  powers  as  a  Afcister-Singer,  or  minstrel,  and  his  courage  as  a  soldier. 

The  circumstance  of  their  being  written  f:)y  a  poet  returning  from  the  well-fought  field 
he  describes,  and  in  which  his  country's  fortune  was  secured,  may  confer  on  Tchudi's  verses 
an  interest  which  they  are  not  entitled  to  claim  from  their  poetical  merit.  But  ballad 
poetry,  the  more  literally  it  is  translated,  the  more  it  loses  its  simplicity,  without  acquirin;:; 
either  grace  or  strength  ;  and  therefore,  some  of  the  faults  of  the  verses  must  be  imjjuted  l) 
the  translator's  feeling  it  a  duty  to  keep  as  closely  as  possible  to  his  original.  The  vari- 
ous puns,  rude  attempts  at  pleasantry,  and  disproportioned  episodes  must  be  set  down 
to  Tchudi's  account,  or  to  the  taste  of  his  age. 


*  First  published  in  Blackwood,  Feb.  1818. 


4l6 


BALLADS  FROM   THE    GERMAN. 


The  military  antiquary  will  derive  some  amusement  from  the  minute  particulars  which 
the  martial  poet  has  recorded.  The  mode  in  which  the  Austrian  men-at-arms  received  the 
charge  of  the  Swiss,  was  by  forming  a  phalanx,  which  they  defended  with  their  long  lances. 
The  gallant  Winkelricd,  who  sacrificed  his  own  life  by  rushing  among  the  spears,  clasping 
in  his  arms  as  many  as  he  could  grasp,  and  thus  opening  a  gap  in  those  iron  battalions,  is 
celebrated  in  Swiss  history.  When  fairly  mingled  together,  tlie  unwieldy  length  of  their 
weapons,  and  cumbrous  weight  of  their  defensive  armor,  rendered  the  Austrian  men-at- 
arms  a  very  unequal  match  for  the  light-armed  mountaineers.  The  victories  obtained  by 
the  Swiss  over  the  German  chivalry,  hitherto  deemed  as  formidable  on  foot  as  on  horse- 
back, led  to  important  changes  in  the  art  of  war.  The  poet  describes  the  Austrian  knights 
and  squires  as  cutting  the  peaks  from  their  boots  ere  they  could  act  upon  foot,  in  allusion 
to  an  inconvenient  piece  of  foppery,  often  mentioned  in  the  Middle  Ages.  Leopold  III., 
Archduke  of  Austria,  called  "  the  handsome  man-at-arms,"  was  slain  in  the  battle  of  Sem- 
pach,  with  the  flower  of  his  chivalry. 


'TWAS  when  among  our  linden-trees 
The  bees  had  housed  in  swarms, 

(And  gray-hair'd  peasants  say  that  these 
Betoken  foreign  arms,) 

Thenlook'd  we  down  to  Willisow, 

The  land  was  all  in  flame; 
We  knew  the  Archduke  Leopold 

With  all  his  army  came. 

The  Austrian  nobles  made  their  vow, 
So  hot  their  heart  and  bold :  — 

"On  Svvitzer  carles  we'll  trample  now, 
And  slay  both  young  and  old." 

With  clarion  loud,  and  banner  proud. 

From  Zurich  on  the  lake. 
In  martial  pomp  and  fair  array, 

Their  onward  march  they  make. 

"Now  list,  ye  lowland  nobles  all  — 
Ye  seek  the  mountain  strand, 

Nor  wot  ye  what  shall  be  your  lot 
In  such  a  dangerous  land. 

"  I  rede  ye,  shrive  ye  of  your  sins. 

Before  ye  farther  go, 
A  skirmish  in  Helvetian  hills 

May  send  your  souls  to  woe."  — 

"But  where  now  shall  we  find  a  priest 
Our  shrift  that  he  may  hear  ?  ' ' 

"  The  Switzer  priest* has  ta'en  the  field, 
He  deals  a  penance  drear. 

"  Right  heavily  upon  your  head 
He'll  lay  his  hand  of  steel; 

*  All   the   Swiss   priests   able   to   bear  arms 
fought  in  this  strife  for  their  native  land. 


And  with  his  trusty  partisan 
Your  absolution  deal."  — 

'Twas  on  a  Monday  morning  then; 

The  corn  was  steep'd  in  dew,  . 
And  merry  maids  had  sickles  ta'en, 

When  the  host  to  Sempach  drew. 

The  stalwart  men  of  fair  Lucerne 

Together  have  they  join'd; 
The  pith  and  core  of  manhood  stern. 

Was  none  cast  looks  behind. 

It  was  the  Lord  of  Hare-castle, 
And  to  the  Duke  he  said :  — 

"  Yon  little  band  of  brethren  true 
Will  meet  us  undismay'd."  — 

"  O  Hare  castle, t  thou  heart  of  hare  !  " 
Fierce  Oxenslern  replied.  — 

"  Shalt  see  then  how  the  game  will  fare," 
The  taunted  knight  replied. 

There  was  lacing  then  of  helmets  bright. 

And  closing  ranks  amain; 
The  peaks  they  hew'd  from  their  boot- 
points, 

Might  well-nigh  load  a  wain.t 

And  thus  they  to  each  other  said :  — 

"Yon  handful  down  to  hew 
Will  be  no  boastful  tale  to  tell. 

The  peasants  are  so  few." 

t  Hasen-stein  in  the  original :  literally  Hare- 
stone. 

X  The  boots  of  this  period  had  long  points  at 
the  toes;  so  long  that  in  the  time  of  Richard  II. 
they  were  chained  up  to  the  knees.  Of  course 
they  greatly  impeded  the  wearer's  movements  o8 
foot. 


THE   BATTLE   OF  SEMPACH. 


417 


The  gallant  Swiss  Confederates  there 

They  pray'd  to  God  aloud, 
And  he  display'd  his  rainbow  fair 

Against  a  swarthy  cloud. 

Then  heart  and  pulse  throbb'd  more  and 
more 

With  courage  firm  and  high. 
And  down  the  good  Confederates  bore 

On  the  Austrian  chivalry. 

The  Austrian  Lion*  'gan  to  growl, 

And  toss  his  mane  and  tail; 
And  ball,  and  shaft,  and  crossbow  bolt, 

Went  whistling  forth  like  hail. 

Lance,  pike,  and  halbert  mingled  there. 
The  game  was  nothing  sweet; 

The  boughs  of  many  a  stately  tree 
Lay  shiver'd  at  their  feet. 

The  Austrian  men-at-arms  stood  fast. 
So  close  their  spears  they  laid; 

It  chafed  the  gallant  Winkelried, 
Who  to  his  comrades  said :  — 

"  I  have  a  virtuous  wife  at  home, 

A  wife  and  infant  son; 
I  leave  them  to  my  country's  care,  — 

This  field  shall  soon  be  won. 

"These    nobles    lay    their    spears   right 
thick. 

And  keep  full  firm  array, 
Yet  shall  my  charge  their  order  break. 

And  make  my  brethren  way." 

He  rush'd  against  the  Austrian  band. 

In  desperate  career. 
And  with  his  body,  breast,  and  hand. 

Bore  down  each  hostile  spear. 

Four  lances  splinter'd  on  his  crest. 

Six  shiver'd  in  his  side; 
Still  on  the  serried  files  he  press'd  — 

He  broke  their  ranks,  and  died. 

This  patriot's  self-devoted  deed 
Pirst  tamed  the  Lion's  mood, 

And  the  four  forest  cantons  freed 
From  thraldom  by  his  blood. 

*  A  puu  on  the  Archduke's  name,  Lco-pold. 


Right    where   his   charge    had    made   a 
lane 

His  valiant  comrades  burst, 
With  sword,  and  ax,  and  partisan, 

And  hack,  and  stab,  and  thrust. 

The  daunted  Lion  'gan  to  whine. 

And  granted  ground  amain. 
The  Mountain  Bull  t  he  l^nt  his  brows. 

And  gored  his  sides  again. 

Then  lost  was  banner,  spear,  and  shield. 

At  Sempach  in  the  flight. 
The  cloister  vaults  at  Kbnig's-field 

Hold  many  an  Austrian  knight. 

It  was  the  Archduke  Leopold, 

So  lordly  would  he  ride. 
But  he  came  against  the  Switzer  churls. 

And  they  slew  him  in  his  pride. 

The  heifer  said  linto  the  bull : 

"  And  shall  I  not  complain? 
There  came  a  foreign  nobleman 

To  milk  me  on  the  plain. 

"  One  thrust  of  thine  outrageous  horn 
Has  gall'd  the  knight  so  sore. 

That  to  the  churchyard  he  is  borne 
To  range  our  glens  no  more." 

An  Austrian  noble  left  the  stour. 
And  fast  the  flight  'gan  take; 

And  he  arrived  in  luckless  hour 
At  Sempach  on  the  lake. 

He  and  his  squire  a  fisher  call'd, 
(His  name  was  Hans  von  Rot,) 

"  For  love,  or  meed,  or  charity, 
Receive  us  in  thy  boat !  " 

Their  anxious  call  the  fisher  heard. 

And,  glad  the  meed  to  win. 
His  shallop  to  the  shore  he  steer'd, 

And  took  the  flyers  in. 

And  while  against  the  tide  and  wind 

Hans  stoutly  rowed  his  way, 
The  noble  to  his  follower  sign'd 

He  should  the  boatman  slay. 

t  A  pun  on  the  Urus,  or  wild-bull,  which  gave 
name  to  the  Canton  of  Uri. 


4i8 


BALLADS  FROM   THE    GERMAN. 


The  fisher's  back  was  to  them  turn'd, 
The  squire  his  dagger  drew, 

Hans  saw  his  shadow  in  the  lake, 
The  boat  he  overthrew. 

He  'whelm'd  the  boat,  and  as  they  strove, 
He  stunn'd  them  with  his  oar:  — 

"  Now,  drink  ye  deep,  my  gentle  sirs. 
You'll  ne'er  stab  boatman  more. 

"  Two  gilded  fishes  in  tlie  lake 
This  morning  have  I  caught, 

Their  silver  scales  may  much  avail. 
Their  carrion  flesh  is  naught." 

It  was  a  messenger  of  woe 

Has  sought  the  Austrian  land :  - — 


"  Ah  !  gracious  lady,  evil  news ! 
My  lord  lies  on  the  strand. 

"  At  Sempach,  on  the  battle-field. 
His  bloody  corpse  lies  there."  — 

"  Ah,  gracious  God  !"  the  lady  cried, 
"  What  tidings  of  despair  !  " 

Now  would  you  know  the  minstrel  wight 

Who  sings  of  strife  so  stern, 
Albert  the  Souter  is  he  hight, 

A  burgher  of  Lucerne. 

A  merry  man  was  he,  I  wot, 

The  night  he  made  the  lay. 
Returning  from  the  bloody  spot. 

Where  God  had  judged  the  day. 


THE   NOBLE   MORINGER.* 

AN   ANCIENT   BALLAD. 

[1819.] 

The  original  of  these  verses  occurs  In  a  collection  of  Gorman  popular  songs  entitle(5 
"  .Sammlung  Deutschen  Volkslieder,"  Berlin,  1807.  The  legend  turns  on  an  incident  not 
peculiar  to  (jermany,  and  which,  jjerhaps,  was  not  unlikely  to  happen  when  crusaders 
abode  long  in  the  Holy  Land,  and  their  disconsolate  dames  received  no  tidings  of  their 
fate. 

I.  III. 


O,  WILT,  you  hear  a  knightly  tale  of  old 

Bohemian  day? 
It  was  the  noble  Moringer  in  wedlock  bed 

he  lay; 
He  halsed  and  kiss'd  his  dearest  dame, 

that  was  as  sweet  as  May, 
And    said,    "  Now,    lady    of    my    heart, 

attend  the  words  I  say. 


"  'Tis  I  have  vow'd  a  pilgrimage  unto  a 

distant  shrine. 
And  I  must  seek  Saint  Thomas-land,  and 

leave  the  land  that's  mine; 
Here  shalt  thou  dwell  the  while  in  state, 

so  thou  wilt  pledge  thy  fay. 
That  thou  for  my  return  wilt  wait  seven 

twelve-months  and  a  day." 


Then   out   and  spoke  that  Lady  bright, 

sore  troubled  in  her  cheer:  — 
"Now  tell  me  true,  thou  noble  knight, 

what  order  takest  thou  here; 
And  who  shall  lead  thy  vassal  band,  and 

hold  thy  lordly  sway, 
And  be  thy  lady's  guardian  true  when 

thou  art  far  away?" 


Out  spoke  the  noble  Moringer:  —  "  Of 
that  have  thou  no  care, 

There's  many  a  valiant  gentleman  of  me 
holds  living  fair; 

The  trustiest  shall  rule  my  land,  my  vas- 
sals and  my  state, 

And  lie  a  guardian  tried  and  true  to  thee, 
my  lovely  mate. 


*  Composed  during  Sir  Walter  Scott's  severe  and  alarming  illness  of  April,  i8iq,  and  dictated  in 
the  intervals  of  exquisite  pain  to  his  daughter  Sophia  and  his  friend  William  Laidlaw.  It  was  pub- 
lished in  the  Edinburgh  Annual  Register,  1819. 


THE   NOBLE   MORTNGER. 


419 


"  As  Christian-man,  I  needs  must  keep 

the  vow  which  I  have  plight, 
When  I  am  far  in  foreign  land,  remember 

thy  true  knight; 
And  cease,  my  dearest  dame,  to  grieve,  for 

vain  were  sorrow  now, 
But  grant  thy  Moringer  his  leave,  since 

God  hath  heard  his  vow." 


It  was  the  noble  Moringer  from  bed  he 

made  him  boune. 
And  met  him  there  his  Chamberlain,  with 

ewer  and  with  gown; 
He  flung  his  mantle  on  his  back,  'twas 

furr'd  with  miniver. 
He  dipp'd   his   hand  in  water  cold  and 

bathed  his  forehead  fair. 


"  Now  hear,"  he  said,  "  Sir  Chamberlain, 

true  vassal  art  thou  mine. 
And  such  the  trust  that  I  repose  in  that 

proved  worth  of  thine. 
For  seven  years  shalt  thou  rule  my  towers, 

and  lead  my  vassal  train. 
And  pledge  thee  for  my  lady's  faith  till 

I  return  again." 


The  Chamberlain  was  blunt  and  true,  and 

sturdily  said  he  :  — 
"  Abide,  my  lord,  and  rule  your  own,  and 

take  this  rede  from  me : 
That  woman's  faith's  a   brittle  trust.  — 

Seven  twelve-months  didst  thou  say  ? 
I'll  pledge  me  for  no  lady's  truth  beyond 

the  seventh  fair  day." 


The  noble  Baron  turn'd  him  round,  his 

heart  was  full  of  care; 
His  gallant  Esquire  stood  him  nigh,  he 

was  Marstetten's  heir. 
To  whom  he  spoke  right  anxiously :  — ■ 

"  Thou  trusty  squire  to  me, 
Wilt  thou  receive  this  weighty  trust  when 

I  am  o'er  the  sea? 


"To  watch  and  ward  my  castle  strong, 

and  to  protect  my  land. 
And  to  the  hunting  or  the  host  to  lead  my 

vassal  band; 
And  pledge  thee  for  my  lady's  faith  till 

seven  long  years  are  gone. 
And  guard  her   as  Our  Lady  dear  was 

guarded  by  Saint  John." 


Marstetten's  heir  was  kind  and  true,  but 

fiery,  hot,  and  young. 
And  readily  he  answer  made  with    too 

presumptuous  tongue: — 
"My  noble  lord,  cast  care  away,  and  on 

your  journey  wend. 
And  trust  this  charge  to   me   until  your 

pilgrimage  have  end. 


"  Rely  upon  my  plighted  faith,  which 
shall  be  truly  tried. 

To  guard  your  lands,  and  ward  your 
towers,  and  with  yjour  vassals  ride; 

And  for  your  lovely  Lady's  faith,  so  vir- 
tuous and  so  dear, 

I'll  gage  my  head  it  knows  no  change, 
be  absent  thirty  year." 


The  noble  Moringer  took  cheer  when 
thus  he  heard  him  speak, 

And  doubt  forsook  his  troubled  brow, 
and  sorrow  left  his  cheek; 

A  long  adieu  he  bids  to  all  —  hoists  top- 
sails, and  away, 

And  wanders  in  Saint  Thomas-land  seven 
twelve-months  and  a  day. 

XIV. 

It  was  the  noble  Moringer  within  an  or- 
chard slept. 

When  on  the  Baron's  slumbering  sense  a 
boding  vision  crept; 

And  whisper'd  in  his  ear  a  voice:  — 
"  'Tis  time.  Sir  Knight,  to  wake. 

Thy  lady  and  thy  heritage  anqther  mas- 
ter take. 


420 


BALLADS  FROM    THE    GERMAN. 


"  Thy  tower  another  banner  knows,  thy 
steeds  another  rein, 

And  stoop  them  to  another's  will  thy 
gallant  vassal  train  ; 

And  she,  the  Lady  of  thy  love,  so  faith- 
ful once  and  fair, 

This  night  within  thv  father's  hall  she 
weds  Marstetten's  heir." 


It  is  the  noble  Moringer  starts  up  and 

tears  his  beard  :  — 
"  O  would  that  I  had   ne'er  been  born  I 

what  tidings  have  I  heard? 
To  lose  my  lordship  and  my  lands  the 

less  would  be  mv  care. 
But,  God !    that   e'er    a   squire    untrue 

should  wed  my  Lady  fair. 


"  O  good  Saint  Thomas,  hear,"  he  pray'd, 

"  my  patron  Saint  art  thou, 
A  traitor  robs  me  of  my  land  even  while 

I  pay  my  vow  I 
My  wife  he  brings  to  infamy  that  was  so 

pure  of  name. 
And  I  am  far  in  foreign  land,  and  must 

endure  the  shame." 


XVIII. 
It  was  the  good  Saint  Thomas,  then,  who 

heard  his  pilgrim's  prayer, 
And  sent  a  sleep  so  deep  and  dead  that 

it  o'erpower'd  his  care; 
He  waked    in   fair  Bohemian  land  OTjt- 

stretch'd  beside  a  rill, 
High  on  the  right  a  castle  stood,  low  on 

the  left  a  mill. 


The  Moringer  he  started  up  as  one   from 

spell  unbound, 
And  dizzy  with  surprise    and  joy  gazed 

wildly  all  around:  — 
"  I  know  my  fathers'  ancient  towers,  the 

mill,  the  stream  I  know. 
Now  blessed   be    my    patron   Saint  who 

cheer'd  his  pilgrim's  woe  !  " 


He  leant  upon  his  pilgrim  staff,  and  to 

the  mill  he  drew. 
So  alter 'd  was  his  goodly  form  that  none 

their  master  knew; 
The  Baron  to  the  miller  said:  —  " Good 

friend,  for  charity, 
Tell  a   poor  palmer  in  your  land  what 

tidings  may  there  be  ?  " 


The  miller  answer'd  him  again :  —  "  He 

knew  of  little  news, 
Save  that  the  Lady  of  the  land  did  a  new 

bridegroom  choose; 
Her  husband  died  in  distant  land,  such 

is  the  constant  word. 
His  death  sits  heavy  on  our  souls,  he  was 

a  worthy  Lord. 


"  Of  him  I  held  the  little  mill  which  wins 

me  living  free, 
God  rest  the  Baron  in  his  grave,  he  still 

was  kind  to  me  ! 
And    when    Saint    Martin's   tide   comes 

round,  and  millers  take  their  toll. 
The  priest  that  prays  for  Moringer  shall 

have  both  cope  and  stole." 


It  was  the  noble  Moringer  to  climb  the 

'         hill  began, 

And  stood  before  the  bolted  gate  a  woe 
and  weary  man :  — 

*'  Now  help  me,  every  saint  in  heaven 
that  can  compassion  take. 

To  gain  the  entrance  of  my  hall  this  woe- 
ful match  to  break." 


His  very  knock  it  sounded  sad,  his  call 

was  sad  and  slow. 
For  heart  and  head,  and  voice  and  hand, 

were  heavy  all  with  woe; 
And   to    the  warder  thus    he   spoke :  — 

"  Friend  to  thy  Lady  say, 
A  pilgrim  from  Saint  Thomas-land  craves 

harbor  for  a  day. 


THE  NOBLE  MORINGER. 


421 


"  I've  wander'd  many  a  weary  step,  my 

strength  is  well-nigh  done, 
And  if  she  turn  me  from  her  gate  I'll 

see  no  morrow's  sun; 
I  pray,  for  sweet  Saint  Thomas'  sake,  a 

pilgrim's  bed  and  dole. 
And    for    the    sake    of    Moringer's,    her 

once-loved  husband's  soul." 


It  was  the  stalwart  warder  then  he  came 

his  dame  before :  — 
"  A    pilgrim,    worn    and    travel-toil'd, 

stands  at  the  castle-door; 
And  prays,  for  sweet  Saint  Thomas'  sake, 

for  harbor  and  for  dole, 
And  for  the  sake  of  Moringer  thy  noble 

husband's  soul," 


The  Lady's  gentle  heart  was  moved :  — 

"  Do  up  the  gate,"  she  said, 
"  And  bid  the  wanderer  welcome  be  to 

banquet  and  to  bed; 
And  since  he  names  my  husband's  name, 

so  that  he  lists  to  stay. 
These  towers  shall  be  his  harborage   a 

twelvemonth  and  a  day." 

XXVIII. 

It  was  the  stalwart  warder  then  undid  the 

portal  broad; 
It  was  the  noble  Moringer  that  o'er  the 

threshold  strode:  — 
"  And  have  thou  thanks,  kind  Heaven," 

he  said,  "  though  from  a  man  of  sin, 
That  the  true  lord  stands  here  once  more 

his  castle-gate  within." 


Then  up   the  halls  paced  Moringer,  his 

step  was  sad  and  slow ; 
It    sat    full    heavy    on    his    heart,    none 

seem'd  their  Lord  to  know; 
He  sat  him  on  a  lowly  bench,  oppress'd 

with  woe  and  wrong. 
Short    space    he    sat,  but    ne'er    to  him 

seem'd  little  space  so  long. 


Now  spent  was  day,  and   feasting  o'er, 

and  come  was  evening  hour. 
The  time  was  nigh  when  new-made  brides 

retire  to  nuptial  bower; 
"  Our  castle's  wont,"  a  brides-man  said, 

"  hath  been  both  firm  and  long. 
No  guest  to  harbor  in  our  halls  till  he 

shall  chant  a  song." 

XXXI. 

Tlien    spoke    the    youthful    bridegroom 

there,  as  he  sal  by  the  bride :  — 
"My  merry   minstrel   folk,"  quoth  he, 

"  lay  shalm  and  harp  aside; 
Our  pilgrim  guest  must  sing   a   lay,  the 

castle's  rule  to  hold. 
And  well  his    guerdon  will  I   pay  with 

garment  and  with  gold."  — 


"  Chill  flows  the  lay  of  frozen  age," 
'twas  thus  the  pilgrim  sung, 

"  Nor  golden  meed  nor  garment  gay  un- 
locks his  heavy  tongue; 

Once  did  I  sit,  thou  bridegroom  gay,  at 
board  as  rich  as  thine, 

And  by  my  side  as  fair  a  bride  with  all 
her  charms  was  mine. 


' '  But  time  traced  furrows  on  my  face,  and 

I  grew  silver-hair'd. 
For  locks  of  brown,  and  cheeks  of  youth, 

she  left  this  brow  and  beard; 
Once    rich,  but  now  a   palmer  poor,   I 

tread  life's  latest  stage. 
And  mingle  with  your  bridal  mirth  the 

lay  of  frozen  age." 


It  was  the  noble  Lady  there  this  woeful 

lay  that  hears. 
And  for  the  aged  pilgrim's  grief  her  eye 

was  dimm'd  with  tears; 
She  bade  her  gallant  cupbearer  a  golden 

beaker  take. 
And  bear  it  to  the  palmer  poor  to  quaff 

it  for  her  sake. 


422 


BALLADS  FROM   TLIE    G  EH  MA  AT. 


It  was  the  noble  Moringer  that  dropp'd 

amid  the  wine 
A  bridal  ring  of  burning  gold  so  costly 

and  so  fine: 
Now  listen,  gentles,  to  my  song;   it  tells 

you  but  the  sooth, 
"Twas  with   that  very  ring    of    gold    he 

pledged  his  bridal  truth. 


Then  to  the  cupbearer  he  said:  — "  Do 

me  one  kindly  deed, 
And  should  my  better  days  return,  full 

rich  shall  be  thy  meed; 
Bear  back  the  golden  cup  again  to  yonder 

bride  so  gay. 
And  crave  her  of  her  courtesy  to  pledge 

the  palmer  gray." 


The  cupbearer  was  courtly  bred,  nor  was 

the  boon  denied; 
The  golden  cup  he  took  again,  and  bore 

it  to  the  bride :  — 
"Lady,"  he  said,  "your  reverend  guest 

sends  this,  and  bids  me  pray. 
That,  in  thy  noble  courtesy,  thou  pledge 

the  palmer  gray." 


The  ring  hath  caught  the  Lady's  eye,  she 

views  it  close  and  near; 
Then  might  you  hear  her  shriek  aloud :  — 

"The  Moringer  is  here  !  " 
Then  might  you  see  her  start  from  seat, 

while  tears  in  torrents  fell. 
But  whether  'twas  for  joy  or  woe,  the 

ladies  best  can  tell. 


But  loud  she  utter'd  thanks  to  Heaven, 

and  every  saintly  power. 
That  had  return'd  the  Moringer  before 

the  midnight  hour; 


And  loud  she  utter'd  vow  on  vow,  that 

never  was  there  bride, 
That  had  like  her  preserved  her  troth,  or 

been  so  sorely  tried. 


"  Yes,  here  I  claim  the  praise,"  she  said, 

"to  constant  matrons  due. 
Who  keep  the  troth  that  they  have  plight, 

so  steadfastly  and  true; 
For  count  the  term  howe'er  you  will,  see 

that  you  count  aright. 
Seven  twelve-months  and  a  day  are  out, 

when  bells  toll  twelve  to-night." 


It  was  Marstetten  then  rose  up,  his  fal- 
chion there  he  drew; 

He  kneel 'd  before  the  Moringer,  and 
down  his  weapon  threw :  — 

"  My  oath  and  knightly  faith  are  broke," 
these  were  the  words  he  said, 

"  Then  take,  my  liege,  thy  vassal's  sword, 
and  take  thy  vassal's  head." 

XLII. 

The  noble  Moringer  he  smiled,  and  then 

aloud  did  say :  — 
"  He  gathers  wisdom  that  hath  roam'd 

seven  twelve-months  and  a  day; 
My  daughter  now  hath  fifteen  years,  fame 

speaks  her  sweet  and  fair, 
I  give  her  for  the  bride  you  lose,  and  name 

her  for  my  heir. 


"  The  young  bridegroom   hath  youthful 

bride,  the  old  bridegroom  the  old. 
Whose  faith  was  kept  till  term  and  tide 

so  punctually  were  told; 
But   blessings   on   the  warder   kind  that 

oped  my  castle  gate. 
For  had  I  come  at  morrow  tide,  I  came 

a  day  too  late." 


THE  ERL-KING. 


423 


THE  ERL-KING. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  GOETHE. 

The  Erl-King — Erlen-Konig,  or  Alder- King — is  a  goblin  that  haunts  the  Black  Forest  in  Thuringia.- 
To  be  read  by  a  candle  particularly  long  in  the  snuff. 


O,  WHO  rides  by  night  thro'  the  woodland 

so  wild? 
It    is   tlie    fond    father    embracing    his 

child; 
And  close  the  boy  nestles  within  his  loved 

arm, 
To  hold  himself  fast,  and  to  keep  himself 

warm. 
"  O  father,  see  yonder  !  see  yonder!"  he 

says;  — • 
"  My  boy,  upon  what  dost  thou  fearfully 

gaze  ?  "  — 
"  O,  'tis  the  Erl-King  with  his  crown  and 

his  shroud." 
"  No,  my  son,  it  is  but  a  dark  wreath  of 

the  cloud." 

(the    ERL-KING    SPEAKS.) 

"  O  come  and  go  with  me,  thou  loveliest 

child; 
By  many  a  gay  sport  shall  thy  time  be 

beguiled; 
My  mother  keeps  for  thee  full  many  a 

fair  toy. 
And  many  a  fine  flower  shall  she  pluck 

for  my  boy." 

"  O  father,  my  father,  and  did  you  not 

hear 
The    Erl-King   whisper   so   low   in    my 

ear?  "  — 
"  lie  still,  my  heart's  darling  —  my  child, 

be  at  case; 
It  was  but  the  wild  blast  as  it  sung  thro' 

the  trees." 


KRL-KING. 

"  O  wilt  thou  go  with  me,  thou  loveliest 

boy? 
My  daughter  shall  tend  thee  with  care 

and  with  joy; 
She  shall  liear  thee  so  lightly  thro'  wet 

and  thro'  wild. 
And  press  thee,  and  kiss  thee,  and  sing 

to  my  child." 

"  O  father,  my  father,  and  saw  you  not 

plain. 
The  Erl-King's  pale  daughter  glide  past 

thro'  the  rain?  "  — 
"O  yes,  my  loved  treasure,  I  knew  it 

full  soon; 
It  was  the  gray  willow  that  danced  to  the 

moon." 


O  come  and  go  with  me,  no  longer  delay. 
Or  else,  silly  child,  I  will  drag  thee  away." 
"  O  father !  O  father  !    now,  now  keep 

your  hold, 
The  Erl-King  has  seized  me  —  his  grasp 

is  so  cold  !  "  — 

Sore  trembled  the  father;  he  spurr'd 
thro'  the  wild, 

Clasping  close  to  his  bosom  his  shudder- 
ing child; 

He  reaches  his  dwelling  in  doubt  and  in 
dread. 

But,  clasp'd  to  his  bosom,  the  infant  was 
dead!  " 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


JUVENILE  LINES. 

FROM   VIRGIL. 


1782. ^TAT.    11. 


"  Scott's  autobiography  tells  us  that  his  trans- 
lations in  verse  from  Horace  and  Virgil  were 
often  approved  by  Dr.  Adams  [Rector  of  the 
High  School,  Kdinburgh).  One  of  these  little 
pieces,  written  in  a  weak,  boyish  scrawl,  within 
pencilled  marks  still  visible,  had  been  carefully 
preserved  by  his  mother;  it  was  found  folded  up 
in  a  cover,  inscribed  by  the  old  lady, — "  Afy 
li'a/ler^sjirst  lines,  1782."  —  Lockiiart, /.//!•  0/ 
Scott,  vol.  i.  p.  129. 

In  awful  ruins  /Etna  thunders  nigh, 
And  sends  in  pitchy  whirlwinds  to  the  sky 
Black  clouds    of   smoke,  which  still    as 

they  aspire, 
From  their  dark  sides  there  bursts  the 

glowing  fire; 
At  other  times  huge   balls   of   fire   are 

toss'd, 
That  lick  the  stars,  and  in  the  smoke  are 

lost; 
Sometimes  the  mount,  with  vast  convul- 
sions torn, 
Emits  huge    rocks,  which    instantly  are 

borne 
With  loud  explosions  to  the  starry  skies, 
riie  stones  made  liquid  as  the  huge  mass 

flies, 
Then   back   again    with   greater   weight 

recoils. 
While  M\n:\  thundering  from  the  bottom 

boils. 


ON   A  THUNDER   STORM. 

1783.  —  yEt.  12. 

"In  Scott's  Introduction  to  the  l.ay,  he  al- 
ludes to  an  original  effusion  of  these  '  school- 
boy days,'  prompted  by  a  thiuider-slorm,  which 
he  says  '  was  much  approved  of,  luitil  a  malevo- 
lent critic  sprung  up  in  the  shape  of  an  apothe- 
cary's bluc-buskined  wife,'  etc.  These  lines, 
and  another  short  piece,  '  On  the  Setting  Sun,' 
were  lately  found  wrapped  up  in  a  cover,  in- 
scribed by  Dr.  Adams,  '  Walter  Scott,  July, 
,783.'" 

Loui)  o'er  my  head  though  awful  thunders 

roll. 
And  vivid  lightnings  flash  from  pole  to 

pole. 
Yet  'tis  thy  voice,  my  God,  that  bids  them 

fly. 

1  hy  arm  directs  those  lightnings  through 

the  sky. 
Then  let  the  good  thy  mighty  name  revere, 
And  harden'd  sinners  thy  just  vengeance 

fear. 


ON  THE   SETTING   SUN.      » 

1783- 
Those  evening  clouds,  that  setting  ray. 
And  beauteous  tints,  serve  to  display 

Their  groat  Creator's  praise; 
Then  let  the  short-lived  thing  call'd  man, 
Whose  life's  comprised  within  a  span. 

To  Him  his  homage  raise. 

We  often  praise  the  evening  clouds, 

And  tints  so  gay  and  lx>ld. 
But  seldom  think  upon  our  God, 

Who  tinged  these  clouds  with  gold. 


424 


THE    VIOLET, 


425 


THE  VIOLET. 

These  lines  were  first  published  in  the  Eng- 
lish Minstrelsy,  1810.  They  were  written  in 
1797,  on  occasion  of  the  poet's  disappointment 
in  love.  — See  Li/e  0/ Scott,  vol.  i.  p.  333. 

The  violet  in  her  green-wood  bower, 
Where    birchen    boughs    with    hazels 
mingle, 

May  boast  itself  the  fairest  flower 
In  glen,  or  copse,  or  forest  dingle. 

Though  fair  her  gems  of  azure  hue, 
Beneath  the  dew-drop's  weight  reclin- 

I've  seen  an  eye  of  lovelier  hue. 

More  sweet  through  wat'ry  lustre  shin- 
ing. 

The  summer  sun  that  dew  shall  dry. 
Ere  yet  the  day  be  past  its  morrow; 

Nor  longer  in  my  false  love's  eye 
Reinain'd  the  tear  of  parting  sorrow. 


TO  A  LADY. 

WITH    FLOWERS   FROM   A   ROMAN    WALL. 

Written  in  1797,  on  an  excursion  from  Gills- 
.'and,  in  Cumberland.     See  Li/e,  vol.  i.  p.  365. 

Take  these  flowers  which,  purple  waving. 
On  the  ruin'd  rampart  grew, 

Where,  the  sons  of  freedom  braving, 
Rome's  imperial  standards  flew. 

Warriors  from  th6  breach  of  danger 
Pluck  no  longer  laurels  there; 

They  but  yield  the  passing  stranger 
Wild-flower  wreaths  for  Beauty's  hair. 


WAR-SONG. 

OF   THE   ROYAL    EDINBURGH    LIGHT 
DRAGOONS.* 

1797. 

To  horse  !  to  horse  !  the  standard  flies. 

The  bugles  sound  the  call; 
The  Gallic  navy  stems  the  seas, 
The  voice  of  battle's  on  the  breeze. 

Arouse  ye,  one  and  all ! 

*  Written  during  the  apprehension  of  an  inva- 
sion, this  song  appeared  originally  in  the  Scott's 
Afii^azine'm  1802.  .Sir  Walter  was  then  Quarter- 
master of  the  Edinburgh  Light  Cavalry. 


From  high  Dunedin's  towers  we  come, 

A  band  of  brothers  true; 
Our  casques  the  leopard's  spoils  surround. 
With  Scotland's  hardy  thistle  crown'd; 

We  boast  the  red  and  blue.t 

Though  tamely  couch'd  to  Gallia's  frown 

Dull  Holland's  tardy  train; 
Their  ravish'd  toys  tho'  Romans  mourn; 
Tho'  gallant  Switzers  vainly  spurn. 

And,  foaming,  gnaw  the  chain; 

Oh!  had  they  mark'ii  the  avenging  call 

Their  brethren's  murder  gave,  + 
Disunion  ne'er  their  ranks  had  mown. 
Nor  patriot  valor,  desperate  grown. 
Sought  freedom  in  the  grave  ! 

Shiill  we,  too,  bend  the  stubborn  head, 

In  Freedom's  temple  born. 
Dress  our  pale  cheek  in  timid  smile 
To  hail  a  master  in  our  isle. 

Or  brook  a  victor's  scorn? 

No  !  though  destruction  o'er  the  land 

Come  pouring  as  a  flood. 
The  sun,  that  sees  our  falling  day, 
Shall  mark  our  sabres'  deadly  sway, 

And  set  that  night  in  blood. 

For  gold  let  Gallia's  legions  fight, 

Or  plunder's  bloody  gain; 
Unbribed,    unbought,    our    swords    we 

draw. 
To  guard  our  king,  to  fence  our  law. 

Nor  shall  their  edge  be  vain. 

If  ever  breath  of  British  gale 

Shall  fan  the  tri-color. 
Or  footstep  of  invader  rude. 
With  rapine  foul,  and  red  with  blood, 

Pollute  our  happy  shore,  — 

Then  farewell  home !  and  farewell  friends ! 

Adieu  each  tender  tie  ! 
Resolved,  we  mingle  in  the  tide, 
Where  charging  squadrons  furious  ride, 

To  conquer  or  to  die. 

t  The  roj'al  colors. 

t  The  allusion  is  to  the  massacre  of  the  Swiss 
Guards  on  the  fatal  loth  of  August,  1792. 


426 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


To  horse  !  to  horse  !  the  sabres  gleam; 

High  sounds  our  bugle-call; 
Combined  by  honor's  sacred  tie, 
Our  word  is  Laivs  ami  Liberty  ! 

March  forward,  one  and  all ! 


THE   BARD'S   INCANTATION. 

WRITTEN    UNDER    THE    THREAT   OF    INVA- 
SION   IN    THE   AUTUMN    OF   1S04. 

The  forest  of  Glenniure  is  drear, 

It  is  all  of  black  pine  and  the  dark  oak- 
tree; 
And  the  midnight  wind,  to  the  mountain 
deer, 
Is  whistling  the  forest  lullaby; 
The  moon  looks  thro'  the  drifting  storm. 
But  the  troubled  lake  reflects  not  her  form, 
For  the  waves  roll  whitening  to  the  land, 
And  dash  against  the  shelvy  strand. 
There  is  a  voice  among  the  trees, 

That  mingles  with  the  groaning  oak  — 
That  mingles  with  the  stormy  breeze. 
And  the  lake-waves  dashing  against  the 
rock; — 
There  is  a  voice  within  the  wood, 
The  voice  of  the  bard  in  fitful  mood. 
His  song  was  louder  than  the  blast. 
As  the  bard  of  Glenmorc  thro'  the  forest 
past: — 

"  Wake  ye  from  your  sleep  of  death, 
Minstrels  and  bards  of  other  days ! 
For  the  midnight  wind  is  on  the  heath. 

And  the  midnight  meteors  dimly  blaze : 
The  Spectre  with  his  Bloody  Hand,* 
Is  wandering  through  the  wild  woodland : 
The  owLand  the  raven  are  mute  for  dread. 
And  the  time  is  meet  to  awake  the  dead ! 

"  Souls  of  the  mighty,  wake  and  say, 
To  what  high  strain  your  harps  were 
strung, 
When  Lochlin  plow'd  her  billowy  way, 

And  on  your  shores  her  Norsemen  flung  ? 
Her  Norsemen  train'd  to  spoil  and  blood, 
Skill'd  to  prepare  the  raven's  food, 
All,  by  your  harpings,  doom'd  to  die 
On  bloody  Largs  and  Loncarty.t 

*  The  forest  of  Glenmore  is  haunted  by  a 
sp'rit  called  Lhamdearg,  or  Red-hand. 

t  Where  the  Nor^vegian  invader  of  Scotland 
received  two  bloody  defeats. 


"  Mute  are  ye  all?     No  murmurs  strange 

Upon  the  midnight  breeze  sail  liy; 
Nor    through    the   pines,  with  whistling 
change 
Mimic  the  harp's  wild  harmony? 
Mute  are  ye  now  ?  —  Ve  ne'er  were  mute, 
When  Murder  with  his  bloody  foot, 
And  Rapine  with  his  iron  hand. 
Were  hovering  near  yon  mountain  strand. 

"  O  yet  awake  the  strain  to  tell. 

By  every  deed  in  song  enroll 'd. 
By  every  chief  who  fought  or  fell. 

For  Alljion's  weal  in  battle  bold:  — 
From  Coilgach,  X  fir^t  who  roU'd  his  car 
Thro'  the  deep  ranks  of  Roman  war. 
To  him,  of  veteran  memory  dear. 
Who  victor  died  on  Alxiukir. 

•'  By  all  their  swords,  by  all  their  scars, 
By  all  their  names,  a  mighty  spell, 
By  all  their  wounds,  by  all  their  wars. 

Arise,  the  mighty  strain  to  tell ! 
For  fiercer  than  fierce  Hengist's  strain, 
More  impious   han  the  heathen  Dane, 
More  grasping    han  all-grasping  Rome, 
Gaul's  raveninj-  legions  hither  come  !  "  — 

The  wind  is  husti'd,  and  still  the  lake:  — ■ 
Strange  murmurs  fill  my  tingling  ears, 
Bristles  my  hair,  my  sinews  quake. 

At  the  dread  voice  of  other  years :  — 
"When  targets  clash'd,  anil  bugles  rung, 
And  blades  round  warriors'  heads  were 

flung. 
The  foremost  of  the  band  were  we. 
And  hymn'd  the  joys  of  Liberty  !  " 


HELVELLYN. 
1805. 

In  the  spring  of  1805,  a  young  gentleman  of 
talents,  and  of  a  most  amiable  disposition,  perished 
by  losing  his  way  on  the  mountain  Helvcllyn. 
His  remains  were  not  discovered  till  three  months 
afterwards,  when  thev  were  found  guarded  by  a 
faithful  terrier-bitch,  his  constant  attendant  dur- 
ing frequent  solitary  rambles  through  the  wilds 
of  Cumberland  and  Westmoreland. 

I  climb'd  the  dark  brow  of  the  mighty 
Helvellyn, 
Lakes    and    mountains    beneath     me 
gleam 'd  misty  and  wide; 

%  The  GaJgacus  of  Tacitus. 


THE  DYING  BARD. 


427 


All  was  still,  save  by  fits,  when  the  eagle 
was  yelling. 
And  starting  around  me  the  echoes  re- 
plied. 

On  the  right,  Striden-edge  round  the  Red- 
tarn  was  bending, 

And  Catchedicam  its  left  verge  was  de- 
fending. 

One  huge  nameless  rock  in  the  front  was 
ascending. 
When  I  mark'd  the  sad  spot  where  the 
wanderer  had  died. 

Dark  green  was  that  spot  mid  the  brown 

mountain-heather. 
Where    the    Pilgrim    of    Nature    lay 

stretch'd  in  decay. 
Like  the  corpse  of  an  outcast  abandon'd 

to  weather. 
Till    the   mountain  winds  wasted   the 

tenantless  clay. 
Noryetquitedesertedjtho' lonely  extended. 
For,  faithful  in  death,  his  mute  favorite 

attended. 
The  much-loved  remains  of    her  master 

defended, 
And  chased  the  hill-fox  and  the  raven 

away. 

How  long  didst  thou  think  that  his  silence 

was  slumber? 
When   the  wind  waved   his   garment, 

how  oft  didst  thou  start? 
How  many  long   days  and    long  weeks 

didst  thou  number. 
Ere  he  faded  before  thee,  the  friend  of 

thy  heart? 
And,  oh  !  was  it  meet,  that  —  no  requiem 

read  o'er  him  — 
No  mother  to  weep,  and  no  friend  to  de- 
plore him, 
And  thou,  little  guardian,  alone  stretch'd 

before  him  — 
Unhonor'd  the  Pilgrim  from  life  should 

depart  ? 

When  a  Prince  to  the  fate  of  the  Peasant 
has  yielded. 
The  tapestry  waves  dark  round  the  dim- 
lighted  hall; 
With  scutcheons  of   silver  the  coffin  is 
shielded, 
And  pages  stand  mute  by  the  canopied 
pall; 


Thro'  the  courts,  at  deep  midnight,  the 

torches  are  gleaming; 
In  the  proudly-arch'd  chapel  the  banners 

are  beaming. 
Far  adown  the  long  aisle  sacred  music  is 

streaming,  [fall. 

Lamenting  a  Chief  of  the  people  should 

But   meeter    for   thee,   gentle   lover    of 

nature, 
To  lay  down  thy  head  like  the  meek 

mountain  Iamb, 
When,  wilder'd,  he  drops  from  some  cliff 

huge  in  stature, 
And  draws  his  last  sob  by  the  side  of 

his  dam. 
And  more  stately  thy  couch  by  this  desert 

lake  lying. 
Thy  obsequies  sung  by  the  gray  plover 

flying. 
With  one  faithful  friend  but  to  witness 

thy  dying. 
In  the  arms  of  Helvellyn  and  Catche- 
dicam. 


THE  DYING   BARD. 
1806. 

Air — Daffydz  GangToen. 

The  Welsh  tradition  tiears,  that  a  Bard,  on 
his  death-ljed,  demanded  his  harp,  and  played 
the  air  to  which  these  verses  are  adapted ;  re- 
questing that  it  might  be  performed  at  his 
funeral. 

I. 

Din  AS  Em  LINN,  lament;  for  the  moment 
is  nigh, 

When  mute  in  the  woodlands  thine  echoes 
shall  die : 

No  more  by  sweet  Teivi  Cadwallon  shall 
rave. 

And  mix  his  wild  notes  with  the  wild  dash- 
ing wave. 

II. 
In  spring  and  in  autumn  thy  glories  of 

shade 
Unhonor'd  shall  flourish,  unhonor'd  shall 

fade; 
For  soon  shall  be  lifeless  the  eye  and  the 

tongue, 
That    view'd    them    with    rapture,    with 

rapture  that  sung. 


428 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Thy  sons,  Dinas  Emiinn,  may  march  in 
their  pride. 

And  chase  the  proud  Saxon  from  Presta- 
tyn's side; 

But  where  is  the  harp  shall  give  life  to 
their  name? 

And  where  is  the  bard  shall  give  heroes 
their  fame? 


And  oh,  Dinas  Emiinn,  thy  daughters  so 

fair, 
Who  heave  the  white  bosom,  and  wave 

the  dark  hair; 
What    tuneful    enthusiast    shall  worship 

their  eye. 
When  half  of  their  charms  with  Cadwallon 

shall  die? 


Then  adieu,  silver  Teivi !  I  quit  thy  loved 

scene. 
To  join  the  dim  choir  of  the  bards  who 

have  been; 
With  Lewarch,  and  Meilor,  and  Merlin 

the  Old, 
And  sage  Taliessin,  high  harping  to  hold. 


And  adieu,  Dinas  Emiinn !  still  green  be 
thy  shades, 

Unconquer'd  thy  warriors,  and  matchless 
thy  maids ! 

And  thou,  whose  faint  warblings  my  weak- 
ness can  tell. 

Farewell,  my  loved  Harp,  my  last  treas- 
ure, farewell ! 


THE   NORMAN   HORSE-SHOE. 
1806. 

A:r  —  The    War-Song   of  the    Men    of  Gla- 
morga?i. 

The  Welsh,  inhabiting  a  mountainous  country, 
and  possessing  only  an  inferior  breed  of  horses, 
were  usually  unable  to  encounter  the  shock  of 
the  Anglo-Norman  cavalry.  Occasionally,  how- 
ever, they  were  successful  in  repelling  the  in- 
vaders ;  and  the  following  verses  are  supposed 
to  celebrate  a  defeat  of  Ci.ark,  Earl  of  Striguil 
and    Pembroke,    and    of     Neville,    Baron    of 


Chepstow,  Lords-Marchers  of  Monmouthshire. 
Rymny  is  a  stream  which  divides  the  counties 
of  Monmouth  and  Glamorgan :  Caerphili,  the 
scene  of  the  supposed  battle,  is  a  vale  upon  its 
banks,  dignified  by  the  ruins  of  a  very  ancient 
castle. 


Red  glows  the  forge  in  Slriguil's  bounds. 
And  hammers  din,  and  anvil  sounds. 
And  armorers,  with  iron  toil. 
Barb  many  a  steed  for  battle's  broil. 
Foul    fall    the    hand    which    bends    the 

steel 
Around  the  courser's  thundering  heel, 
That  e'er  shall  dint  a  sable  wound 
On  fair  Glamorgan's  velvet  ground ! 


From  Chepstow's   towers,  ere   dawn  of 

morn, 
Was  heard  afar  the  bugle  horn; 
And  forth  in  banded  pomp  and  pride, 
.Stout  Clare  and  fiery  Neville  ride. 
They  swore  their  banners  broad   should 

gleam. 
In  crimson  light,  on  Rymny's  stream; 
They  vow'd,  Caerphili's  sod  should  feel 
The  Norman  charger's  spurning  heel. 


And  sooth  they  swore  — the  sun  arose. 
And  Rymny's  wave  witii  crimson  glows; 
For  Clare's  red  banner,  floating  wide, 
Roll'd    down    the    stream    to    Severn's 

tide! 
And  sooth    they  vow'd  —  the   trampled 

green 
Show'd  where  hot  Neville's  charge  had 

been: 
In  every  sable  hoof-tramp  stood 
A  Norman  horseman's  curdling  blood  ! 


Old  Chepstow's  brides  may  curse  the  toil, 
That    arm'd   stout   Clare   for   Cambrian 

broil ; 
Their  orphans  long  the  art  may  rue. 
For  Neville's  war-horse  forged  the  shoe. 
No  more  the  stamp  of  armed  steed 
Shall  dint  Glamorgan's  velvet  mead; 
Nor  trace  be  there,  in  early  spring. 
Save  of  the  Fairies'  emerald  ring. 


THE  MAID   OF  TORO, 


429 


THE   MAID   OF  TORO. 
1806. 

O,  LOW  shone  the  sun  on  the  fair  lake  of 
Toro, 
And  weak  were  the  whispers  that  waved 
the  dark  wood, 
All  as  a  fair  maiden,  bewilder'd  in  sor- 
row, 
Sorely  sigh'd  to  the  breezes,  and  wept 
to  the  Hood :  — 
"  O  saints !   from  the  mansions  of  bliss 
lowly  bending; 
Sweet  Virgin  !  who  hearest  the  suppli- 
ant's cry. 
Now  grant  my  petition,  in  anguish  ascend- 
ing : 
My  Henry  restore,  or  let  Eleanor  die !  " 

All  distant  and  faint  were  the  sounds  of 
the  battle, 
With  the  breezes  they  rise,  with  the 
breezes  they  fail. 
Till  the  shout,  and  the  groan,  and  the 
conflict's  dread  rattle. 
And    the   chase's   wild   clamor,  came 
loading  the  gale. 
Breathless  she  gazed  on  the  woodlands  so 
dreary; 
Slowly    approaching    a    warrior    was 
seen; 
Life's  ebbing  tide  mark'd  his  footsteps  so 
weary, 
Cleft  was  his  helmet,  and  woe  was  his 
mien. 


*'0  save  thee,  fair  maid,  for  our  armies 
are  flying ! 
O  save  thee,  fair  maid,  for  thy  guardian 
is  low ! 
Deadly  cold  on  yon  heath  thy  brave  Henry 
is  lying, 
And   fast   through    the  woodland    ap- 
proaches the  foe." 
Scarce  could  he  falter  the  tidings  of  sor- 
row, 
And  scarce  could  she  hear  them,  be- 
numb'd  with  despair: 
And  when  the  sun  sank  on  the  sweet  lake 
of  Toro, 
Forever  heset  to  the  Brave  and  the  Fair. 


THE  PALMER. 


1806. 


"  O  OPEN  the  door,  some  pity  to  show, 
Keen  blows  the  northern  wind ! 

The  glen  is  white  with  the  drifted  snow, 
And  the  path  is  hard  to  find. 

"  No  outlaw  seeks  your  castle  gate. 
From  chasing  the  King's  deer. 

Though  even  an  outlaw's  wretched  state 
Might  claim  compassion  here. 

**  A  weary  Palmer,  worn  and  weak, 

I  wander  for  my  sin; 
O  open,  for  Our  Lady's  sake  ! 

A  pilgrim's  blessing  win  ! 

"I'll  give  you  pardons  from  the  Pope, 
And  reliques  from  o'er  the  sea; 

Or  if  for  these  you  will  not  ope, 
Yet  open  for  charity. 

"The  hare  is  crouching  in  her  form. 

The  hart  beside  the  hind; 
An  aged  man,  amid  the  storm. 

No  shelter  can  I  find. 

"  You  hear  the  Ettrick's  sullen  roar. 
Dark,  deep,  and  strong  is  he. 

And  I  must  ford  the  Ettrick  o'er 
Unless  you  pity  me. 

"  The  iron  gate  is  bolted  hard. 

At  which  I  knock  in  vain; 
The  owner's  heart  is  closer  barr'd. 

Who  hears  me  thus  complain. 

"Farewell,  farewell!  and  Mary  grant. 

When  old  and  frail  you  Ik, 
You  never  may  the  shelter  want. 

That's  now  denied  to  me." 

The  Ranger  on  his  couch  lay  warm. 
And  heard  him  plead  in  vain; 

But  oft  amid  December's  storm. 
He'll  hear  that  voice  again: 

For  lo,  when  through  the  vapors  dark. 

Morn  shone  on  Ettrick  fair, 
A  corpce  amid  the  elders  rank, 

The  Palmer  welter'd  there. 


4%<i 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


THE   MAID  OF  NEIDPATH. 

1806. 

There  is  a  tradition  in  Tweeddale,  that,  when 
Neidpath  Castle,  near  Peebles,  was  inhabited 
by  the  Earls  of  March,  a  mutual  passion  sub- 
sisted between  a  daughter  of  that  noble  family, 
and  a  son  of  the  Laird  of  Tushielaw,  in  Kttrick 
Forest.  As  the  alliance  was  thought  unsuit- 
able by  her  parents,  the  young  man  went 
abroad.  During  his  absence,  the  lady  fell  into 
a  consumption  ;  and  at  length,  as  the  only 
means  of  saving  her  life,  her  father  consented 
that  her  lover  should  be  recalled.  On  the  day 
when  he  was  expected  to  pass  through  Peebles, 
on  the  road  to  Tushielaw,  the  young  lady, 
though  much  exhausted,  caused  herself  to  be 
carried  to  the  balcony  of  a  house  in  Peebles, 
belonging  to  the  family,  that  she  might  see  him 
as  he  rode  past.  Her  anxiety  and  eagerness 
gave  such  force  to  her  organs,  that  she  is  said  to 
have  distinguished  his  horse's  footsteps  at  an 
incredible  distance.  But  Tushielaw,  unprepared 
for  the  change  in  her  appearance,  and  not  ex- 
pecting to  see  her  in  that  place,  rode  on  without 
recognizing  her,  or  even  slackening  his  pace. 
The  lady  was  unable  to  support  the  shock  ;  and, 
after  a  short  struggle,  died  in  the  arms  of  her 
attendants.  There  is  an  incident  similar  to  this 
traditional  tale  in  Count  Hamilton's  "  Fleur 
d'fipine." 

O  lovers'  eyes  are  sharp  to  see, 

And  lovers'  ears  in  hearing; 
And  love,  in  life's  extremity, 

Can  lend  an  hour  of  cheering. 
Disease  had  been  in  Mary's  bower. 

And  slow  decay  from  mourning. 
Though  now  she  sits  on  Neidpath 's  tower. 

To  watch  her  love's  returning. 

All  sunk  and  dim  her  eyes  so  liright. 

Her  form  decay'd  by  pining. 
Till  througii  her  wasted  hand,  at  night. 

You  saw  the  taper  shining; 
By  fits,  a  sultry  hectic  hue. 

Across  her  cheek  was  flying; 
By  fits,  so  ashy  pale  she  grew. 

Her  maidens  thought  her  dying. 

Yet  keenest  powers  to  see  and  hear, 

Seem'd  in  her  frame  residing; 
Before  the  watch-dog  prick'd  his  car. 

She  heard  her  lover's  riding; 
Ere  scarce  a  distant  form  was  kcnn'd. 

She  knew,  and  waved  to  greet  him; 
And  o'er  the  battlement  did  bend. 

As  on  the  wing  to  meet  him. 

He  came  — he  pass'd  — a  heedless  gaze, 
As  o'er  some  stranger  glancing; 


Her  welcome,  spoke  in  faltering  phrase, 
Lost  in  his  courser's  prancing  — 

The  castle  arch,  whose  hollow  tone 
Returns  each  whisper  spoken, 

Could  scarcely  catch  the  feeble  moan, 
Which  told  her  heart  was  broken. 


WANDERING    WILLIE. 

1806. 
All  joy  was  bereft  me  the  day  that  you 
left  me. 
And  climb'd  the  tall  vessel  to  sail  yon 
wide  sea; 
O  weary  betide  it !   I  wander  Ijeside  it, 
And  bann'd  it   for  parting   my  Willie 
and  me. 

Far  o'er  the  wave  hast  thou  follow'd  thy 
fortune, 
Oft  fought  the  squadrons  of  France  and 
of  Spain; 
Ae    kiss   of  welcome's  worth    twenty  at 
parting. 
Now  I  hae  gotten  my  Willie  again. 

When  the  sky  it  was  mirk,  and  the  winds 
they  were  wailing, 
I  sat  on  the  beach  wi"  the  tear  in  my  ee. 
And    thought    o'    the    bark    where    my 
Willie  was  sailing. 
And  wish'd  that  the  tempest  cculd  a' 
blaw  on  me. 

Now  that   thy  gallant   ship  rides  at  her 
mooring. 
Now  that  my  wanderer's  in  safety  at 
hame. 
Music  to  me  were  thewildest  wind's  roaring 
That  e'er  o'er  Inch-Keith  drove  the 
dark  ocean  faem. 

When  the  lights  they  did  blaze,  and  the 
guns  they  did  rattle. 
And  blithe  was  each  heart  for  the  great 
victory. 
In  secret  I  wept  for  the  dangers  of  battle. 
And  thy  glory  itself  was  scarce  comfort 
to  me. 

But  now  shall  thou  tell,  while  I  eagerly 
listen. 
Of    each    bold    adventure,    and    every 
brave  scar; 


HUNTING   SONG. 


43' 


And  trust  me,  I'll  smile,  though  my  een 
they  may  glisten; 
For  sweet  after  danger's  the  tale  of  the 
war. 

And  oh,  how  we  doubt  when  there's  dis- 
tance 'tween  lovers. 
When  there's  naething  to  speak  to  the 
heart  thro'  the  ee; 
How  often  the  kindest  and  warmest  prove 
rovers. 
And  the  love  of  the  faithfullest  ebbs 
like  the  sea. 

Till,  at  times  —  could  I  help  it  ?  —  I  pined 
and  I  ponder'd 
If  love  could  change  notes  like  the  bird 
on  the  tree  — 
Now  I'll  ne'er  ask  if  thine  eyes  may  hae 
wander'd. 
Enough,  thy  leal  heart  has  been  con- 
stant to  me. 

Welcome    from   sweeping  o'er    sea    and 

through  channel, 

H  ardships  and  danger  despising  for  fame, 

Furnishing  story  for  glory's  bright  annal. 

Welcome,  my  wanderer,  to  Jeanie  and 

hame; 

Enough,  now  thy  story  in  annals  of  glory 
Has  humbled  the  pride  of  France,  Hol- 
land, and  Spain; 
No  more  shalt  thou  grieve  me,  no  more 
shalt  thou  leave  me, 
I  never  will  part  with  my  Willie  again. 


HUNTING  SONG.* 
1808. 
Wakkn,  lords  and  ladies  gay, 
On  the  mountain  dawns  the  day; 
All  the  jolly  chase  is  here. 
With  hawk, and  horse,  a^id  hunting-spear  ! 
Hounds  are  in  their  couples  yelling, 
Hawks  are  whistling,  horns  are  knelling, 
Merrily,  merrily,  mingle  they :  — 
"  Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay." 

Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay, 

The  mist  has  left  the  mountain  gray, 

*  Published  in  the  continuation  of  Strutt's  cu- 
rious romance  called  "  Queeuhoo  Hall,  "  1808. 


Springlets  in  the  dawn  are  steaming, 
Diamonds  on  the  brake  are  gleaming; 
And  foresters  have  busy  been, 
To  track  the  buck  in  thickets  green; 
Now  we  come  to  chant  our  lay :  — 
"  Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay." 

Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay. 
To  the  green-wood  haste  away; 
We  can  show  you  where  he  lies. 
Fleet  of  foot,  and  tall  of  size; 
We  can  show  the  marks  he  made 
When,  'gainst  the  oak  his  antlers  fray'd; 
You  shall  see  him  brought  to  bay: — 
"  Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay." 

Louder,  louder  chant  the  lay, 

Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay  ! 

Tell  them  youth,  and  mirth,  and  glee. 

Run  a  course  as  well  as  we; 

Time,  stern  huntsman !  who  can  baulk, 

Staunch  as  hound,  and  fleet  as  hawk : 

Think  of  this,  and  rise  with  day. 

Gentle  lords  and  ladies  gay. 


HEALTH  TO   LORD   MELVILLE,  t 
1806. 
Air  —  Carrick/ergus. 
Since  here  we  are  set  in  array  round  the 
table, 
Five  hundred  good  fellows  well  met  in 
a  hall, 
Come  listen,  brave  boys,  and  I'll  sing  as 
I'm  able, 
How  innocence  triumph'd,  and  pride 
got  a  fall. 

But  push  round  the  claret  — 
Come,  stewards,  don't  spare  it  — 
With  rapture  you'll  drink  to  the    toast 
that  I  give : 
Here,  boys, 
Off  with  it  merrily  — 
Melville  forever,  and  long  may  he  live ! 

What  were  the  Whigs  doing,  when  boldly 
pursuing, 
Pitt  banish'd  Rebellion,  gave  Treason 
a  string? 

t  A  I'.roadside  printed  at  the  time  of  Lord 
Melville's  acquittal. 


432 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Why,  they  swore    on    their   honor,   for 
Arthur  O'Connor, 
And  fought  hard  for  Despard  against 
country  and  king. 

Well,  then,  we  knew,  boys, 
Pitt  and  Melville  were   true 
boys. 
And  the  tempest  was  raised  by  the  friends 
of  Reform. 
Ah,  woe ! 

Weep  to  his  memory; 
Low  lies    the  Pilot   that  weather'd  the 
storm  ! 

And   pray,    don't  you   mind    when    the 
Blues  first  were  raising, 
And  we  scarcely  could  think  the  house 
safe  o'er  our  heads? 
When   villains   and    coxcombs,    French 
politics  praising, 
Drove  peace  from  our  tables  and  sleep 
from  our  beds? 

Our  hearts  they  grew  bolder 
When,  musket  on  shoulder, 
Stepp'd  forth  our  old  Statesman  example 
to  give. 

Come,  boys,  never  fear. 
Drink  the  Blue  Grenadier  — 
Here's  to  old  Harry,  and  long  may  he 
live ! 

They  would  turn  us  adrift;   though  rely, 
sir,  upon  it  — 
Our  own  faithful  chronicles  warrant  us 
that 
The  free  mountaineer  and  his  bonny  blue 
bonnet 
Have  oft  gone  asfarasthe  regular's  hat. 
We  laugh  at  their  taunting. 
For  all  we  are  wanting 
Is  license  our  life  for  our  country  to  give. 
Off  with  it  merrily. 
Horse,  foot,  and  artillery. 
Each  loyal  Volunteer,  long  may  he  live  ! 

'  Tis  not  us  alone,  boys — the  Army  and  Navy 
Have  each  got  a  slap  mid  their  politic 
pranks; 
Cornwallis  cashier'd,  that  watch'd  win- 
ters to  save  ye. 
And  the  Cape  call'd  a  bauble,  unworthy 
of  thanks. 

But  vain  is  their  taunt; 
No  soldier  shall  want 


Thethanksthathiscountrytovalorcangive. 

Come,  boys. 

Drink  it  off  merrily,  — 
Sir  David  and  Popham,  and  long  may 
they  live ! 

And  then  our  revenue  —  Lord  knows  how 
they  view'd  it, 
While    each    petty    statesman    talked 
lofty  and  big; 
But  the  beer-tax  was  weak,  as  if  Whit- 
bread  had  brew'd  it. 
And  the  pig-iron  duty  a  shame  to  a  pig. 
In  vain  is  their  vaunting; 
Too  surely  there's  wanting 
What  judgment,  experience,  and  steadi- 
ness  give : 
Come,  boys, 
Drink  it  off  merrily,  — 
Health  to  sage  Melville,  and  long  may 
he  live ! 

Our  King,  too  —  our  princess  —  I  dare 
not  say  more,  sir, — 
May  Providence  watch  them  with  mercy 
and  might ! 
While  there's  one  Scottish  hand  that  can 
wag  a  claymore,  sir. 
They  shall  ne'er  want  a  friend  to  stand 
up  for  their  right. 

Be  damn'd  he  that  dare  not, — 
For  my  part,  I'll  spare  not 
To  beauty  afflicted  a  tribute  to  give : 
Fill  it  up  steadily. 
Drink  it  off  readily  — 
Here's  to  the  Princess,   and   long  may 
she  live ! 

And  since  we  must  not  set  Auld  Reekie 
in  glory. 
And  make  her  brown  visage  as  light  as 
her  heart;* 
Till  each  man  illumine  hisownuppcrstory, 
Nor  law-book  nor  lawyer  shall  force 
us  to  part. 

In  Grenville  and  Spencer, 
And  some  few  good  men,  sir. 
High  talents  we  honor,  slight  difference 
forgive; 

But  the  Brewer  we'll  hoax, 
Tallyho  to  the  Fox, 
And  drink  Melville  forever,  as  long  as 
we  live ! 

*  The  Edinburgh  magistrates  refused  to  per. 
mit  illuminations. 


EPITAPH. 


433 


EPITAPH. 

1808. 

Designed  for  a  monument  in  Lichfield 
Cathedral,  at  the  Imrial-place  of  the 
family  of  Miss  Sexvard. 

Amid  these  aisles,  where  once  his  pre- 
cepts show'd 

The  Heavenward  pathway  which  in  life 
he  trod, 

This  simple  tablet  marks  a  Father's  bier. 

And  those  he  loved  in  life,  in  death  are 
near ; 

For  him,  for  them,  a  Daughter  bade  it  rise, 

Memorial  of  domestic  charities. 

Still  wouldst  thou  know  why,  o'er  the 
marljle  spread. 

In  femalegrace  the  willow  droopsher  head; 

Why  on  her  branches,  silent  and  unstrung. 

The  minstrel  harp  is  emV)lematic  hung; 

What  poet's  voice  is  smothered  here  in 
dust. 

Till  waked  to  join  the  chorus  of  the 
just, — 

Lo !  one  brief  line  an  answer  sad  sup- 
plies, 

Honor'd,  beloved,  and  mourn'd,  here 
Seward  lies. 

Her  worth,  her  warmth  of  heart,  let 
friendship  say,  — 

Go  seek  her  genius  in  her  living  lay. 


THE  RESOLVE. 

IN  IMITATION   OF  AN  OLD   ENGLISH   POEM. 

Published  in  the  "  Edinburgh  Annual 
Register." 

1808. 

Mv  wayward  fate  I  needs  must  plain, 

Though  lx)otless  be  the  theme. 
I  loved,  and  was  beloved  again, 

Yet  all  was  but  a  dream; 
For,  as  her  love  was  quickly  got, 

So  it  was  quickly  gone; 
No  more  I'll  bask  in  flame  so  hot, 

But  coldly  dwell  alone. 

Not  maid  more  bright  than  maid  was  e'er 

My  fancy  shall  beguile, 
By  flattering  word  or  feigned  tear. 

By  gesture,  look,  or  smile: 


No  more  I'll  call  the  shaft  fair  shot. 

Till  it  has  fairly  flown, 
Nor  scorch  me  at  a  flame  so  hot;  — 

I'll  rather  freeze  alone. 

Each  ambush'd  Cupid  I'll  defy, 

In  cheek,  or  chin,  or  brow, 
And  deem  the  glance  of  woman's  eye 

As  weak  as  woman's  vow : 
I'll  lightly  hold  the  lady's  heart. 

That  is  but  lightly  won ; 
I'll  steel  my  breast  to  beauty's  art, 

And  learn  to  live  alone. 

The  flaunting  torch  soon  blazes  out, 

The  diamond's  ray  abides; 
The  flame  its  glory  hurls  about, 

The  gem  its  lustre  hides: 
Such  gem  I  fondly  deem'd  was  mine, 

And  glow'd  a  diamond  stone. 
But,  since  each  eye  may  see  it  shine, 

I'll  darkling  dwell  alone. 

No  waking  dream  shall  tinge  my  thought 

With  eyes  so  bright  and  vain ; 
No  silken  net,  so  lightly  wrought, 

Shall  tangle  me  again : 
No  more  I'll  pay  so  dear  for  wit, 

I'll  live  upon  mine  own; 
Nor  shall  wild  passion  trouble  it,  — 

I'll  rather  dwell  alone. 

And  thus  I'll  hush  my  heart  to  rest :  — 

"Thy  loving  labor's  lost; 
Thou  shalt  no  more  be  wildly  blest, 

To  be  so  strangely  crost : 
The  widow'd  turtles  mateless  die. 

The  phoenix  is  but  one; 
They  seek  no  loves —  no  more  will  I  — 

I'll  rather  dwell  alone." 


PROLOGUE. 

TO  MISS  BAILLIE'S  PLAY  OF   "THE   FAMII/S 
LEGEND." 

1809. 

'Tis  sweet  to  hear  expiring  Summer's  sigh. 
Thro'  forests  tinged  with  russet,  wail  and 

die; 
'Tis  sweet  and  sad  the  latest  notes  to  heai 
Of  distant  music,  dying  on  the  car; 


434 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


But  far  more  sadly  sweet,  on  foreign  strand 
We  list  the  legends  of  our  native  land, 
Link'd'as  they  come  with  every  tender  tie, 
Memorials  dear  of  youth  and  infancy. 

Chief,  thy  wild  tales,  romantic  Caledon, 
Wake  keen  remembrance  in  each  hardy 

son. 
Whether  on  India's  burning  coasts  he  toil, 
Or  till  Acadia's*  winter-fetter'd  soil. 
He  hears  with  throbbing  heart  and  mois- 

ten'd  eyes. 
And,  as  he  hears,  what  dear  illusions  rise ! 
It  opens  on  his  soul  his  native  dell. 
The  woods'  wild  waving,  and  the  water's 

swell; 
Tradition's  theme,  the  tower  that  threats 

the  plain. 
The  mossy  cairn  that  hides  the  hero  slain; 
The  cot,  beneath  whose  simple  porch  were 

told. 
By  gray-hair'd  patriarch,  the  tales  of  old. 
The  infant  group,  that  hush'd  their  sports 

the  while. 
And  the  dear  maid  who  listen'd  with  a 

smile. 
The  wanderer,  while  the  vision  warms  his 

brain. 
Is  denizen  of  Scotland  once  again. 

Are  such  keen  feelings  to  the  crowd 
confined. 
And  sleep  they  in  the  Poet's  gifted  mind? 
Oh  no !  For  She,  within  whose  mighty  page 
Each  tyrant  Passionshowshiswoeandrage, 
Has  felt  the  wizard  influence  they  inspire. 
And  to  your  own  traditions  tuned  her  lyre. 
Yourselves   shall    judge  —  whoe'er    has 

raised  the  sail 
By  Mull's  dark  coast,  has  heard  this  even- 
ing's tale. 
The  plaided  boatman,  resting  on  his  oar. 
Points  to  the  fatal  rock  amid  the  roar 
Of  whitening  waves,  and  tells  whate'er 

to-night 
Our  humble  stage  shall  offer  to  your  sight; 
Proudly  preferr'd  that  first  our  efforts  give 
Scenes  glowing  from  her  pen  to  breathe 

and  live; 
More  proudly  yet,  should  Caledon  approve 
The  filial  token  of  a  Daughter's  love. 

*  Acadia,  or  Nova  Scotia. 


THE   POACHER. 

Written  in  imitation  of  Crabbe,  and 
published  in  the  Edinburgh  Annual 
Register  of  1809. 

Welcome,  grave  Stranger,  to  our  green 

retreats. 
Where  health  with  exercise  and  freedom 

meets ! 
Thrice  welcome.  Sage,  whose  philosophic 

plan 
By  Nature's  limits  metes  the  rights  of 

man ! 
Generous  as  he,  who  now  for  freedom 

bawls, 
Now   gives  full   value    for    true    Indian 

shawls: 
O'er  court,  o'er  custom-house,  his  shoe 

who  flings, 
Now  bilks  excisemen,  and  now  bullies 

kings ! 
Like  his,  I  ween,  thy  comprehensive  mind 
Holds  laws  as  mouse-traps  baited  for  man- 
kind ; 
Thine  eye,  applausive,  each  sly  vermin 

sees. 
That  balks  the  snare,  yet  battens  on  the 

cheese ; 
Thine  ear  has  beard,  with  scorn  instead 

of  awe. 
Our  buck-skinn'd  justices  expound  the 

law. 
Wire-draw  the  acts  that  fix  for  wires  the 

pain. 
And  for  the  netted  partridge  noose  the 

swain ; 
And  thy  vindictive  arm  would  fain  have 

broke 
The  last  light  fetter  of  the  feudal  yoke, 
To  give  the  denizens  of  wood  and  wild. 
Nature's  free  race,  to  each  her  free-born 

child. 
Hence  hast  thou  mark'd,  with  grief,  fair 

London's  race 
Mock'd  with  the  Ixion  of  one  poor  Easter 

chase. 
And  long'd  to  send  them  forth  as  free  as 

when 
Pour'd  o'er  Chantilly  the  Parisian  train. 
When  musket,  pistol,  blunderbuss,  com- 
bined. 
And  scarce  the  field-pieces  were  left  be. 

hind  ! 


THE  POACHER. 


435 


A  squadron's  charge  each  leveret's  heart 

dismay'd, 
On  every  covey  fired  a  bold  brigade; 
La  douce  Humanite  approved  the  sport, 
For  great  the  alarm  indeed,  yet  small  the 

hurt; 
Shouts  patriotic  solemnized  the  day. 
And  Seine  re-echo'd   Vive  la  Liber te  ! 
But  mad  Citoyen,  meek  Monsieur  again, 
With  some  few  added  links  resumes  his 

chain. 
Then,  since*  such  scenes  to  France  no 

more  are  known. 
Come,  view  with  me  a  hero  of  thine  own  ! 
One,  whose  free  actions  vindicate  thecause 
Of  sylvan  liberty  o'er  feudal  laws. 

Seek  we  yon  glades,  where  the  proud 

oak  o'ertops 
Wide-waving   seas   of    birch   and   hazel 

copse. 
Leaving  between  deserted  isles  of  land. 
Where    stunted    he?th    is    patch'd    with 

ruddy  sand. 
And  lonely  on  the  waste  the  yew  is  seen. 
Or  straggling  hollies  spread  a  brighter 

green. 
Here,  little  worn,  and  winding  dark  and 

steep. 
Our   scarce-mark'd    path    descends   yon 

dingle  deep: 
Follow  —  but    heedful,    cautious    of    a 

trip,  • — 
In  earthly  mire  philosophy  may  slip. 
Step  slow  and  wary  o'er   that    swampy 

steam, 
Till,  guided  by  the  charcoal's  smothering 

steam, 
We  reach  the  frail  yet  barricaded  door 
Of  hovel  form'd  for  poorest  of  the  poor; 
No  hearth  the  fire,  no  vent  the  smoke  re- 
ceives. 
The  walls  are  wattles,  and  the  covering 

leaves; 
For,  if  such  hut,  our  forest  statutes  say. 
Rise  in  the  progress  of  one  night  and  day 
(Tho'  placed  where  still  the  Conqueror's 

bests  o'erawe, 
And  his  son's  stirrup  shines  the  badge  of 

law),* 

*  In  the  forest  courts  the  presiding  judge 
used  to  wear  as  a  badge  of  officer  an  antique  stir- 
rup, said  to  have  been  that  of  William  Rufus. 


The  builder  claims  the  unenviable  boon, 
To  tenant  dwelling,  framed  as  slight  and 

soon 
As  wigwam  wild,  that  shrouds  the  native 

frore 
On  the  bleak  coast  of  frost-barr'd  Labra- 

dor.t 

Approach,  and  through  the  unlatticed 

window  peep  — 
Nay,    shrink    not    back,    the    inmate    is 

asleep; 
Sunk  mid  yon  sordid  blankets,  till  the  sun 
Stoop  to  the  west,  the  plunderer's  toils 

are  done. 
Loaded  and  primed,  and  prompt  for  des- 
perate hand. 
Rifle  and  fowling-piece  beside  him  stand; 
While  round  the  hut  are  in  disorder  laid 
The  tools  and  lx)oty  of  his  lawless  trade; 
For  force  or  fraud,  resistance  or  escape. 
The  crow,  the  saw,  the  bludgeon,  and  the 

crape. 
His    pilfer'd    powder    in    yon    nook    he 

hoards. 
And  the  filch'd  lead  the  church's  roof 

affords  — 
(Hence  shall  the  rector's  congregation 

fret. 
That  while  his  sermon's  dry  his  walls  are 

wet.) 
The  fish-spear  barb'd,  the  sweeping  nets 

are  there. 
Doe-hides,    and   pheasant   plumes,    and 

skins  of  hare. 
Cordage  for  toils,  and  wiring  for  the  snare. 
Barter'd  for  game  from  chase  or  warren 

won. 
Yon   cask  holds  moonlight, J  run  wlien 

moon  was  none; 
And    late-snatch 'd    spoils    lie  stow'd   in 

hutch  apart, 
To  wait  the  associate  higgler's  evening 

cart. 

Look  on  his  pallet  foul,  and  mark  his 
rest : 
What  scenes  perturb'd  are  acting  in  his 
breast ! 

+  The  New  Forest,  Hampshire,  is  now  disfor- 
ested, and  its  laws,  etc., are  become  things  ot  the 
past. 

t  A  cant  term  for  smuggled  spirits. 


436 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


His  sable  brow  is  wet  and  wrung  with 

pain, 
And  his  dilated  nostril  toils  in  vain; 
For  short  and  scant  the  breath  each  effort 

draws, 
And  'twixt  each  effort  Nature  claims  a 

pause. 
Beyond  the  loose    and    sable    neckcloth 

stretch'd, 
His  sinewy  throat  seems  by  convulsion 

twitch'd. 
While  the  tongue  falters,  as  to  utterance 

loth, 
Sounds   of    dire    import,  —  watchword, 

threat,  and  oath. 
Tho'  stupefied  by  toil,  and  drugg'd  with 

gin, 
The  body  sleep,  the  restless  guest  within 
Now  plies  on  wood  and  wold  his  lawless 

trade. 
Now  in  the  fangs  of  justice  wakes  dis- 

may'd.  — 

"  Was  that  wild  start  of   terror  and 

despair. 
Those  bursting  eyeballs,  and  that  wilder'd 

air, 
Signs   of  compunction    for  a   murder'd 

hare? 
Uo  the  locks  bristle  and  the  eyebrows 

arch. 
For   grouse   or   partridge   massacred   in 

March  ?  "    . 

No,  scoffer,  no !  Attend,  and  mark  with 

awe, 
There  is  no  wicket  in  the  gate  of  law  ! 
He,  that  would  e'er  so  lightly  set  ajar 
That  awful  portal,  must  undo  each  bar: 
Tempting  occasion,  hal)it,  passion,  pride, 
Will  join  to  storm  the  breach,  and  force 

the  barrier  wide. 

That  ruffian,  whom  true  men  avoid  and 
dread. 

Whom  bruisers,  poachers,  smugglers, 
call  Black  Ned, 

Was  Edward  Mansell  once;  — the  light- 
est heart 

That  ever  play'd  on  holiday  his  part ! 

The  leader  he  in  every  Christmas  game. 

The  harvest-feast  grew  blither  when  he 
came, 


And  liveliest  on  the  chords  the  bow  did 

glance. 
When  Edward  named  the  tune  and  led 

the  dance. 
Kind  was  his  heart,  his   passions   quick 

and  strong, 
Hearty  his  laugh,  and  jovial  was  his  song; 
And  if  he  loved  a  gun,  his  father  swore : — 
"  'Twas  but  a  trick  of  youth  would  soon 

be  o'er, 
Himself  had  done  the  same  some  thirty 

years  before."  ^ 

But  he  whose  humors  spurn  law's  awful 

yoke, 
Must  herd  with    those  by  whom   law's 

l>onds  are  broke. 
The  common  dread  of  justice  soon  allies 
The  clown,  who  robs  the  warren, orexcise. 
With  sterner  felons  train'd  to  act  more 

dread, 
Even  with  the  wretch  by  whom  his  fellow 

bled. 
Then,  —  as  in  plagues  the  foul  conta- 
gions pass. 
Leavening  and    festering   the   corrupted 

mass,  — 
Guilt  leagues  with   guilt,   while   mutual 

motives  draw. 
Their  hope  impunity,  their  fear  the  law; 
Their  foes,  their  friends,  their  rendezvous 

the  same. 
Till  the  revenue  balk'd,  or  pilfer'd  game. 
Flesh  the  young  culprit, and  exampleleads 
To  darker  villany,  and  direr  deeds. 

Wild  howl'd  the  wind  the  forest  glades 
along. 

And  oft  the  owl  renew'd  her  dismal  song; 

Around  the  spot  where  erst  he  felt  the 
wound. 

Red  William's  spectre  walk'd  his  mid- 
night round. 

When  o'er  the  swamp  he  cast  his  blight- 
ing look. 

From  the  green  marshes  of  the  stagnant 
brook 

The  bittern's  sullen  shout  the  sedges 
shook ! 

The  waning  moon,  with  storm -presaging 
gleam. 

Now  gave  and  now  withheld  her  doubt- 
ful beani; 


SONG. 


437 


The  old  Oak  stoop 'd  his  arms,  then  flung 

them  high, 
Bellowing  and  groaning  to  the  troubled 

sky  — 
'Twas  then,  that,  couch'd  amid  the  brush- 
wood sere. 
In  Malwood-walk  young  Mansell  watch'd 

the  deer: 
The    fattest    buck   received   his    deadly 

shot  —  ' 

The  watchful  keeper  heard,  and  sought 

the  spot. 
Stout  were  their   hearts,    and   stubborn 

was  their  strife, 
O'erpower'd  at  length  the  Outlaw  drew 

his  knife ! 
Next  morn  a  corpse  was  found  upon  the 

fell  — 
The  rest  his  waking  agony  may  tell  1 


SONG. 

Oh,  say  not,  my  love,  with  that  mortified 
air. 
That  your  spring-time  of   pleasure  is 
tiown, 
Nor  bid  me  to  maids  that  are  younger 
repair. 
For  those  raptures  that  still  are  thine 
own. 

Though  April  his  temples  may  wreathe 
with  the  vine, 
Its  tendrils  in  infancy  curl'd, 
'Tis  the  ardor  of  August  matures  us  the 
wine, 
Whose  life-blood  enlivens  the  world. 

Though  thy  form,  that  was  fashion'd  as 
light  as  a  fay's. 
Has  assumed  a  proportion  more  round. 
And  thy  glance,  that  was  bright  as  a  fal- 
con's at  gaze, 
Looks  soberly  now  on  the  ground,  — 

Enough,    after    absence    to    meet    me 
again, 
Thy  slei)s  still  with  ecstasy  move; 
Enough,  that  those   dear  sober  glances 
retain 
For  me  the  kind  language  of  love. 


THE  BOLD  DRAGOON; 

OK,  THE   PLAIN    OF    BADAJOZ. 
I8l2. 

'TwAS  a  Marechal  of  France,  and  he  fain 

would  honor  gain. 
And  he  long'd  to  take  a  passing  glance 
at  Portugal  from  Spain; 
With  his  flying  guns  this  gallant  gay, 
And  boasted  corps  d'armee  -r- 
O  he  fear'd  not  our  dragoons,  with  their 
long  swords,  boldly  riding, 
Whack,  fal  de  ral,  etc. 

To  Campo  Mayor  come,  he  had  quietly 

sat  down. 
Just  a  fricassee  to  pick,  while  his  soldiers 
sack'd  the  town. 
When,    'twas  peste !   morbleu !    niott 

Gittiral, 
Hear  the  English  bugle-call ! 
And  behold  the  light  dragoons,  with  their 
long  swords,  boldly  riding, 
Whack,  fal  de  ral,  etc. 

Right  about  went  horse  and  foot,  artillery 

and  all, 
And,  as  the  devil  leaves  a  house,  they 
tumbled  through  the  wall;* 
They  took  no  time  to  seek  the  door. 
But,  best  foot  set  before  — 
O  they  ran  from  our  dragoons,  with  their 
long  swords,  boldly  riding. 
Whack,  fal  de  ral,  etc. 

Those  valiant  men  of  France  they  had 

scarcely  fled  a  mile. 
When  on  their  flank  there  soused  at  once 
the  British  rank  and  file : 
For  Long,  De  Grey,  and  Otway,  then 
Ne'er  minded  one  to  ten. 
But  came  on  like  light   dragooiis,  with 
their  long  swords,  boldly  riding, 
Whack,  fal  de  ral,  etc. 

Three  hundred  British  lads  they  made 

three  thousand  reel. 
Their  hearts  were  made  of  English  oak, 

their  swords  of  SheflSeld  steel, 

*  In  their  hasty  evacuation  of  Catnpo  Mayor 
the  Frencli  pulled  down  a  part  of  the  rampart, 
and  mardied  out  ou  the  glacis. 


438 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Their  horses  were  in  Yorkshire  bred, 
And  Beresford  them  led; 
So  huzza  for  brave  dragoons,  with  their 
long  swords,  boldly  riding, 
Whack,  fal  de  ral,  etc. 

Then  here's  a  health  to  Wellington,  to 

Beresford,  to  Long, 
And  a  single  word  of  Bonaparte  before 
I  close  my  song: 
The  eagles  that  to  fight  he  brings 
Should  serve  his  men  with  wings. 
When  they  meet  the  bold  dragoons,  with 
their  long  swords,  boldly  riding, 
Whack,  fal  de  ral,  etc. 


ON  THE  MASSACRE  OF  GLENCOE. 
1814. 

"  In  the  beginning  of  the  year  1692,  an  action 
of  unexampled  barbarity  disgraced  the  govern- 
ment of  King  William  III.  in  Scotland.  In  the 
August  preceding,  a  proclamation  had  been  is- 
sued offering  an  indemnity  to  such  insurgents 
as  should  take  the  oaths  to  the  King  and  Queen, 
on  or  before  the  last  day  of  December;  and  the 
chiefs  of  sucli  tribes  as  liad  been  in  arms  for 
James,  soon  after  took  advantage  of  the  procla- 
mation. But  Macdonald  of  Glencoe  was  pre- 
vented by  accident,  rather  than  by  design,  from 
tendering  his  submission  within  the  limited 
time.  In  the  end  of  December  he  went  to 
Colonel  Hill,  who  commanded  the  garrison  in 
Fort  William,  to  take  the  oaths  of  allegiance  to 
the  government ;  and  the  latter  having  furnislied 
him  with  a  letter  to  Sir  Colin  Campbell,  sheriff 
of  the  county  of  Argyle,  directed  him  to  repair 
immediately  to  Inverary,  to  make  his  submis- 
sion in  a  legal  manner  before  that  magistrate. 
But  the  way  to  Inverary  lay  through  almost 
impassable  mountains,  the  season  was  extremely 
rigorous,  and  the  whole  country  was  covered 
with  a  deep  snow.  So  eager,  however,  was 
Macdonald  to  take  the  oaths  before  the  limited 
time  should  expire,  that,  though  the  road  lay 
within  half  a  mile  of  his  own  house,  he  stopped 
not  to  visit  his  family,  and,  after  various  ob- 
structions, arrived  at  Inverary.  The  time  had 
elapsed,  and  the  sheriff  hesitated  to  receive  his 
submission ;  but  Macdonald  prevailed  by  his  im- 
portunities, and  even  tears,  in  inducmg  that 
functionary  to  administer  to  him  the  oath  of 
allegiance,  and  to  certify  the  cause  of  his  delay. 
At  this  time  Sir  John  Dalrymple,  afterwards 
Earl  of  Stair,  being  in  attendance  upon  William 
as  Secretary  of  State  for  Scotland,  took  advan- 
tage of  Macdonald's  neglecting  to  take  the  oath 
within  the  time  prescribed,  and  procured  from 
the  King  a  warrant  of  military  execution  against 
that  chief  and  his  whole  clan.  This  was  done  at 
the  instigation  of  the  Earl  of  Breadalbane,  whose 


lands  the  Glencoe  men  had  plundered,  and 
whose  treachery  to  government  in  negotiating 
with  the  Highland  clans,  Macdonald  himself  had 
exposed.  The  King  was  accordingly  jiersuaded 
that  Glencoe  was  the  main  obstacle  to  the  pacifi- 
cation of  the  Highlands;  and  the  fact  of  the 
unfortunate  chief's  submission  having  been  con- 
cealed, the  sanguinary  orders  for  proceeding  to 
military  execution  against  his  clan  were  in  conse- 
quence obtained.  The  warrant  was  both  signed 
and  countersigned  by  the  King's  own  hand,  and 
the  Secretary  ui-ged  the  oflficers  who  commanded 
in  the  Highlands  to  execute  their  orders  with 
the  utmost  rigor.  Campbell  of  Glenlyon,  a 
captain  in  Argyle's  regiment,  and  two  subalterns, 
were  ordered  to  repair  to  Glencoe  on  the  first 
of  I'ebruary  with  a  hundred  and  twenty  men. 
Campbell,  being  uncle  to  young  Macdonald's 
wife,  was  received  by  the  father  with  all  manner 
of  friendship  and  hospitality.  The  men  were 
lodged  at  free  quarters  in  the  houses  of  his  ten- 
ants, and  received  the  kindest  entertainment. 
Till  the  13th  of  the  month  the  troops  lived  in  the 
utmost  harmony  and  familiarity  with  the  people  ; 
and  on  the  very  night  of  the  massacre  the  officers 
passed  the  evening  at  cards  in  Macdonald's 
house.  In  the  night.  Lieutenant  Lindsay,  with 
a  party  of  soldiers,  called  in  a  friendly  manner 
at  his  door,  and  was  instantly  admitted.  Mac- 
donald, while  in  the  act  of  rising  to  receive  his 
guest,  was  shot  dead  through  the  back  with  two 
bullets.  His  wife  had  already  dressed  ;  but  she 
was  stripped  naked  by  the  soldiers,  who  tore  the 
rings  off  her  fingers  with  their  teeth.  The 
slaughter  now  became  general,  and  neither  age 
nor  infirmity  was  spared.  Some  women,  in  de- 
fending their  children,  were  killed  ;  boys  implor- 
ing mercy  were  shot  dead  by  officers  on  whose 
knees  they  hung.  In  one  place  nine  persons,  as 
they  sat  enjoying  themselves  at  table,  were 
butchered  by  the  soldiers.  In  Inverriggon, 
Campbell's  own  quarters,  nine  men  were  first 
bound  by  the  soldiers,  and  then  shot  at  intervals 
one  by  one.  Nearly  forty  persons  were  mas- 
sacred by  the  troops;  and  several  who  fled  to 
the  mountains  perished  by  famine  and  the  in- 
clemency of  the  season.  Those  who  escaped 
owed  their  lives  to  a  tempestuous  night.  Lieu- 
tenant-Colonel Hamilton,  who  had  received  the 
charge  of  the  execution  from  Dalrymple,  was  on 
his  march  with  four  hundred  men,  to  guard  all 
the  passes  from  the  valley  of  Glencoe;  but  he 
was  obliged  to  stop  by  the  severity  of  the  weather, 
which  proved  the  safety  of  the  unfortunate  clan. 
Next  day  he  entered  the  valley,  laid  the  houses 
in  ashes,  and  carried  away  the  cattle  and  spoil, 
which  were  divided  among  the  officers  and 
soldiers." — Article  "Britain;"  Encyc.  Bri- 
taunica.  —  Ncdu  Edition. 

"  O  TELL  me.  Harper,  wherefore  flow 
Thy  wayward  notes  of  wail  and  woe, 
Far  down  the  desert  of  Glencoe, 

Where  none  may  list  their  melody? 
Say,  harp'st  thou  to  the  mists  that  fly, 
Or  to  the  dun-deer  glancing  by. 
Or  to  the  eagle,  that  from  high 

Screams  chorus  to  thy  minstrelsy?  "  — • 


FdR   .-/'    T/IAT  AN'    A'    THAT. 


439 


"  No,  not  to  these,  for  they  have  rest,  — 
The  mist-wreath  has  the  mountain-crest. 
The  stag  his  lair,  the  erne  her  nest, 

Abode  of  lone  security. 
But  those  for  whom  I  pour  the  lay. 
Not     wild-wood    deep,    nor     mountain 

Not    this    deep   dell,  that   shrouds   from 
day, 
Could  screen  from  treacherous  cruelty. 

"Their  flag  was  furl'd,  and  mute   their 

drum, 
The  very  household  dogs  were  dumb, 
Unwont  to  bay  at  guests  that  come 

In  guise  of  hospitality. 
His  blithest  notes  the  piper  plied. 
Her  gayest  snood  the  maiden  tied. 
The  dame  her  distaff  flung  aside. 

To  tend  her  kindly  housewifery. 

"  The  hand  that  mingled  in  the  meal, 
At  midnight  drew  the  felon  steel. 
And  gave  the  host's  kind  breast  to  feel 

Meed  for  his  hospitality  ! 
The  friendly  hearth  which  warm'd  that 

hand, 
At  midnight  arm'd  it  with  the  brand, 
That  bade  destruction's  flames  expand 

Their  red  and  fearful  blazonry. 

"  Then    woman's   shriek   was   heard   in 

vain. 
Nor  infancy's  unpitied  plain. 
More    than    the    warrior's    groan,   could 

gain 
Respite  from  ruthless  butchery  ! 
The  winter  wind  that  whistled  shrill. 
The  snows  that   night  that  cloaked  the 

hill, 
Though  wild  and  pitiless,  had  still 
P'ar  more  than  Southern  clemency. 

"  Long  have  my  harp's  best  notes  been 

gone. 
Few  are  its  strings,  and  faint  their  tone. 
They  can  but  sound  in  desert  lone 

Their  gray-hair'd  master's  misery. 
Were  each  gray  hair  a  minstrel  string. 
Each  chord  should  imprecations  fling. 
Till  startled  Scotland  loud  should  ring:  — 

'  Revenge  for  blood  and  treachery!  '  " 


FOR  A'  THAT  AN'  A'  THAT.* 


A   NEW   SONG   TO    AN    OLD   TUNE. 


.JV 


I»I4. 


Though  right  be  aft  put  down  by  strength. 

As  mony  a  day  we  saw  that. 
The  true  and  leilfu'  cause  at  length 

Shall  bear  the  grie  for  a'  that. 
For  a'  that  an'  a'  that. 

Guns,  guillotines,  and  a'  that. 
The  Fleur-de-lis,  that  lost  her  right, 

Is  queen  again  for  a'  that ! 

We'll  twine  her  in  a  friendly  knot 

With  England's  Rose,  and  a'  that; 
The  Shamrock  shall  not  be  forgot. 

For  Wellington  made  braw  that. 
The  Thistle,  though  her  leaf  be  rude. 

Yet  faith  we'll  no  misca'  that. 
She  shelter'd  in  her  solitude 

The  Fleur-de-lis,  for  a'  that. 

The  Austrian  vine,  the  Prussian  Pine 

(For  Blucher's  sake,  hurra  that). 
The  Spanish  Olive,  too,  shall  join. 

And  bloom  in  peace  for  a'  that. 
Stout  Russia's  Hemp,  so  surely  twined 

Around  our  wreath  we'll  draw  that. 
And  he  that  would  the  cord  unbind. 

Shall  have  it  for  his  gra-vat ! 

Or,  if  to  choke  sae  puir  a  sot,     . 

Your  pity  scorn  to  thraw  that. 
The  Devil's  elbow  be  his  lot. 

Where  he  may  sit  and  claw  that. 
In  spite  of  slight,  in  spite  of  might. 

In  spite  of  brags,  an'  a'  that, 
The  lads  that  battled  for  the  right. 

Have  won  the  day,  an'  a'  that ! 

There's  ae  bit  spot  I  had  forgot, 

America  they  ca'  that; 
A  coward  plot  her  rats  had  got 

Their  father's  flag  to  gnaw  that; 
Now  see  it  fly  top-gallant  high, 

Atlantic  winds  shall  blaw  that. 
And  Yankee  loon,  beware  your  croun, 

There's  kames  in  hand  to  claw  that ! 

*  Sung  at  the  first  meeting  of  the  Pitt  Oub  of 

Scotland. 


440 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


For  on  the  land,  or  on  the  sea. 
Where'er  the. breezes  blaw  that. 

The  British  flag  shall  bear  the  grie 
And  win  the  day  for  a'  that ! 


SONG. 


FOR  THE  ANNIVERSARY   MEETING  OF  THE 
PITT    CLUB   OF   SCOTLAND. 

1814. 

O,  DREAD  was  the  time,  and  more  dread- 
ful the  omen. 
When    the    brave    on     Marengo    lay 
slaughter'd  in  vain, 
And  beholding  bro.id  Europe  bow'd  down 
by  her  foemen, 
Pitt  closed  in  his  anguish  the  map  of 
her  reign  ! 
Not  the  fate  of  broad  Europe  could  bend 
his  brave  spirit 
Totakeforhiscountrythesafetyofsh.ime, 
0,then  in  hertriumph remember  his  merit. 
And  hallow  the  goblet  that  flows  to  his 
name. 

Round  the  husbandman's  head,  while  he 
traces  the  furrow. 
The   mists  of  the  winter    may  mingle 
with  rain, 
He  may  plough  it  with  lalxtr,  and  sow  it 
in  sornjw, 
And  sigh  while  he  fears  he  has  sow'd 
it  in  vain; 
He  may  die  ere  his  children  shall  reap  in 
their  gladness, 
But  the  blithe  harvest-home  shall   re- 
member his  claim; 
And  their  jubilee-shout  shall  be  soften'd 
with  sadness, 
While  they  hallow  the  goblet  that  flows 
to  his  name. 

Though  anxious  and  timeless,  his  life  was 
expended, 
In  toils  for  our  country  preserved  by 
his  care, 
Though  he  died  ere   one    ray  o'er    the 
nations  ascended. 
To  light  the  long  darkness  of  doubt 
and  despair; 
The  storms  he  endured  in  our  Britain's 
December, 
The  perils  his  wisdom  foresaw  and  o'er- 
came, 


In  her  glory's  rich  harvest  shall  Britain 
remember. 
And  hallow  the  goblet  that  flows  to  his 
name. 

Nor  forget  His  gray  head,  who,  all  dark 
in  affliction, 
Is  deaf  to  the  tales  of  our  victories  won, 
And  to  sounds  the  most  dear  to  paternal 
affection. 
The  shout  of  his  people  applauding  his 
Son; 
By  his  firmness  unmoved  in  success  and 
disaster. 
By  his  long  reign  of  virtue,  remember 
his  claim  ! 
With  our  tribute  to  Pitt  join  the  praise 
of  his  M.aster, 
Though   a  tear  stain   the  goblet    that 
flows  to  his  name. 

Yet  again  fill  the  wine-cup,  and  change 
the  sad  measure, 
The  rites  of  our  grief  and  our  gratitude 
paid, 
To  our  Prince,  to  our  Heroes,  devote  the 
bright  treasure, 
The  wisdom  that  plann'd,  and  the  zeal 
that  obey'd; 
Fill  Wellington's  cup  till  it  beam  like 
his  glory, 
Forget  not  our  own  brave  Dalhousie 
and  GR/EME; 
A  thousand  years  hence  hearts  shall  bound 
at  their  story. 
And  hallow  the   goblet   that   flows  to 
their  fame. 


LINES. 

ADDRESSED  TO  RANALD  MACDONALD, 
ESQ.,  OF  STAFFA.* 

I8J4. 

Staffa,  sprung  from  high  Macdonald, 
Worthy  branch  of  old  Clan-T\anald  ! 
Staffa  !  king  of  all  kind  fellows  ! 
Well  befall  thy  hills  and  valleys, 

*  Afterwards  Sir  Reginald  Macdonald  Stewart 
Seton,  of  Staffa,  Allanton,  and  Touch,  Raronet. 
He  died  i6th  April,  183.S,  in  his  61st  year.  The 
render  will  find  a  warm  tribute  to  Staffa's  char- 
acter as  a  Highland  landlord,  in  Scott's  article 
on  Sir  John  Carr's  Caledonian  Sketches.  —  Mis- 
cellnneous  Prose  Works,  vol.  xix. 


PHAROS  loquitur". 


441 


Lakes  and  inlets,  deeps  and  shallows, 
Cliffs  of  darkness,  caves  of  wonder. 
Echoing  the  Atlantic  thunder; 
Mountains  w  hich  the  yray  mist  covers. 
Where  the  Chieftain  spirit  hov«;rs. 
Pausing  while  his  pinions  quiver, 
StretchM  to  quit  our  land  forever! 
Each  kind  influence  reign  alx)ve  thee ! 
Warmer  heart  'twixt  this  and  Staffa, 
Beats  not,  than  in  heart  of  Staffa ! 


PHAROS   LOQUITUR* 

Far  in  the  Iwsom  of  the  deep. 

O'er  these  wild  shelves  my  watch  I  keep; 

A  ruddy  gem  of  changeful  light, 

Hound  on  the  dusky  brow  of  night. 

The  seaman  bids  my  lustre  hail, 

And  scorns  to  strike  his  timorous  sail. 


LEITER   IN   VERSE. 

ON    THE   VOYAGE   WITH*  THE   COMMISSION- 
ERS  OF    NORTHERN    LIGHTS. 

"  Ok  tlie  letters  which  Scott  wrote  to  his 
friends  during  those  happy  six  weeks,  I  have 
recovered  only  one,  and  it  is,  tlianks  to  the 
leisure  of  the  yacht,  in  verse.  The  strong 
and  easy  heroics  of  tlie  first  section  prove,  I 
think,  that  Mr.  Canning  did  not  err  when  he 
told  him  that  if  he  chose  he  might  emulate 
even  Dryden's  command  of  that  noble  measure; 
and  the  dancing  anapaests  of  the  second,  show 
that  he  could  with  equal  facility  liave  rivalled 
the  gay  graces  of  Cotton,  Anstey,  or  Moore."  — 
Lxkluirt,  Life,  vol.  iv.,  p.  372. 


TO  HIS  GRACE  THE  DUKE  OF  BUCCLEUCH, 
ETC. 

Lighthouse  Yacht,  in  the  sound  of  Lerwick 
Zetland,  8th  .-Vugust,  1814. 

Health  to  the  chieftain  from  his  clans- 
man true  ! 
From  her   true   minstrel,  health  to    fair 
Buccleuch ! 

*  "On  the  3ot)i  of  July,  1814,  Mr.  Hamilton, 
Mr.  Erskine,  and  Mr.  Duff,  Commissioners, 
along  with  Mr.  (now  Sir)  Walter  Scott,  and 
the  writer,  visited  the  Lighthouse ;  the  Com- 
missioners being  then  on  one  of  their  voyages 
of  Inspection,  noticed  in  the  Introduction. 
They  breakfasted  in  the  Library,  when  Sir 
Walter,  at  the  entreaty  of  the  party,  upon  in- 
scribing his  name  in  the  Album,  added  these 
interesting  lines."  —  Stevenson's  Account  of  lite 
Bell-Rock  Lii;htliouse.  1S24.  .Scott's  Diary 
of  the  Voy.ige  is  now  published  in  the  4th 
volume  on  his  Life. 


Health  from  the  isles,  where  dewy  Morn- 
ing weaves 

Her  chaplet  with  the  tints  that  Twilight 
leaves; 

Where  late  the  sun  scarce  vanish'd  from 
the  sight. 

And  his  bright  pathway  graced  the  short- 
lived night. 

Though  darker  now  as  autumn's  shades 
extend, 

The  north  winds  whistle  and  the  mists 
ascend ! 

Health  from  the  land  where  eddying 
whirlwinds  toss 

The  storm-rock'd  cradle  of  the  Cape  of 
Noss! 

On  outstretch'd  cords  the  giddy  engine 
slides. 

His  own  strong  arm  the  bold  adventurer 
guides, 

And  he  that  lists  such  desperate  feat  to 

May,  like  the  sea-mew,  skim  'twixt  earth 

and  sky, 
And  feel  the  mid-air  gales  around  him 

blow. 
And  see  the  billows  rage  five  hundred  feet 

below. 

Here,  by  each  stormy  peak  and  desert 
shore. 

The  hardy  islesman  tugs  the  daring  oar. 

Practised  alike  his  venturous  course  to 
keep. 

Through  the  white  breakers  of  the  path- 
less deep. 

By  ceaseless  peril  and  by  toil  to  gain 

A  wretched  pittance  from  the  niggard 
main; 

And  when  the  worn-out  drudge  old  ocean 
leaves, 

What  comfort  greets  him,  and  what  hut  re- 
ceives ? 

Lady !  the  worst  your  presence  ere  has 
cheer'd 

(When  want  and  sorrow  fled  as  you  ap- 
pear'd) 

Were  to  a  Zetlander  as  the  high  dome 

Of  proud  Drumlanrig  to  my  humble  home. 

Here  rise  no  groves,  and  here  no  gardens 
blow. 

Here  even  the  hardy  heath  scarce  dares 
to  grow; 


442 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


But  rocks  on   rocks,  in  mist   and  storm 
array'd, 

Stretch  far  to  sea  their  giant  colonnade, 

With  many  a  cavern  seam'd,  the  dreary 
haunt 

Of  the  dun  seal  and  swarthy  cormorant. 

Wild  round  their  rifted  brows,  with  fre- 
quent cry 

As  of  lament,  the  gulls  and  gannets  fly, 

And  from  their  sable  base,  with  sullen 
sound, 

In  sheets  of  whitening  foam  the  waves 
rebound. 

Yet  even  these  coasts  a  touch  of  envy  gain 
From  those  whose  land  has  known  op- 
pression's chain; 
For  here  the  industrious  Dutchman  comes 

once  more 
To   moor  his  fishing   craft   by  Bressey's 

shore ; 
Greets  every  former  mate  and  brother  tar. 
Marvels  how  Lerwick  'scaped  the  rage  of 

war, 
Tells  many  a  tale  of  Gallic  outrage  done, 
And   ends   by   blessing   God   and  Wel- 
lington. 
Here  too  the  Greenland  tar,  afiercerguest. 
Claims  a  brief  hour  of  riot,  not  of  rest : 
Proves  each  wild  frolic  that  in  wine  has 

birth, 
And  wakes    the   land  with   brawls  and 

boisterous  mirth. 
A  sadder  sight  on  yon  poor  vessel's  prow 
The  captive  Norseman  sits  in  silent  woe, 
And  eyes  the  flags  of  Britain  as  they  flow. 
Hard  fate  of  war,  which  bade  her  terrors 

sway 
His  destined  course,  and  seize  so  mean  a 

prey; 
A  bark  with  planks  so  warp'd  and  seams 

so  riven, 
She  scarce  might  face  the  gentlest  air  of 

heaven; 
Pensive  he  sits,  and  questions  oft  if  none 
Can  list  his  speech,  and  understand  his 

moan; 
In  vain  —  no  Islesman  now  can  use  the 

tongue 
Of  the  bold  Norse,  from  whom  their  lin- 
eage sprung. 
Not  thus  of  old  the  Norseman  hither  came. 
Won  by  the  love  of  danger  or  of  fame; 


On   every  storm-beat    cape    a   shapeless 

tower 
Tells  of  their  wars,  their  conquests,  and 

their  power; 
For  ne'er  f or  G recia 's  vales, or  Latian land. 
Was    fiercer  strife  than    for  this  barren 

strand; 
A  race  severe  —  the  isle  and  ocean  lords 
Loved  for  its  own  delight   the  strife  of 

swords; 
With    scornful    laugh    the    mortal    pang 

defied. 
And  blest  their  gods  that  they  in  battle 

died. 

Such  were  the  sires  of  Zetland's  simple 
race, 

And  still  the  eye  may  faint  resemblance 
trace 

In  the  blue  eye,  tall  form,  proportion  fair. 

The  limbs  athletic,  and  the  long  light 
hair  — 

(Such  was  the  mien,  as  Scald  and  Min- 
strel sings. 

Of  fair-hair'd  Harold,  first  of  Norway's 
Kings); 

But  their  high  deeds  to  scale  these  crags 
confined, 

Theironly  warfare  is  with  waves  and  wind. 

Why  should  I  talk  of  Mousa's  castled 

coast  ? 
Why  of   the   horrors  of    the  Sumburgh 

Rost? 
May  not  these  bald  disjointed  lines  suffice, 
Penn'd  while  my  comrades  whirl  the  rat- 
tling dice  — 
While  down  the  cabin  skylight  lessening 

shine 
The  rays,  and  eve  is  chased  with  mirth 

and  wine? 
Imagined, while  down  Mousa's  desert  bay 
Our  well-trimm'd  vessel  urged  her  nimble 

way. 
While  to  the  freshening  breeze  she  lean'd 

her  side. 
And  bade  her  bowsprit  kiss  the  foamy  tide  ? 

Such  are  the  lays  that  Zetland  isles 
supply : 

Drench'd  with  the  drizzly  spray  and  drop- 
ping sky. 

Weary  and  wet,  a  sea-sick  minstrel  I  — 


LETTER  IN   VERSE. 


443 


POSTSCRIPTUM. 

Kirkwall,  Orkney,  Aug.  13,  1814. 

In  respect  that  your  Grace  has  com- 
mission'd  a  Kraken, 
\'ou  will  please  be   inform'd   that   they 

seldom  are  taken; 
It  is  January  two  years,  the  Zetland  folks 

say, 
Since  they  saw  the  last  Kraken  in  Scallo- 
way bay; 
He  lay  in  the  offing  a  fortnight  or  more, 
But  the  devil  a  Zetlander  put  from  the 

shore, 
Though  bold  in  the  seas  of  the  North  to 

assail 
The  morse  and  the  sea-horse,  the  gram- 
pus and  whale. 
If  your  Grace  thinks  I'm  writing  the  thing 

that  is  nut, 
You  may  ask  at  a  namesake  of  ours,  Mr. 

Scott  — 
(He's    not    from   our  clan,    though   his 

merits  deserve  it, 
But  springs,  I'm  inform'd,  from  the  Scotts 

of  Scotstarvet);* 
He  question'd  the  folks  who  beheld  it 

with  eyes, 
But  they  differ'd  confoundedly  as  to  the 

size. 
For  instance,  the  modest  and   diffident 

swore 
That  it  seem'd  like  the  keel  of  a  ship,  and 

no  more  — 
Those  of  eyesight  more  clear,  or  of  fancy 

more  high, 
Said  it  rose  like  an  island  'twixt  ocean 

and  sky  — 
But  all  of  the  hulk  had  a  steady  opinion 
That  'twas  sure  a  live  subject  of  Neptune's 

dominion  — 
And  I  think,  my  Lord  Duke,  your  Grace 

hardly  would  wish. 
To  cumber  your  house,  such  a  kettle  of 

fish. 
Had  your  order  related  to  night-caps  or 

hose, 
Or  mittens  of  worsted,  there's  plenty  of 

those. 

*  The  Scotts  of  Scotstar\et,  and  other  families 
of  the  same  in  Fife  and  elsewhere,  claim  no  kin- 
dred with  the  great  clan  of  the  Border— and 
their  armonai  bearings  are  different. 


Or  would  you  be  pleased  but  to  fancy  a 

whale? 
And  direct  me  to  send  it  —  by  sea  or  by 

mail? 
The  season,  I'm  told,  is  nigh  over,  but  still 
I  could  get  you  one  fit  for  the  lake  at 

Bow-hUl. 
Indeed,  as  to  whales,  there's  no  need  to 

be  thrifty, 
Since  one  day  last  fortnight  two  hundred 

and  fifty. 
Pursued  by  seven  Orkneymen's  boats  and 

no  more. 
Betwixt    Truffness    and    Luffness    were 

drawn  on  the  shore  ! 
You'd  ask  if  I  saw  this  same  wonderful 

sight; 
I  own  that  I  did  not,  but  easily  might  — 
For  this  mighty  shoal  of  leviathans  lay 
On  our  lee-beam  a  mile,  in  the  loop  of 

the  bay. 
And  the  islesmen  of  Sanda  were  all  at 

the  spoil. 
AnA  Jlinching,  (so  term  it)  the  blubber 

to  boil; 
(Ye  spirits  of  lavender,  drown  the  re- 
flection 
That  awakes  at  the  thought  of  this  odor. 

ous  dissection.) 
To  see  this  huge  marvel  full  fain  would 

we  go. 
But  Wilson,  the  wind,  and  the  current, 

said  no. 
We  have  now  got  to  Kirkwall,  and  needs 

I  must  stare 
When  I  think  that  in  verse  I  have  once 

call'd  it  fair  ; 
'Tis  a  base  little  borough,  both  dirty  and 

mean  — 
There's   nothing    to   hear,    and   there's 

naught  to  be  seen, 
Save  a  church,  where,  of  old  times,   a 

prelate  harangued. 
And  a  palace  that's  built  by  an  earl  that 

was  hang'd. 
But,  farewell   to  Kirkwall  —  aboard  we 

are  going. 
The  anchor's  a-peak,  and  the  breeres  are 

blowing; 
Our   commodore  calls  all   his  band   to 

their  places, 
And  'tis  time  to  release  you  —  good  night 

to  your  Graces ! 


44'' 


MISCELLAXE  O  US  POEMS. 


BRIDAL  SONG. 

To  the  tunc  of  '■'■I have  been  a  Fiddler,'''' 

etc.  o 

1814. 

"  The  following  song,  which  has  been  since 
borrowed  by  the  worshipful  author  of  the  famous 
'  History  of  Kryar  Baton,'  has  been  witli  diffi- 
culty deciphered.  It  seems  to  have  been  sung 
on  occasions  of  carrying  home  the  bride." 

And  did  you  not  hear  of  a  mirth  befell 
The  morrow  after  a  wedding  day, 

And  carrying  a  bride  at  home  to  dwell? 
And  away  to  Tewin,  away,  away. 

The  quintain  was  set,  and  the  garlands 
were  made, 
'Tis  pity  old  customsshould  ever  decay; 
And  woe  be  to  him  that  was  horsed  on  a 
jade. 
For  he  carried  no  credit  away,  away. 

We  met  a  concert  of  fiddle-de-dees; 

We  set  them  a-cockhorse,  and  made 
them  play 
The  winning  of  Bullen,  and  Upsey-frees, 

And  away  to  Tewin,  away,  away ! 

There  was  ne'er  a  lad  in  all  the  parish 
That  would  go  to  the  plough  that  day; 

But  on  his  fore-horse  his  wench  he  carries. 
And  away  to  Tewin,  away,  away ! 

Thebutlerwas  quick,  andthealehedid  tap. 
The  maidens  did  make  the  chamber 
full  gay; 

The  servants  did  give  me  a  fuddling  cup, 
And  I  did  carry't  away,  away. 

The  smith  of  the  town  his  liquor  so  took. 
That  he  was  persuaded  that  the  ground 
look'd  blue; 

And  I  dare  boldly  be  sworn  on  a  book. 
Such  smith  as  he  there's  but  a  few. 

A  posset  was  made,  and  the  women  did 

sip. 

And  simpering  said,  they  could  eat  no 

more; 

Full  many  a  maiden  was  laid  on  the  lip. — 

I'll  say  no  more, but  give  o'er,giveo'er. 

Waverley :  Appendix  to  the  General 
Preface, 


LINES  BY  EDWARD  WAVERLEY. 
1814. 

"  On  receiving  intelligence  of  his  commibsinn 
as  captain  of  a  troop  of  horse  in  Colonel  Gardi- 
ner's regiment,  his  tutor,  Mr.  Pembroke,  picked 
up  about  Edward's  room  some  fragments  of  ir- 
regular verse,  which  he  appeared  to  have  com- 
posed under  the  inlUiences  of  the  agitating  feelings 
occasioned  by  this  sudden  page  being  turned  up 
to  liim  iu  the  book  of  life." 

Late,  when  the  Autumn  evening  fell 
On  Mirkwood-Mere's  romantic  dell. 
The  lake  return'd  in  cha.slen'd  gleam. 
The  purple  cloud,  the  golden  beam: 
Reflected  in  the  crystal  pool, 
Headland  and  bank  lay  fair  and  cool; 
The  weather-tinted  rock  and  tower. 
Each  drooping  tree,  each  fairy  flower. 
So  true,  so  .soft,  the  mirror  gave, 
As  if  there  lay  beneath  the  wave. 
Secure  from  trouble,  toil,*  and  care, 
A  world  than  earthly  world  more  fair. 

But  distant  winds  began  to  wake. 
And  roused  the  Genius  of  the  Lake ! 
Hti  heard  the  groaning  of  the  oak, 
And  donn'd  at  once  his  sable  cloak. 
As  warrior,  at  the  battle  cry. 
Invests  him  with  his  panoply; 
Then,  as  the  whirlwind  nearer  prest, 
He  'gan  to  shake  his  foamy  crest 
O'er     furrow'd     brow     and     blacken'd 

cheek. 
And  bade  his  surge  in  thunder  speak. 
In  wild  and  broken  eddies  whirl'd. 
Flitted  that  fond  ideal  world; 
And,  to  the  shore  in  tumult  tost. 
The  realms  of  fairy  bliss  were  lost. 

Yet,  with  a  stern  delight  and  strange, 
I  saw  the  spirit-stirring  change. 
As    warr'd    the    wind    with    wave    and 

wood, 
Upon  the  ruin'd  tower  I  stood. 
And  felt  my  heart  more  .strongly  bound, 
Responsive  to  the  lofty  sound. 
While,  joying  in  the  mighty  roar, 
I  mourn'd  that  tranquil  scene  no  more. 

So,  on  the  idle  dreams  of  youth 
Breaks  the  loud  trumpet  call  of  Truth, 
Bids  each  fair  vision  pass  away, 
Like  landscape  on  the  lake  that  lay, 


DAVIE    GELLATLF.Y'S  SONGS, 


445 


As  fnir,  as  flitting,  and  as  frail, 

As  that  which  fled  the  Autumn  gale  — 

Forever  dead  to  F'ancy's  eye 

Be  each  gay  form  that  glided  by, 

While  dreams  of  love  and  lady's  charms 

Give  place  to  honor  and  to  arms ! 

fVaver/iy,  chap.  v. 


DAVIE   GELLATLEY'S   SONGS. 
1814. 

"  Hb  [Daft  Davie  Gellatley]  sung  with  great 
earnests  »ss,  and  not  without  some  taste,  a 
fragnieU    of  an  old  Scotch  ditty." 

False  love,  and  hast  thou  play'd  me  this 

In  s»  .mmer  among  the  flowers? 
I  will  lepay  thee  back  again 

In  w  inter  among  the  showers. 
Unless  again,  again,  my  love, 

Unless  you  turn  again; 
As  you  with  other  maidens  rove, 

I'll  smile  on  other  men.* 


The  Knight's  to  the  mountain 

His  bugle  to  wind; 
The  L.ady*s  to  greenwood 

Her  garland  to  bind. 
The  liower  of  Burd  Ellen 

Has  moss  on  the  floor. 
That  the  step  of  Lord  William 

He  silent  and  sure. 

IVaverky,  chap.  ix. 

"  The  stamping  of  horses  was  now  heard  in 
tlie  court,  and  Davie  Gellatley's  voice  singing  to 
tlie  two  large  deer  greyhounds." 

HiK  away,  hie  away. 
Over  bank  and  over  brae, 
Where  the  copscwood  is  the  greenest. 
Where  the  fountains  glisten  sheenest. 
Where  the  lady-fern  grows  strongest, 
Where  the  morning, dew  lies  longest. 
Where  the  black-cock  sweetest  sips  it. 
Where  the  fairy  Latest  trips  it: 
Hie  to  haunts  right  seldom  seen, 
I^xively,  lonesome,  cool,  and  green, 
Over  bank  and  over  brae, 
Hie  away,  hie  away. 

IVaverley,  chap.  xii. 

*  This  is  a  genuine  ancient  fragment,  witli 
5om<>  nlteration  in  the  last  two  lines. 


Young  men  will  love  thee  more  fair  and 

more  fast; 
Heard  ye  so  merry Jhe  little  bird  sing? 
Old  men's  love  the  longest  will  last, 
And  the  throstle-cock^ s  head  is  under 

his  wing. 

The  young  man's  wrath  is  like  light  straw 

on  fire; 

Heard  ye  so  merry  the  little  hird  sing? 

But  like  red-hot  steel  is  the  old  man's  ire. 

And  the  throstle-cock's  head  is  under 

his  loing. 

The  young  man  may  brawl  at  the  evening 
board ; 
Heard  ye  so  merry  the  little  Inrd  sing? 
But  the  old  man  will  draw  at  the  dawning 
the  sword. 
And  the  throstle-cock' s  head  is  under 
his  wing. 

Waverley,  chap.  xiv. 


ST.  SWITHIN'S  CHAIR. 

1814. 

On  Hallow-Mass  Eve,  ere  you  boune  ye 

to  rest, 
Ever  beware  that  your  couch  be  bless'd; 
Sign  it  with  cross,  and  s.ain  it  with  bead. 
Sing  the  Ave,  and  say  the  Creed. 

For  on  Hallow-Mass  Eve  the  Night-Hag 

will  ride. 
And  all  her   nine-fold   sweeping  on  by 

her  side. 
Whether  the  wind  sing  lowly  or  loud, 
Sailing  through  moonshine  or  swathed  in 

the  cloud. 

The  Lady  she  sat  in  St.  Swithin's  Chair, 
The  dew  of  the  night  has  damp'd  her  hair : 
Her  cheek  was  pale — but  resolved  and  high 
Was  the  word  of  her  lip  and  the  glance 
of  her  eye. 

She  mutter'd  the  spell  of  Swithin  bold. 
When  his  naked  foot  traced  the  midnight 

wold, 
When  he  stopp'd  the  Hag  as  she  rode 

the  night. 
And  bade  her  descend,  and  her  promise 

plight. 


446 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


He  that  dare  sit  on  St.  Swithin's  Chair, 
When  the  Night-Hag  wings  the  troubled 

air, 
Questions  three,  when  he  speaks  the  spell. 
He  may  ask,  and  she  must  tell. 

The  Baron  has  been  with  King  Robert 

his  liege 
These  three  long  years  in  battle  and  siege ; 
News  are  there   none  of  his  weal  or  his 

woe, 
And  fain  the  Lady  his  fate  would  know. 

She  shudders  and  stops  as  the  charm  she 

speaks: — 
Is  it  the  moody  owl  that  shrieks  ?        ^ 
Or  is  that  sound,  betwixt  laughter   and 

scream, 
The  voice  of  the  Demon  who  haunts  the 

stream  ? 

The  moan  of  the  wind  sunk  silent  and 

low. 
And   the  roaring  torrent  had  ceased  to 

flow; 
The  calm  was  more  dreadful  than  raging 

storm, 
When    the   cold'  gray    mist   brought    the 

ghastly  form ! 

Waverley,  chap.  xiii. 


FLORA   MACIVOR'S   SONG. 

1814. 

There  is  mist  on  the  mountain,  and  night 

on  the  vale. 
But  more  dark  is  the  sleep  of  the  sons  of 

the  Gael. 
A  stranger  commanded  —  it  sunk  on  the 

land, 
Tf  has  frozen  each  heart  and  benumb'd 

every  hand  ! 

The  dirk  and  the  target  lie  sordid  with 

dust. 
The  bloodless  claymore  is  but  redden'd 

with  rust; 
On  the  hill  or  the  glen  if  a  gun  should 

appear, 
It  is  only  to  war  with  the  heath-cock  or 

deer. 


The  deeds  of  our  sires  if  our  bards  should 

rehearse. 
Let  a  blush  or  a  blow  be  the  meed  of 

their  verse ! 
Be  mute  every  string,  and  be  hush'd  every 

tone, 
Tbat  shall  bid  us  remember  the  fame  that 

is  flown. 

But  the  dark  hours  of  night  and  of  slumber 

are  past. 
The  morn  on  our  mountains  is  dawning 

at  last  ! 
Glenaladale's  peaks  are  illumed  with  the 

rays. 
And  the  streams  of  Glenfinnan  leap  bright 

in  the  blaze. 

O  high-minded  Moray  !  —  the  exiled  • — 
the  dear ! — 

In  the  blush  of  the  dawning  the  Standard 
uprear ! 

Wide,  wide  on  the  winds  of  the  north  let 
it  fly. 

Like  the  sun's  latest  flash  when  the  tem- 
pest is  nigh  ! 

Ye  sons  of  the  strong,  when  that  dawning 
shall  break,  , 

Need  the  harp  of  the  aged  remind  you 
to  wake? 

That  dawn  never  beam'd  on  your  fore- 
fathers' eye. 

But  it  roused  each  high  chieftain  to  van- 
quish or  die. 

O  sprung  from  the  Kings  who  in  Islay 

kept  state. 
Proud  chiefs  of  Clan-Ranald,  Glengarry, 

and  Sleat ! 
Combine    like    three    streams    from    one 

mountain  of  snow, 
And  resistless  in  union  rush  down  on  the 

foe. 

True  son  of  Sir  Evan,  undaunted  Loch- 

iel. 
Place  thy  targe  on  thy  shoulder  and  bur. 

nish  thy  steel ! 
Rough    Keppoch,    give    breath    to    thy 

bugle's  bold  swell. 
Till     far     Coryarrick     resound     to     the 

knell ! 


TO  AN  OAK    TREE. 


447 


Stern  son  of  Lord  Kenneth,  high  chief 
of  Kintail, 

Let  the  stag  in  thy  standard  bound  wild 
in  the  gale ! 

May  the  race  of  Clan-Gillian,  the  fear- 
less and  free, 

Remember  Glenlivat,  Harlaw,  and  Dun- 
dee ! 

Let  the  clan  of  Gray  Fingon,  whose  off- 
spring has  given 

Such  heroes  to  earth,  and  such  martyrs  to 
heaven. 

Unite  with  the  race  of  renown'd  Rorri 
More, 

To  launch  the  long  galley  and  stretch  to 
the  oar ! 

How    Mac-Shimei    will   joy    when    their 

chief  shall  display 
The  yew-crested  bonnet   o'er  tresses   of 

gray ! 
How  the  race  of  wrong'd  Alpine  and  mur- 

der'd  Glencoe 
Shall  shout  for  revenge  when  they  pour 

on  the  foe ! 

Ye  sons  of  brown  Dermid,  who  slew  the 

wild  boar. 
Resume    the    pure    faith    of    the    great 

Calluni-More  ! 
Mac-Niel  of  the  Islands,  and  Moy  of  the 

Lake, 
For  honor,  for  freedom,  for  vengeance 

awake ! 

Awake    on  your    hills,   on    your    islands 

awake ! 
Brave  sons   of   the  mountain,  the    fritn, 

and  the  lake  ! 
'Tis  the  bugle  —  but  not  for  the  chase  is 

the  call; 
'Tis  the  pibroch's  shrill  summons  —  but 

not  to  the  hall. 

'Tis  the  summons  of  heroes  for  conquest 
or  death. 

When  the  banners  are  blazing  on  moun- 
tain and  heath; 

They  call  to  the  dirk,  the  claymore,  and 
the  targe, 

To  the  march  and  the  muster,  the  line 
and  the  charge. 


Be  the  brand  of  each  chieftain  like  Fin's 

in  his  ire ! 
May  the  blood  through   his  veins   flow 

like  currents  of  fire  ! 
Burst  the  base  foreign  yoke  as  your  sires 

did  of  yore ! 
Or  die,  like  your  sires,  and  endure  it  no 

more ! 

Wavcrley,  chap,  xxii. 


TO   AN   OAK  TREE. 

1814. 

In  the  Churchyard  of ,  in  the  High- 
lands of  Scotland,  said  to  mark  the  grave 
of  Captain  Wogan,  killed  in  1649. 

Emblem  of  England's  ancient  faith. 
Full  proudly  may  thy  branches  wave, 

Where  loyalty  lies  low  in  death, 
.\nd  valor  fills  a  timeless  grave. 

And  thou,  brave  tenant  of  the  tomb! 

Repine  not  if  our  clime  deny, 
Above  thine  honor'd  sod  to  bloom. 

The  flowrets  of  a  milder  sky. 

These  owe  their  birth  to  genial  May; 

Beneath  a  fiercer  sun  they  pine. 
Before  the  winter  storm  decay  — 

And  can  their  worth  be  type  of  thine? 

No  !  for  mid  storms  of  Fate  opposing. 
Still  higher  swell'd  thy  dauntless  heart. 

And  while  Despair  the  scene  was  closing, 
Commenced  thy  brief  but  brilliant  part. 

'Twas  then  thou  sought'st   on  Albyn's 
hill 
(When   England's  sons  the  strife  re- 
sign'd), 
A  rugged  race  resisting  still. 

And  unsubdued  though  unrefined. 

Thy  death's  hour  heard  no  kindred  wail, 
No  holy  knell  thy  requiem  rung ! 

Thy  mourners  were  the  plaided  Gael, 
Thy  dirge  the  clamorous  pibroch  sung. 

Yet  who,  in  Fortune's  summer-shine 
To  waste  life's  longest  term  away. 

Would  change  that  glorious  dawn  of  thine, 
Though  darken'd  ere  its  noontide  day? 


448 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Be  thine  the  Tree  whose  dauntless  boughs 
Brave  summer's  drought  and  winter's 
gloom ! 
Rome  bound  with  oak  her  patriots'  brows. 
As  Albyn  shadows  Wogan's  tomb. 
Waverley,  chap.  xxix. 


FOLLOW,    FOLLOW   ME. 

1814. 

But  follow,  follow  me, 

While  glow-worms  light  the  lea, 

I'll  show  ye  where  the  dead  should  be  — 

Each  in  his  shroud, 

While  the  winds  pipe  loud. 

And  the  red  moon  peeps  dim  thro '  the  cl  oud . 

Follow,  follow  me ! 
Brave  should  he  be 

That  treads  by  night  the  dead  man's  lea ! 
Waverley,  chap.  Ixiii. 


FAREWELL  TO   MACKENZIE, 

HIGH    CHIEF   OF    KINTAIL. 

From  the  Gaelic. 
1815. 

The  original  verses  are  arranged  to  a  beauti- 
ful Gaelic  air,  of  which  the  chorus  is  adapted 
to  the  double  pull  upon  the  oars  of  a  galley, 
and  which  is  therefore  distinct  from  the  ordinary 
iorrams,  or  boat-sfmgs.  They  were  composed 
by  the  Family  Bard  upon  the  departure  of  the 
Elarl  of  Seaforth,  who  was  obliged  to  take 
refuge  in  Spain,  after  an  unsuccessful  effort  at 
insurrection  in  favor  of  the  Stuart  family,  in  the 
year  1718. 

Farewell  to  Mackenneth,  great  Earl  of 

the  North, 
The  Lord  of  Lochcarron,  Glenshiel,  and 

Seaforth; 
To  the  Chieftain  this  morning  his  course 

who  began. 
Launching  forth  on  the  billows  his  bark 

like  a  swan. 
For  a  far  foreign  land  he  has  hoisted  his 

sail: 
Farewell   to  Mackenzie,  High  Chief  of 

Kintail ! 

O  swift  be  the  galley,  and  hardy  her  crew. 
May  her  captain  be  skilful,  her  mariners 
true. 


In  danger  undaunted,  unwearied  by  toil, 
Tho'  the  whirlwind  should  rise,  ;(nd  the 

ocean  should  boil : 
On  the  brave  vessel's  gunnel  I  drank  his 

bonail,* 
And  farewell  to  Mackenzie,  High  Chief 

of  Kintail ! 

Awake  in  thy  chamber,  thou  sweet  south- 
land gale ! 

Like  the  sighs  of  his  people,  breathe  soft 
on  his  sail; 

Be  prolong'd  as  regret,  that  his  vassals 
must  know, 

Be  fair  as  their  faith,  and  sincere  as  their 
woe: 

Be  so  soft,  and  so  fair,  and  so  faithful, 
sweet  gale. 

Wafting  onward  Mackenzie,  High  Chief 
of  Kintail ! 

Be  his  pilot  experienced,  and  trusty,  and 

wise, 
To  measure  the  seas  and  to  study  the 

skies : 
May  he  hoist  all  his  canvas  from  streamer 

to  deck. 
But  O  !  crowd  it  higher  when  wafting  him 

back  — 
Till  the  cliffs- of  Skooroora,  and  Conan's 

glad  vale, 
Shall  welcome  Mackenzie,  High  Chief  of 

Kintail ! 


IMITATION   OF   THE    PRECEDING    SONG. 

So  sung  the  old  Bard,  in  the  grief  of  his 

heart. 
When  he  saw  his  lov'd  Lord    from   his 

people  depart. 
Now  mute  on  thy  mountains,  O  Albyn, 

are  heard 
Nor  the  voice  of  the  song,  nor  the  harp 

of  the  bard; 
Or  its  strings  are  but  waked  by  the  stern 

winter  gale 
As  they  mourn  for  Mackenzie,  last  Chief 

of  Kintailt. 

*  Bonail,  or  Bonallez,  the  old  Scottish  phrase 
for  a  feast  at  parting  with  a  friend. 

t  (These  verses  were  written  shortly  after  the 
death  of  Lord  Seaforth,  the  last  male  representa- 
tive uf  liis  illustrious  bouse.) 


IVAJ^-SOA'C    OF  LACIILAN. 


<M9 


From  the  far  Southland  Border  a  Min- 
strel came  forth, 

And  he  waited  the  hour  that  some  Bard 
of  the  north 

His  hand  on  the  harp  of  the  ancient 
should  cast, 

And  bid  its  wild  numbers  mix  high  with 
the  blast; 

But  no  bard  was  there  left  in  the  land  of 
the  Gael 

To  lament  for  Mackenzie,  last  Chief  of 
Kintail. 

And  shalt  thou  then  sleep,  did  the  Min- 
strel exclaim, 

Like  the  son  of  the  lowly,  unnoticed  by 
fame  ? 

No,  son  of  Fitzgerald  !  in  accents  of  woe, 

The  song  thou  hast  loved  o'er  thy  coffin 
shall  flow, 

And  teach  thy  wild  mountains  to  join  in 
the  wail 

That  laments  for  Mackenzie,  last  Chief 
of  Kintail. 

In  vain  the  bright  course  of  thy  talents  to 

wrong. 
Fate  deadened  thine  ear  and  imprison'd 

thy  tongue; 
For  brighter  o'er  all  her  obstructions  arose 
The  glow  of  the  genius  they  could  not 

oppose ; 
And  who  in  the  land  of  the  Saxon  or  Gael 
Might  match  with  Mackenzie,  High  Chief 

of  Kintail?  , 

Thy  sons  rose  around  thee  in  light  and  in 

love. 
All  a  father  could  hope,  all  a  friend  could 

approve ; 
What'vails  it  the  tale  of  thysorrows  to  tell, 
In  the  spring-time  of  youth  and  of  prom- 
ise they  fell ! 
Of  the  line  of  Fitzgerald  remains  not  a  male 
To  bear  the  proud  name  of  the  Chief  of 
Kintail. 

And  thou,  gentle  Dame,t  who  must  bear, 

to  thy  grief. 
For  thy  clan  and  thy  country  the  cares 

of  a  Chief, 

*  The    Honorable    I^idy  Hood,  daughter   of 
the   last   Lord  Seaforth,  widow  of   Admiral   Sir 


Whom  brief  rolling  moons  in  six  changes 

have  left, 
Of  thy  husband,  and  father,  and  brethren 

bereft; 
To  thine  ear  of  affection,  how  sad  is  the 

hail 
That  salutes  thee  the  Heir  of  the  line  of 

Kintail ! 


WAR-SONG  OF  LACHLAN, 

HIGH    CHIEF   OF    MACLEAN. 

From  the  Gaelic. 
1815. 

This  song  appears  to  be  imperfect,  or,  at 
least,  like  many  of  the  early  Gaehc  poems, 
makes  a  rapid  transition  from  one  subject  to 
another,  from  the  situation,  namely,  of  one 
of  the  daughters  of  the  clan,  who  opens  the 
song  by  lamenting  the  absence  of  her  lover,  to 
an  eulogium  over  the  military  glories  of  the 
Chieftain.  The  translator  has  endeavored  to 
imitate  the  abrupt  style  of  the  original. 

A  WEARY  month  has  wander'd  o'er 
Since  last  we  parted  on  the  shore; 
Heaven !  that  I  saw  thee.  Love,  once  more, 

Safe  on  that  shore  again !  — 
"Twas  valiant  Lachlan  gave  the  word : 
Lachlan,  of  many  a  galley  lord: 
He  call'd  his  kindred  bands  on  board. 

And  launch'd  them  on  the  main. 

Clan-Gillian  is  to  ocean  gone, 
Clan-Gillian  fierce  in  foray  known; 
Rejoicing  in  the  glory  won 

In  many  a  bloody  broil : 
For  wide  is  heard  the  thundering  fray. 
The  rout,  the  ruin,  the  dismay. 
When  from  the  twilight  glens  away 

Clan-Gillian  drives  the  spoil. 

Woe  to  the  hills  that  shall  rebound 
Our     banner'd    bag-pipes'     maddening 

sound ; 
Clan-Gillian's  onset  echoing  round, 

Shall  shake  their  inmost  cell. 
Woe  to  the  bark  whose  crew  shall  gaze, 
Where  Lachlan's  silken  streamer  plays ! 
The  fools  might  face  the  lightning's  blaze 

As  wisely  and  as  well ! 

Samuel  Hood,  afterwards  Mrs.  Stew.irt  Mack- 
enzie of  Seaforth  and  Glasserton. 


450 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


SAINT   CLOUD. 

Paris,  ^th  Sepletnber,  1815. 

Soft  spread  the  southern  summer  night 

Her  veil  of  darksome  bhie; 
Ten  thousand  stars  combined  to  light 
The  terrace  of  Saint  Cloud. 

The  evening  breezes  gently  sigh'd, 

Like  breath  of  lover  true, 
Bewailing  the  deserted  pride 

And  wreck  of  sweet  Saint  Cloud. 

The  drum's  deep  roll  was  heard  afar, 

The  bugle  wildly  blew 
Good-night  to  Ihilan  and  Hussar, 

That  garrison  Saint  Cloud. 

The  startled  Naiads  from  the  shade 
With  broken  urns  withdrew. 

And  silenced  was  that  proud  cascade, 
The  glory  of  Saint  Cloud. 

We  sate  upon  its  steps  of  stone. 

Nor  could  its  silence  rue, 
When  waked  to  music  of  our  own, 

The  echoes  of  Saint  Cloud. 

Slow  Seine  might  hear  each  lovely  note 

Fall  light  as  summer  dew, 
While  through  the  moonless  air  they  float, 

Prolong'd  from  fair  Saint  Cloud. 

And  sure  a  melody  more  sweet 

His  waters  never  knew. 
Though  music's  self  was  wont  to  meet 

With  Princes  at  Saint  Cloud. 

Nor  then,  with  more  delighted  ear, 

The  circle  round  her  drew, 
Than  ours,  when  gather'd  round  to  hear 

Our  songstress  at  Saint  Cloud. 

Few  happy  hours  poor  mortals  pass,  — 
Then  give  those  hours  their  due, 

And  rank  among  the  foremost  class 
Our  evenings  at  Saint  Cloud. 


THE  DANCE  OF  DEATH. 

1815. 

I. 

Night  and  morning  were  at  meeting 

Over  Waterloo; 
Cocks  had  sung  their  earliest  greeting; 

Faint  and  low  they  crew; 


For  no  paly  beam  yet  shone 
On  the  heights  of  Slount  Saint  John; 
Tempest-clouds  prolong'd  the  sway 
Of  timeless  darkness  over  day; 
Whirlwind,  thunder-clap,  and  shower, 
Mark'd  it  a  predestined  hour. 
Broad  and  frequent  through  the  night 
Flashed  the  sheets  of  levin-light; 
Muskets,  glancing  lightnings  back, 
Show'd  the  dreary  bivouac 

Where  the  soldier  lay, 
Chill  and  stiff,  and  drench'd  with  rain. 
Wishing  dawn  of  morn  again, 

Though  death  should  come  with  day. 


'Tis  at  such  a  tide  and  hour, 
Wizard,  witch,  and  fiend  have  power, 
And  ghastly  forms  thro'  mist  and  showei 

Gleam  on  the  gifted  ken; 
And  then  the  affrighted  prophet's  ear 
Drinks  whispers  strange  of  fate  and  fear 
Presaging  death  and  ruin  near 

Among  the  sons  of  men;  — 
Apart  from  Albyn's  war-array, 
'Twas  then  gray  Allan  sleepless  lay; 
Gray  Allan,  who,  for  many  a  day, 

Plad  follow'd  stout  and  stern. 
Where,  thro'  battle's  rout  and  reel, 
Storm  of  shot  and  hedge  of  steel. 
Led  the  grandson  of  Lochiel, 

Valiant  Fassiefern. 
Thro'  steel  and  shot  he  leads  no  more. 
Low  laid  mid  friends'  and  foemen'sgore. 
But  long  his  na\ive  lake's  wild  shore. 
And  Sunart  rough,  and  high  Ardgower, 

And  Morven  long  shall  tell, 
And  proud  Bennevis  hear  with  awe. 
How,  upon  bloody  Quatre-Bras, 
Brave  Cameron  heard  the  wild  hurra 

Of  conquest  as  he  fell. 


Lone  on  the  outskirts  of  the  host, 
The  weary  sentinel  held  post. 
And  heard,  through  darkness  far  aloof, 
The  frequent  clang  of  courser's  hoof. 
Where    held    the    cloak'd    patrol    their 

course, 
And  spurr'd  'gainst  storm  the  swerving 

horse; 
But  there  are  sounds  in  Allan's  ear, 
Patrol  nor  sentinel  may  hear, 


THE  DANCE   OF  DEATH. 


45» 


And  sights  before  his  eye  aghast 
Invisible  to  them  have  past, 

When  down  the  destined  plain, 
'Twixt  Britain  and  the  bands  of  France, 
Wild  as  marsh-born  meteor's  glance. 
Strange  phantoms  wheel'd  a  revel  dance, 

And  dooni'd  the  future  slain.  — 
Such  forms  were  seen,  such  sounds  were 

heard, 
WhenScotland's  Jameshismarchprepared 

For  Flodden's  fatal  plain; 
Such,  when  he  drew  his  ruthless  sword, 
As  Choosers  of  the  Slain,  adored 

The  yet  unchristen'd  Dane. 
An  indistinct  and  phantom  band. 
They  wheel'd  their  ring-dance  hand  in 
hand, 
With  gestures  wild  and  dread; 
The  Seer,  who  watch'd  them  ride  the 

storm. 
Saw  thro'  their  faint  and  shadowy  form 
The  lightning's  flash  more  red; 
And  still  their  ghastly  roundelay 
Was  of  the  coming  battle-fray, 
And  of  the  destined  dead. 

IV. 

SONG. 

Wheel  the  wild  dance 
While  lightnings  glance, 

And  thunders  rattle  loud. 
And  call  the  brave 
To  bloody  grave, 

To  sleep  without  a  shroud. 

Our  airy  feet, 
So  light  and  fleet. 

They  do  not  bend  the  rye 
That  sinks  its  head  when  whirlwinds 

rave. 
And  swells  again  in  eddying  wave, 

As  each  wild  gust  blows  by; 
But  still  the  corn. 
At  dawn  of  morn. 

Our  fatal  steps  that  bore, 
At  eve  lies  waste, 
A  trampled  paste 

Of  blackening  mud  and  gore. 

V. 

Wheel  the  wild  dance 
While  lightnings  glance, 
And  thunders  rattle  loud, 


And  call  the  brave 
To  bloody  grave, 

To  sleep  without  a  shroud. 

Wheel  the  wild  dance ! 
Brave  sons  of  France, 

For  you  our  ring  makes  room; 
Make  space  full  wide 
For  martial  pride. 

For  banner,  spear,  and  plume. 
Approach,  draw  near. 
Proud  cuirassier ! 

Room  for  the  men  of  steel ! 
Thro'  crest  and  plate 
The  broadsword's  weight 

Both  head  and  heart  shall  feel. 


Wheel  the  wild  dance 
While  lightnings  glance, 

And  thunders  rattle  loud, 
And  call  the  brave 
To  bloody  grave, 

To  sleep  without  a  shroud. 

Sons  of  the  spear ! 
You  feel  us  near 

In  many  a  ghastly  dream; 
With  fancy's  eye 
Our  forms  you  spy. 

And  hear  our  fatal  scream. 
With  clearer  sight 
Ere  falls  the  night. 

Just  when  to  weal  or  woe 
Your  disembodied  souls  take  flight 
On  trembling  wing  —  each  startled 

sprite 
Our  choir  of  death  shall  know. 

VII. 

Wheel  the  wild  dance 
While  lightnings  glance, 

And  thunders  rattle  loud, 
And  call  the  brave 
To  bloody  grave. 

To  sleep  without  a  shroud. 

Burst,  ye  clouds,  in  tempest  showers, 
Redder  rain  shall    soon  be  ours  — 

Sefc  the  east  grows  wan  — 
Yield  we  place  to  sterner  game. 
Ere  deadlier  bolts  and  direr  flame 


452 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Shall  the  welkin's  thunders  shame : 
Elemental  rage  is  tame 
To  the  wrath  of  man. 


At  morn,  gray  Allan's  mates  with  awe 
Heard  of  the  vision'd  sights  he  saw, 

The  legend  heard  him  say; 
But  the  Seer's  gifted  eye  was  dim, 
Deafen'd  his  ear,  and  stark  his  limb, 

Ere  closed  that  bloody  day  — ■ 
1  le  sleeps  far  from  his  Highland  heath,  — 
But  often  of  the  Dance  of  Death 

His  comrades  tell  the  tale. 
On  picket-post,  when  ebbs  the  night, 
And  waning  watch-fires  glow  less  bright. 

And  dawn  is  glimmering  pale. 


ROMANCE   OF  DUNOIS.* 

FROM    THE    FRENCH. 
1815. 

The  original  of  this  little  Romance  makes 
part  of  a  manuscript  collection  of  French  Songs 
(probably  compiled  by  some  young  officer),  which 
was  found  on  the  field  of  Waterloo,  so  much 
stained  with  clay  and  blood,  as  sufficiently  to  in- 
dicate what  had  been  the  fate  of  its  late  owner. 
The  song  is  popular  in  France,  and  is  rather  a 
good  specimen  of  the  style  of  composition  to 
which  It  belongs.  The  translation  is  strictly 
literal. 

It  was  Dunois,  the  young  and  brave,  was 

bound  for  Palestine; 
But  first  he  made  his  orisons  before  Saint 

Mary's  shrine: 
*'  And  grant,  immortal  Queen  of  Heaven," 

was  still  the  Soldier's  prayer, 
"  That  I  may  prove  the  bravest  knight, 

and  love  the  fairest  fair." 

His  oath  of  honor  on  the  shrine  he  graved 
it  with  his  sword. 

And  foUow'd  to  the  Holy  Land  the  ban- 
ner of  his  Lord; 

Where,  faithful  to  his  noble  vow,  his  war- 
cry  fill'd  the  air, 

"  Be  honor 'd  aye  the  bravest  knight, 
beloved  the  fairest  fair." 

*  "  Partant  pour  la  Syrie  "  was  written  and 
set  10  music  by  Queen  Hortense  of  Holland,  the 
daughter  of  Josephine,  and  the  mother  of  Napo- 
leon III.  It  has  become  the  national  air  of 
France. 


They  owed  the  conquest  to  his  arm,  and 

then  his  Liege-Lord  said,  — 
"The  heart  that  has  for  honor  beat  by 

bliss  must  be  repaid.  — 
My  daughter  Isabel  and  thou  shall  be  a 

wedded  pair, 
For  thou  art  bravest  of  the  brave,  she 

fairest  of  the  fair." 

And  then  they  bound  the  holy  knot  before 

Saint  Mary's  shrine. 
That  makes  a  paradise  on  earth,  if  hearts 

and  hands  combine; 
And  every  lord  and  lady  bright,  that  were 

in  chapel  there. 
Cried  "  Honor'd  be  the  bravest  knight, 

beloved  the  fairest  fair." 


THE  TROUBADOUR. 

FROM   THE   SAME   COLLECTION. 

Also    Written  and   Composed  by  Queen 
Hortense. 

1815. 

Glowing  with  love,  on  fire  for  fame, 

A  Troubadour  that  hated  sorrow, 
Beneath  his  Lady's  window  came. 

And  thus  he  sung  his  last  good-mor- 
row: — 
"  My  arm  it  is  my  country's  right. 

My  heart  is  in  my  true-love's  bower; 
Gayly  for  love  and  fame  to  fight 

Befits  the  gallant  Troubadour." 

And  while  he  march'd  with  helm  on  head 

And  harp  in  hand,  the  descant  rung. 
As,  faithful  to  his  favorite  maid. 

The  minstrel-burden  still  he  sung:  — 
"  My  arm  it  is  my  country's  right. 

My  heart  is  in  my  lady's  bower; 
Resolved  for  love  and  fame  to  fight, 

I  come  a  gallant  Troubadour." 

Even  when  the  battle-roar  was  deep. 

With  dauntless  heart  he  hew'd  his  way, 
Mid  splintering  lance  and  falchion-sweep, 

And  still  was  heard  his  warrior-lay:  — 
"  My  life  it  is  my  country's  right, 

My  heart  is  in  my  lady's  bower; 
For  love  to  die,  for  fame  to  fight, 

Becomes  the  valiant  Troubadour." 


FROM    THE   FRENCH. 


453 


Alas !  upon  the  bloody  field 

He  fell  beneath  the  foeman's  glaive, 
But  still  reclining  on  his  shield. 

Expiring  sung  the  exulting  stave :  — 
"  My  life  it  is  my  country's  right, 

My  heart  is  in  my  lady's  bower; 
For  love  and  fame  to  fall  in  fight 

Becomes  the  valiant  Troubadour." 


FROM   THE  FRENCH.* 

1815. 

It  chanced  that  Cupid  on  a  season, 
By  Fancy  urged,  resolved  to  wed. 

But  could  not  settle  whether  Reason 
Or  Folly  should  partake  his  bed. 

What  does  he  then? — Upon  ijny  life, 
'Twas  bad  example  for  a  deity  — 

He  takes  me  Reason  for  a  wife, 
And  Folly  for  his  hours  of  gayety. 

Though  thus  he  dealt  in  petty  treason, 
He  loved  them  both  in  equal  measure; 

Fidelity  was  born  of  Reason, 

And  Folly  brought  to  bed  of  Pleasure. 


SONG. 


On  the  lifting  of  the  banner  of  the  House 
of  Bucdetich,  at  a  great  foot-ball  match 
on  Carterhatigh.\ 

1815- 
From  the  brown  crest  of  Newark  its  sum- 
mons extending, 
Our  signal  is  waving  in  smoke  and  in 
flame; 
And  each  forester  blithe,  from  his  moun- 
tain descending, 
Bounds  light  o'er  the  heather  to  join  in 
the  game. 

CHORUS. 

Then  up  with  the  Banner,  let  forest 'Minds 
fan  her. 
She  has  blazed  over  Ettrick  eight  ages 
and  more  ; 

*  From  the  same  collection  as  the  two  preced- 
ing songs. 

t  The  foot-ball  match  took  place  Dec.  5,  1815, 
and  was  also  celebrated  by  the  Ettrick  Shepherd. 


In  sport  we'll  attend  her,  in  battle  defend 
her. 
With  heart  and  with  hand,  like  our 
fathers  before. 

When  the  Southern  invader  spread  waste 
and  disorder. 
At  the  glance  of  her  crescents  he  paused 
and  withdrew. 
For  around   them  were   marshall'd   tht 
pride  of  the  Border, 
The  Flowers  of  the  Forest,  the  bands 

of    BUCCLEUCH. 

Then  up  with  the  Banner,  etc. 

A  Stripling's  weak  hand  to  our  revel  has 
borne  her,t 
No  mail-glove    has    grasp'd    her,    no 
spearmen  surround; 
But  ere  a  bold  foeman  should  scathe  or 
should  scorn  her, 
A  thousand  true  hearts  would  be  cold 
on  the  ground. 

Then  up  with  the  Banner,  etc. 

We  forget  each  contention  of  civil  dissen- 
sion. 
And  hail,  Hke   our  brethren,  Home, 
Douglas,  and  Car: 
And    Elliot   and   Pringle  in  pastime 
shall  mingle. 
As  welcome  in  peace  as  their  fathers 
in  war. 

Then  up  with  the  Banner,  etc. 

Then  strip,  lads,  and  to  it,  tho'  sharp  be 
the  weather. 
And  if,  by  mischance,  you  should  hap- 
pen to  fall, 
There   are  worse   things  in  life   than  a 
tumble  on  heather. 
And  life  is  itself  but  a  game  at  foot-ball. 
Thett  up  with  the  Banner,  etc. 

And  when  it  is  over,  we'll  drink  a  blithe 
measure 
To  each  Laird  and   each   Lady  that 
witness'd  our  fun, 
And  to  every  blithe  heart  that  took  part 
in  our  pleasure, 
To  the  lads  that  have  lost  and  the  lads 
that  have  won.' 

Then  up  with  the  Banner,  etc. 

X  The  bearer  of  the  standard  was  the  author's 
eldest  son. 


454 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


May  the  Forest  still  flourish,  both  Borough 
and  Landward, 
From  the  hall  of  the  Peer  to  the  Herd's 
ingle-nook; 
And  huzza !    my  brave  hearts,   for  Buc- 
CLEUCH  and  his  standard, 
For   the   King   and   the   Country,   the 
Clan  and  the  Duke  ! 

Then  up'vith  the  Banner,  let  forest  zuinds 
fan  her. 
She  has  blazed  over  Ettrick  eight  ages 
and  more  ; 
In  sport  we'll  attend  her,  in  battle  defend 
her. 
With  heart  and  with  hand,  like  our 
fathers  before. 


LULLABY  OF  AN  INFANT  CHIEF. 

Air  —  CadtU  gu  to.* 

1815. 

I. 

O  HUSH  thee,  my  baby,  thy  sire  was  a 

knight, 
Thy  mother  a  lady,  both  lovely  and  bright; 
The  woods  and  the  glens,  from  the  towers 

which  we  see, 
They  are  all  belonging,  dear  baby,  to  thee. 
O  ho  ro,  i  ri  ri,  cadul  gu  lo, 
O  ho  ro,  i  ri  ri,  etc. 


O,  fear  not  the   bugle,  though  loudly  it 

blows. 
It  calls  but  the  warders  that  guard  thy 

repose; 
Their  bows  would  be  bended,  their  blades 

would  be  red, 
Ere  the  step  of  a  foeman  draws  near  to 

thy  bed. 

O  ho  ro,  i  ri  ri,  etc. 


O,  hush  thee,  my  baby,  the  time  soon 
will  come,  " 

When  thy  sleep  shall  be  broken  by  trum- 
pet and  drum; 

*  Sleep  till  day. 


Then  hush   thee,  my  darling,  take  rest 
while  you  may. 

For  strife  comes  with  manhood,  and  wak- 
ing with  day. 

O  ho  ro,  i  ri  ri,  etc. 


SONGS  OF  MEG  MERRILIES. 
1815. 
I. 
"TWIST   YE,  TWINE   YE." 
Twist  ye,  twine  ye  !  even  so. 
Mingle  shades  of  joy  and  woe, 
Hope,  and  fear,  and  peace,  and  strife. 
In  the  thread  of  human  life. 

While  the  mystic  twist  is  spinning. 
And  the  infant's  life  beginning. 
Dimly  seen  through  twilight  bending, 
Lo,  what  varied  shapes  attending  ! 

Passions  wild,  and  follies  vain. 
Pleasures  soon  exchanged  for  pain; 
Doubt,  and  jealousy,  and  fear, 
In  the  magic  dance  appear. 

Now  they  wax,  and  now  they  dwindle. 
Whirling  with  the  whirling  spindle. 
Twist  ye,  twine  ye  !  even  so, 
Mingle  human  bliss  and  woe. 

Guy  Mannering,  chap.  iii. 


THE  DYING  GYPSY'S  DIRGE. 
Wasted,  weary,  wherefore  stay. 
Wrestling  thus  with  earth  and  clay? 
P'rom  the  body  pass  away;  — 

Hark  !  the  mass  is  singing. 

From  thee  doff  thy  mortal  weed, 
Mary  Mother  be  thy  speed. 
Saints  to  help  thee  at  thy  need;  — 

Hark  !  the  knell  is  ringing. 

Fear  not  snow-drift  driving  fast. 
Sleet,  or  hail,  or  levin  blast; 
Soon  the  shroud  shall  lap  thee  fast, 
And  the  sleep  be  on  thee  cast 

That  shall  ne'er  know  waking. 


THE  RETURN   TO    ULSTER. 


455 


Haste  thee,  haste  thee,  to  be  gone, 
Earth  flits  fast,  and  time  draws  on, — 
Gasp  thy  gasp,  and  groan  thy  groan, 
Day  is  near  the  breaking. 
Guy  Alannering,  chap,  xxvii. 


THE  RETURN  TO  ULSTER. 
I8i6. 

Once  again,  —  but  how  changed  since 
my  wand'rings  began,  — 

I  have  heard  the  deep  voice  of  the  Lagan 
and  Bann, 

And  the  pines  of  Clanbrassi   resound  to 
the  roar 

That  wearies  the  echoes  of  fair  Tullamore. 

Alas !  my  poor  bosom,  and  why  shouldst 
thou  burn? 

With  the  scenes  of  my  youth  can  its  rap- 
tures return? 

Can  I  live  the  dear  life  of  delusion  again, 

That  flow'd  when  these  echoes  first  mix'd 
with  my  strain? 

It  was  then  that  around  me,  tho'  poor 

and  unknown. 
High  spells  of  mysterious  enchantment 

were  thrown; 
The  streams  were  of  silver,  of  diamond 

the  dew. 
The  land  was  an  Eden,  for  fancy  was  new. 
I  had  heard  of   our  bards,  and   my  soul 

was  on  fire 
At  the  rush  of  their  verse,  and  the  sweep 

of  their  lyre : 
To  me  'twas  not  legend,  nor  tale  to  the  ear. 
But  a  vision   of  noontide,  distinguish'd 

and  clear. 

Ultonia's  old  heroes  awoke  at  the  call, 
And  renew'd  the  wild  pomp  of  the  chase 

and  the  hall; 
And  the  standard  of  Fion  *  flash'd  fierce 

from  on  high, 
Like  a  burst  of  the  sun  when  the  tempest 

is  nigh. 
It  seem'd  that  the  harp  of  green  Erin 

once  more 
Could  renew  all  the  glories  she  boasted 

of  yore.  — 

*  The  Standard  of  Fion  or  Fingal  was  called 
by  the  Irish  bards  the  Sun-burst,  rendered  Sun- 
beatii  by  Macpherson. 


Yet  why  at  remembrance,  fond   heart, 

should'st  thou  burn  ? 
They  were  days  of  delusion  and  cannot 

return. 

But  was  she,  too,  a  phantom,  the  Maid 

who  stood  by. 
And  listed  my  lay,  while  she  turn'd  from 

mine  eye? 
Was  she,  too,  a  vision,  just  glancing  to 

view. 
Then  dispersed  in  the  sunbeam,  or  melted 

to  dew? 
Oh !  would  it  had  been  so,  —  Oh !  would 

that  her  eye 
Had  been  but  a  star -glance  that  shot  thro* . 

the  sky. 
And  her  voice  that  was  moulded  to  mel- 
ody's thrill, 
Had  been  but  a  zephyr,  that  sigh'd  and 

was  still ! 

Oh !  would  it  had  been  so,  —  not  then 

this  poor  heart 
Had  learn'd  the  sad  lesson,  to  love  and 

to  part; 
To  bear,  unassisted,  its  burden  of  care, 
While  I  toil'd  for  the  wealth  I  had  no 

one  to  share. 
Not  then  had  I  said,  when  life's  summer 

was  done. 
And  the  hours  of  her  autumn  were  fast 

speeding  on :  — 
"  Take  the  fame  and  the  riches  ye  brought 

in  your  train, 
And  restore  me  the  dream  of  my  spring- 
tide again." 


JOCK  OF  HAZELDEAN. 

Air  —  A    Border  Melody. 
1816. 
The  first  stanza  of  this  ballad  is  ancient.    The 
others  were  written  for  Mr.  Campbell's  Albyn'< 
Anthology. 

I. 

"  Why  weep  ye  by  the  tide,  ladle? 

Why  weep  ye  by  the  tide? 
I'll  wed  ye  to  my  youngest  son, 

And  ye  sail  be  his  bride. 
And  ye  sail  be  his  bride,  ladie, 

Sae  comely  to  be  seen  "  — 
But  aye  she  loot  the  tears  down  fa' 

For  Jock  of  Hazeldean. 


456 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


"  Now  let  this  wilfu'  grief  be  done, 

And  dry  that  cheek  so  pale; 
Young  Frank  is  chief  of  Errington, 

And  lord  of  Langley-dale; 
His  step  is  first  in  peaceful  ha', 

His  sword  in  liattle  keen  "  — 
But  aye  she  loot  the  tears  down  fa' 

For  Jock  of  Hazeldean. 


"  A  chain  of  gold  ye  sail  not  lack, 

Nor  braid  to  bind  your  hair; 
Nor  mettled  hound,  nor  managed  hawk. 

Nor  palfrey  fresh  and  fair; 
And  you,  the  foremost  o'  them  a', 

Shall  ride  our  forest  queen  "  — 
But  aye  she  loot  the  tears  down  fa' 

For  Jock  of  Hazeldean. 


The  kirk  was  deck'd  at  morning-tide. 

The  tapers  glimmer'd  fair; 
The  priest  and  bridegroom  wait  the  bride. 

And  dame  and  knight  are  there. 
They  sought  her  baith  by  bower  and  ha'; 

The  ladle  was  not  seen  ! 
She's  o'^r  the  Border,  and  awa' 

Wi'  Jock  of  Hazeldean. 


PIBROCH  OF  DONALD  DHU.* 

Air  —  "  Phbair  of  Donuil  Dhuidh.''^ 
1816. 

This  is  a  very  ancient  pibroch  belongin;;  to 
Clan  Macdonald,  and  supposed  to  refer  to  the 
expedition  of  Donald  Balloch,  who,  in  1431, 
launclied  from  the  Isles  with  a  considerable 
force,  invaded  Lochaber,  and  at  Inverlochy  de- 
feated and  put  to  flight  the  Earls  of  Mar  and 
Caithness,  though  at  the  head  of  an  army  supe- 
rior to  his  own.  The  words  of  the  set,  theme,  or 
melody,  to  which  the  pipe  variations  are  applied, 
run  thus  in  Gaelic  :  — 

Piobaireachd     Dhonuil     Dhuidh,    piobaireachd 

Dhonuil 
Piobaireachd     Dhonuil     Dhuidh,     piobaireachd 

Dhonuil ; 
Piobaireachd     Dhonuil     Dhuidh,     piobaireachd 

Dhonuil ; 
Piob  agus  bratach  airfaiche  Inverlochi. 

The  pipe-summons  of  Donald  the  Black, 
The  pipe-summons  of  Donald  the  Hlack, 
The  war-pipe  and  the  pennon  are  on  the  gathering 
place  at  Inverlochy. 

*  Z>A«  — the  Black. 


Pibroch  of  Donuil  Dhu, 

Pibroch  of  Donuil, 
Wake  thy  wild  voice  anew, 

Summon  Clan-Conuil. 
Come  away,  come  away. 

Hark  to  the  summons! 
Come  in  your  war  array, 

Gentles  and  commons. 

Come  from  deep  glen  and 

From  mountain  so  rocky. 
The  war-pipe  and  pennon 

Are  at  Inverlochy. 
Come  every  hill-plaid  and 

True  heart  that  wears  one. 
Come  every  steel  blade  and 

Strong  hand  that  bears  one. 

Leave  untended  the  herd. 

The  flock  without  shelter; 
Leave  the  corpse  uninterr'd, 

The  bride  at  the  altar; 
Leave  the  deer,  leave  the  steer. 

Leave  nets  and  barges : 
Come  with  your  fighting-gear, 

Broadswords  and  targes. 

Come  as  the  winds  come,  when 

Forests  are  rended, 
Come  as  the  waves  come,  when 

Navies  are  stranded : 
Faster  come,  faster  come. 

Faster  and  faster. 
Chief,  vassal,  page,  and  groom. 

Tenant  and  master. 

Fast  they  come,  fast  they  come; 

See  how  they  gather  ! 
Wide  waves  the  eagle  plume, 

Blended  with  heather. 
Cast  your  plaids,  draw  your  blades, 

Forward  each  man  set ! 
Pibroch  of  Donuil  Dhu, 

Knell  for  the  onset ! 


NORA'S   VOW. 

Air  —  Cfta  teid  mis  a   c/iaoidh* 

WRITTEN    FOR   ALBYN'S    ANTHOLOGY. 

1816. 

In  the  original  Gaelic,  tlie  lady  makes  pro- 
testations that  she  will  not  go  with  the  Red  Earl's 
son,  until  the  swan  should  build  in  the  cliff,  and 

*  "  I  will  never  go  with  him." 


MA  CGREGOR  'S    GA  TIIERING. 


457 


the  eagle  in  the  lake  —  until  one  mountain  should 
change  place  with  another,  and  so  forth.  It  is 
but  fair  to  add,  that  there  is  no  authority  for  sup- 
posing that  she  altered  her  mhid  —  except  the 
vehemence  of  her  protestation. 


Hear  what  Highland  Nora  said:  - 
"The  Earlie's  son  I  will  not  wed, 
Should  all  the  race  of  nature  die, 
And  none  l)e  left  but  he  and  I. 
For  all  the  gold,  for  all  the  gear, 
And  all  the  lands  both  far  and  near. 
That  ever  valor  lost  or  won, 
I  would  not  wed  the  Earlie's  son." 


"  A  maiden's  vows,"  old  Galium  spoke, 
"  Are  lightly  made  and  lightly  broke; 
The  heather  on  the  mountain's  height 
Begins  to  bloom  in  purple  light; 
The  frost-wind  soon  shall  sweep  away 
That  lustre  deep  from  glen  and  brae; 
Yet  Nora,  ere  its  bloom  be  gone, 
May  blithely  wed  the  Earlie's  son."  — 


■  The  swan,"  she  said,  "  the  lake's  clear 

breast 
May  barter  for  the  eagle's  nest; 
The  Awe's  fierce  stream  may  backward 

turn, 
Ben-Cruaichan  fall,  and  crush  Kilchurn; 
Our  kilted  clans,  when  blood  is  high, 
Before  their  foes  may  turn  and  fly; 
But  I,  were  all  these  marvels  done. 
Would  never  wed  the  Earlie's  son." 


Still  in  the  water-lily's  shade 
Her  wonted  nest  the  wild-swan  made; 
Ben-Cruaichan  stands  as  fast  as  ever, 
Stil  1  downward  foams  the  Awe '  sfierce  river; 
To  shun  the  clash  of  foeman's  steel. 
No  Highland  brogue  has  turn'd  the  heel; 
But  Nora's  heart  is  lost  and  won, 
—  She's  wedded  to  the  Earlie's  son  ! 


MACGREGOR'S   GATHERING. 

Air  —  ThaifC  a   Grigalach.* 
WRITTEN    FOR   ALBYN's   ANTHOLOGY. 

1816. 
These  verses  are  adapted  to  a  very  wild  yet 
lively  gathering-tune,  used  by  the  MacGregors. 

*  "  The  MacGregor  is  come." 


The  severe  treatment  of  this  clan,  their  outlawry, 
and  the  proscription  of  their  very  name,  are 
alluded  to  in  the  Ballad. 

The  moon's  on  the  lake,  and  the  mist's 

on  the  brae. 
And  the  Clan  has  a  name  that  is  nameless 
by  day; 
Then  gather,  gather,  gather,  Grigalach  ! 
Gather,  gather,  gather,  etc.  / 

Our  signal  for  fight,  that  from  monarchs 

we  drew. 
Must  be  heard  but  by  night  in  our  venge- 
ful haloo ! 
Then  haloo,  Grigalach  !  haloo,  Griga- 
lach ! 
Haloo,  haloo,  haloo,  Grigalach,  etc. 

Glen   Orchy's    proud    mountains,   Coal- 

chuirn  and  her  towers, 
Glenstrae    and   Glenlyon  no  longer    are 
ours; 
We're     landless,     landless,     landless, 

Grigalach  I 
Landless,  landless,  landless,  etc. 

But  doom'd  and  devoted  by  vassal  and 

lord, 
MacGregor  has  still  both  his  heart  and 
his  sword ! 
Then  courage,  courage,  courage,  Griga- 
lach ! 
Courage,  courage,  courage,  etc. 

If  they  rob  us  of  name,  and  pursue  us 

with  beagles. 
Give  their  roofs  to  the  flame,  and  their 
flesh  to  the  eagles  ! 
Then     vengeance,     vengeance,     ven- 
geance, Grigalach ! 
Vengeance,  vengeance,  vengeance,  etc. 

While  there's  leaves  in  the  forest,  and 

foam  on  the  river, 
MacGregor,  despite  them,  shall  flourish 
forever ! 
Come    then,    Grigalach !    come   then, 

Grigalach ! 
Come  then,  come  then,  come  then,  etc. 

Through  the  depths  of  Loch  Katrine  the 

steed  shall  career. 
O'er  the  peak  of  Ben-Lomond  the  galley 

shall  steer, 


45i> 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


And    the    rocks   of    Craig-Royston    like 

icicles  melt, 
Ere  our  wrongs  be  forgot,  or  our  ven- 
geance unfelt ! 
Then   gather,    gather,  gather,   Griga- 

lach! 
Gather,  gather,  gather,  etc. 


VERSES. 

COMPOSED    FOR   THE   OCCASION,   ADAPTED 
TO   HAYDN'S    AIR, 

"  God  Save  the  Emperor  Francis," 

AND     SUNG     BY    A    SELECT     BAND     AFTER 
THE   DINNER   GIVEN    BY   THE   LORD 
PROVOST   OF    EDINBURGH    TO   THE 

GRAND-DUKE    NICHOLAS   OF 

RUSSIA   AND    HIS  SUITE. 
I9TH    DECEMBER,    1816. 

God  protect  brave  Alexander, 

Heaven  defend  the  noble  Tsar, 
Mighty  Russia's  high  Commander, 

First  in  Europe's  banded  war  ! 
For  the  realms  he  did  deliver 

From  the  tyrant  overthrown. 
Thou,  of  every  good  the  Giver, 

Grant  him  long  to  bless  his  own ! 
Bless  him,  mid  his  land's  disaster, 

For  her  rights  who  battled  brave. 
Of  the  land  of  foemen  master. 

Bless  him  who  their  wrongs  forgave  ! 

O'er  his  just  resentment  victor, 

Victor  over  Europe's  foes, 
Late  and  long  supreme  director, 

Grant  in  peace  his  reign  may  close ! 
Hail!  then,  hail !  illustrious  Stranger  ! 

Welcome  to  our  mountain  strand  ! 
Mutual  interests,  hopes,  and  danger. 

Link  us  with  thy  native  land. 
Freemen's  force,  or  false  beguiling. 

Shall  that  union  ne'er  divide. 
Hand  in  hand  while  peace  is  smiling. 

And  in  battle  side  by  side. 


TIME. 
1816. 


"  Why  sit'st  thou  by  that  ruin'd  hall. 
Thou  aged  carle  so  stern  and  gray  ? 


Dost  thou  its  former  pride  recall. 
Or  ponder  how  it  pass'd  away !  "  — 

"  Know'st    thou   not    me!  "   the    Deep 
Voice  cried; 

"  So  long  enjoy'd,  so  oft  misused  — 
Alternate,  in  thy  fickle  pride. 

Desired,  neglected,  and  accused ! 

"Before  my  breath,  like  blazing  flax, 
Man  and  his  marvels  pass  away ! 

And  changing  empires  wane  and  wax, 
Are  founded,  flourish,  and  decay. 

Redeem  mine  hours  —  the  space  is  brief — 
While   in   my   glass    the    sand-grains 
shiver. 
And  measureless  thy  joy  or  grief, 

When  Time,  and  thou  shalt  part  for- 
ever !  " 

The  Antiquary,  chap.  x. 


ELSPETH'S  BALLAD. 
1816. 

The  herring  loves  the  merry  moon-light, 
The  mackerel  loves  the  wind. 

But  the  oyster  loves  the  dredging  sang. 
For  they  come  of  a  gentle  kind. 

Now  baud  your   tongue,  baith  wife   and 
carle. 

And  listen  great  and  sma'. 
And  I  will  sing  of  Glenallan's  Earl 

That  fought  on  the  red  Harlaw. 

The  cronach's  cried  on  Bennachie, 

And  doun  the  Don  and  a'. 
And  hieland  and  lawland  may  mournfu'be 

For  the  sair  field  of  Harlaw.  — 

They  saddled  a  hundred  milk-white  steeds, 
They  hae  bridled  a  hundred  black, 

With  a  chafron  of  steel  on  each  horse's 
head. 
And  a  good  knight  upon  his  back. 

They  hadna  ridden  a  mile,  a  mile, 

A  mile  but  barely  ten, 
When  Donald  came  branking  down  the 
brae 

Wi'  twenty  thousand  men. 


MOTTOES. 


459 


Their  tartans  they  were  waving  wide, 
Their  glaives  were  glancing  clear. 

The  pibrochs  rung  frae  side  to  side, 
Would  deafen  ye  to  hear. 

The  great  Earl  in  his  stirrup  stood, 

That  Highland  host  to  see : 
"  Now  here   a  knight  that's   stout    and 
good 

May  prove  a  jeopardie : 

"  What  would'st  thou  do,  my  squire  so 

gay. 

That  rides  beside  my  reyne.  — 

Were  ye  Glenallan's  Earl  the  day, 

And  I  were  Roland  Cheyne? 

"  To  turn  the  rein  were  sin  and  shame. 
To  fight  were  wondrous  peril,  — 

What  would  ye  do  now,  Roland  Cheyne, 
Were  ye  Glenallan's  Earl !  "  — 

*'  Were  I  Glenallan's  Earl  this  tide. 
And  ye  were  Roland  Cheyne, 

The  spur  should  be  in  my  horse's  side. 
And  the  bridle  upon  his  mane. 

"  If  they  hae  twenty  thousand  blades. 

And  we  twice  ten  times  ten, 
Vet  they  hae  but  their  tartan  plaids. 

And  we  are  mail-clad  men. 

"  My  horse  shall  ride  through  ranks  sae 
rude. 

As  through  the  moorland  fern,  — 
Then  ne'er  let  the  gentle  Norman  blude 

Grow  cauld  for  Highland  kerne." 

He  turn'd  him  right  and  round  again, 
Said,  Scorn  na  at  my  mither; 

Light  loves  I  may  get  mony  a  ane, 
But  minnie  ne'er  anither. 

The  Antiquary,  chap.  xl. 


MOTTOES. 

FROM    "  THE   ANTIQUARY." 

I  KNEW  Anselmo.     He  was  shrewd  and 

prudent, 
Wisdom  and  cunning  had  their  shares  of 

him; 


But  he  was  shrewish  as  a  wayward  child, 
And  pleased  again  by  toys  which  child- 
hood please; 
As  —  book  of  fables  graced  with  print  of 

wood. 
Or  else  the  jingling  of  a  rusty  medal. 
Or  the  rare  melody  of  some  old  ditty. 
That  first  was  sung  to  please  King  Pepin's 
cradle. 

CHAP.    IX. 

"Be  brave,"  she  cried,  "you  yet  may 

be  our  guest. 
Our  haunted  room  was  ever  held  the  best : 
If,  then,  your  valor  can  the  fight  sustain 
Of   rustling   curtains,  and   the   clinking 

chain; 
If  your  courageous  tongue  have  powers 

to  talk. 
When  round  your  bed  the  horrid  ghost 

shall  walk. 
If  you  dare  ask  it  why  it  leaves  its  tomb, 
I'll  see  your  sheets  well  air'd,  and  show 

the  room. 

True  Story. 

CHAP.    XXI. 

—  The  Lord  Abbot  had  a  soul 

Subtile  and  quick,  and  searching  as  the 

fire: 
By  magic  stairs  he  went  as  deep  as  hell. 
And  if  in  devils'  possession  gold  be  kept, 
He  brought  some  sure  from  thence  —  'tis 

hid  in  caves, 
Known,  save  to  me,  to  none. 

The  Wonder  of  a  Kingdome. 

CHAP.    XXX. 

Who  is  he?  —  One  that  for  the  lack  of 
land 

Shall  fight  upon  the  water  —  he  hath  chal- 
lenged 

Formerly  the  grand  whale;    and  by  his 
titles 

Of  Leviathan,  Behemoth,  and  so  forth. 

He  tilted  with  a  sword-fish  —  Marry,  sir, 

Th'  aquatic  had  the  best  —  the  argunient 

Still  calls  our  champion's  breech. 

''  Old  Play. 

CHAP.   XXXI. 

Tell  me   not   of   it,  friend  —  when   the 

young  weep. 
Their  tears  are  lukewarm  brine;  — from 

our  old  eyes 


460 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Sorrow  falls  down  like  hail-drops  of  the 
North, 

Chilling  the  furrowsof  our  wither'dcheeks. 

Cold  as  our  hopes,  and  harden'd  as  our 
feeling  — 

Theirs,  as  they  fall,  sink  sightless  —  ours 
recoil, 

Heap  the  fair  plain,  and  bleaken  all  be- 
fore us. 

Old  Play. 

CHAP.    XXXIII. 

Remorse — she  ne'er  forsakes  us! 

A  bloodhound  stanch  —  she   tracks   our 

rapid  step 
Through  the  wild  labyrinth  of  youthful 

frenzy. 
Unheard,  perchance,  until  old  age  hath 

tamed  us; 
Then  in  our  lair,  when  Time  hath  chill'd 

our  joints. 
And  maim'd  our  hope  of  combat,  or  of 

flight, 
We  hear  her  deep-mouth'd  bay,  announ- 
cing all 
Of  wrath  and  woe  and  punishment  that 

bides  us. 

Old  Play. 

CHAP.    XXXIV. 

Still  in  his  dead  hand  clench'd   remain 

the  strings 
That  thrill  his  father's   heart  —  e'en   as 

the  limb, 
Lopp'd  off  and  laid  in  grave,  retains,  they 

tell  us, 
Strange    commerce    with    the    mutilated 

stump. 
Whose    nerves    are    twinging    still     in 

maim'd  existence. 

Old  Play. 

CHAP.    XXXV. 

Life,  with  you. 

Glows   in  the  brain  and  dances   in    the 
arteries; 

'Tis  like  the  wine  some  joyous  guest  hath 
quaff'd. 

That   glads    the   heart  and   elevates    the 
fancy :  — 

Mine  is  the  poor  residuum  of  the  cup, 

Vapid,    and    dull,    and    tasteless,    only 
soiling 

With  its  base  dregs  the  vessel  that  con- 
tains it. 

Old  Play. 


CHAP.  XXXVII. 

Yes  !  I  love  Justice  well  —  as  well  as  you 

do  — 
But,   since  the  good   dame's   blind,  she 

shall  excuse  me. 
If,  time  and  reason  fitting,  I  prove  dumb; 
The  breath  I  utter  now  shall  be  no  means 
To  take   away   from    me    my  breath    in 

future. 

Old  Play. 
CHAP.  XXXVIII. 

Well,  well,  at  worst,  'tis  neither  theft  nor 

coinage. 
Granting  I  knew  all  that  you  charge  me 

with. 
What,  tho'  the  tomb  hath  borne  a  second 

birth. 
And  given  the  wealth  to  one  that  knew 

not  on't. 
Yet  fair  exchange  was  never  robbery. 
Far  less  pure  bounty. 

Old  Play. 
CHAP.  XL. 

Life  ebbs  from  such  old  age,  unmark'd 

and  silent. 
As  the  slow  neap-tide  leaves  yon  stranded 

galley. 
Late    she    rock'd    merrily    at    the    least 

impulse 
That  wind  or  wave  could  give;    but  now 

her  keel 
Is  settling  on  the  sand,  her  mast  has  ta'en 
An  angle  with   the   sky,   from  which   it 

shifts  not. 
Each  wave  receding  shakes  her  less  and 

less. 
Till,   bedded   on    the   strand,  she   shall 

remain 
Useless  as  motionless. 

Old  Play. 

CHAP.  XLI. 

So,  while  the  Goose,  of  whom  the   fable 

told. 
Incumbent, brooded  o'er  her  eggs  of  gold. 
With    hand    outstretch'd,    impatient    to 

destroy. 
Stole  on  her  secret  nest  the  cruel  Boy, 
Whose  gripe  rapacious  changed  her  splen- 
did dream, 
For  wings  vain  fluttering,  and  for  dying 
scream. 

The  Loves  of  the  Sea-  Weeds. 


MOTTO   FROM  '■'■THE   BLACK  DWARF. 


461 


CHAP.   XLII. 

Let  those  go  see  who  will  —  I  like  it  not — 
For  say  he  was  a  slave  to  rank  and  pomp, 
And  all  the  nothings  he  is  now  divorced 

from 
By  the  hard  doom  of  stern  necessity; 
Yet  is  it  sad  to  mark  his  alter'd  brow. 
Where  vanity  adjusts  her  flimsy  veil 
O'er  the  deep  wrinkles  of  repentant  An- 
guish. 

Old  Play. 
CHAP.  y.w\\. 
Fortune,  you  say,  flies  from  us  —  She  but 

circles, 
Like  the  fleet  sea-bird  round  the  fowler's 

skiff,  — 
Lost  in  the  mist  one  moment,  and  the 

next 
Brushing  the  white  sail  with  her  whiter 

wing, 
As    if    to    court    the   aim. — Experience 

watches. 
And  has  her  on  the  wheel. 

Old  Play. 

CHAP.    XLIV. 

Nay,  if  she  love  me  not,  I  care  not  for 

her; 
Shall   I   look   pale  because  the   maiden 

blooms  ? 
Or  sigh  because  she  smiles  —  and  smiles 

on  others? 
Not  I,  by  Heaven!  —  I  hold  my  peace 

too  dear. 
To  let  it,  like  the  plume  upon  her  cap, 
Shake  at  each  nod  that  her  caprice  shall 

dictate. 

Old  Play. 


MOTTO   FROM    "THE   BLACK 
DWARF." 

1816. 
CHAP.  XVI. 

—  'TWAS  time  and  griefs 

That  framed  him  thus:    Time,  with  his 

fairer  hand. 
Offering  the  fortunes  of  his  former  days. 
The  former  man  may  make  him  —  Bring 

us  to  him, 
And  chance  it  as  it  may. 

Old  Plav. 


MAJOR  BELLENDEN'S  SONG. 

1816. 

And  what  the'  winter  will  pinch  severe 
Thro'  locks  of  gray  and  a  cloak  that's 
old, 
Yet  keep  up  thy  heart,  bold  cavalier. 

For  a  cup  of  sack  shall  fence  the  cold. 
For  time  will  rust  the  brightest  blade, 
And   years    will    break   the   strongest 
bow ; 
^Vas  never  wight  so  starkly  made. 
But  time  and  years  would  overthrow ! 
Old  Mortality,  chap.  xix. 


VERSES  FOUND  IN  BOTHVVELL'S 
POCKET-BOOK.* 

1816. 

Thy  hue,  dear  pledge,  is  pure  and  bright. 
As  in  that  well-remember'd  night. 
When  first  thy  mystic  braid  was  wove. 
And  first  my  Agnes  whisper'd  love. 

Since  then  how  often  hast  thou  press'd 
The  torrid  zone  of  this  wild  breast, 
Whose  wrath  and   hate   have   sworn   to 

dwell 
With  the  first  sin  which  peopled  hell. 
A  breast  whose  blood's  a  troubled  ocean. 
Each  throb  the  earthquake's  wild  com- 
motion !  — 
O,  if  such  clime  thou  canst  endure. 
Yet  keep  thy  hue  unstain'd  and  pure. 
What  conquest  o'er  each  erring  thought 
Of  that  fierce  realm  had  Agnes  wrought ! 
I  had  not  wander'd  wild  and  wide. 
With  such  an  angel  for  my  guide; 
Nor  heaven  nor  earth  could  then  reprove 

me. 
If  she  had  lived,  and  lived  to  love  me. 

Not  then  this  world's  wild  joys  had  been 
To  me  one  savage  hunting  scene, 
My  sole  delight  the  headlong  race, 
And  frantic  hurry  of  the  chase; 

*  "With  these  letters  was  a  lock  of  hair 
wrapped  in  a  copy  of  verses,  written  obnously 
with  a  feeling  which  atoned,  in  Morton's  opinion, 
for  the  roughness  of  the  poetry,  and  the  conceits 
with  which  it  abounded,  according  to  the  taste  of 
the  period." 


462 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


To  start,  pursue,  and  bring  to  bay. 
Rush  in,  drag  down,  and  rend  my  prey, 
Then  —  from  the  carcass  turn  away  ! 
Mine  ireful  mood  had  sweetness  tamed, 
And  soothed   each   wound  which    pride 

inflamed ! 
Yes, God  and  man  might  now  approve  me. 
If  thou  hadst  lived,  and  lived  to  love  me. 
Old  Alortality,  chap,  xxiii. 


MOTTOES. 

FROM   "  OLD   MORTALITY." 
CHAP.  XIV. 

My  hounds  may  a'  rin  masterless. 
My  hawks  may  fly  frae  tree  to  tree. 

My  lord  may  grip  my  vassal  lands. 
For  there  again  maun  I  never  be ! 
Old  Ballad. 

CHAP.  XXXIV. 

Sound,  sound  the  clarion,  fill  the  fife ! 

To  all  the  sensual  world  proclaim. 
One  crowded  hour  of  glorious  life 

Is  worth  an  age  without  a  name. 

Anonymous. 


THE  SEARCH  AFTER  HAPPINESS; 

OR,  THE  QUEST  OF  SULTAUN  SOLIMAUN. 

1817. 

I. 

Oh  for  a  glance  of  that  gay  Muse's  eye, 
That  lighten'd  on  Bandello's  laughing 

tale, 
And  twinkled  with  a  lustre  shrewd  and 

sly, 
When  Giam  Battista  *  bade  her  vision 

hail !  — 
Yet  fear  not,  ladies,  the  naive  detail 
Given  by  the  natives  of  that  land  ca- 
norous; 
Italian  license  loves  to  leap  the  pale. 
We    Britons  have  the    fear  of    shame 
before  us, 
And,  if  not  wise  in  mirth,  at  least  must 
be  decorous. 


*  The  hint  of  tlie  following  tale  is  taken  from 
"  La  Camiscia  Magica,"  a  novel  by  Giam  Battista 
Casti. 


In  the  far  eastern  clime,  no  great  while 

since. 
Lived  Sultaun  Solimaun,  a  mighty  prince. 
Whose  eyes,  as  oft  as  they  perform'd  their 

round. 
Beheld  all  others  fix'd  upon  the  ground : 
Whose  ears  received  the  same  unvaried 

phrase : — 
"  Sultaun !     thy   vassal     hears,   and     he 

obeys!" 
All  have  their  tastes  —  this  may  the  fancy 

strike 
Of  such  grave  folks  as  pomp  and  grand- 
eur like; 
For  me,  I  love  the  honest  heart  and  warm 
Of  Monarch  who  canambleroundhis  farm. 
Or,  when  the  toil  of  state  no  more  annoys. 
In  chimney-corner  seek  domestic  joys  — 
I  love  a  prince  will  bid  the  bottle  pass. 
Exchanging  with  his  subjects  glance  and 

glass; 
In  fitting  time,  can,  gayest  of  the  gay. 
Keep  up  the  jest,  and  mingle  in  the  lay  — 
Such  Monarchs  best  our  free-born  hu- 
mors suit. 
But  Despots  must  be  stately,  stern,  and 
mute. 

III. 
This  Solimaun,  Serendib  had  in  sway  — 
And  where's  Serendib?   may  some  critic 

say. — 
Good  lack,  mine  honest  friend,  consult 

the  chart. 
Scare  not  my  Pegasus  before  I  start ! 
If  Rennell  has  it  not,  you'll  find,  mayhap, 
The  isle  laid  down  in  Captain  Sinbad's 

map,  — 
Famed  mariner !  whose  merciless  narra- 
tions 
Drove  every  friend  and  kinsman  out  of 

patience. 
Till,  fain  to  find  a  guest  who  thought 

them  shorter. 
He  deign'd  to  tell  them  over  to  a  porter  — 
The  last  edition  see,  by  Long  &  Co., 
Rees,  Hurst,  and  Orme,  our  fathers  in 
the  Row. 

IV. 

Serendib  found,  deem  not  my  tale  a  fic- 
tion — 

This  Sultaun,  whether  lacking  contradic- 
tion— 


THE   SEARCH  AFTER  HAPPINESS. 


463 


(A  sort  of  stimulant  which  hath  its  uses, 
To  raise  the  spirits  and  reform  the  juices, 
• —  Sovereign  specific  for  all  sorts  of  cures 
In  my  wife's    practice,  and    perhaps  in 

yours). 
The  Sultaun  lacking  this  same  wholesome 

bitter, 
Or    cordial    smooth    for    prince's    palate 

fitter  — 
Or  if  some  Mollah  had  hag-rid  his  dreams 
With  Degial,  Ginnistan,  and  such  wild 

themes 
Belonging  to  the  Mollah's  subtle  craft, 
I  wot  not  — ■  but  the  Sultaun  never  laugh'd, 
Scarceateor drank, and  tookamelancholy, 
Thatscorn'd  all  remedy — profaneorholy ; 
In  his  long  list  of  melancholies,  mad, 
Or  mazed,  or  dumb,  hath  Burton  none 

so  bad.* 


Physicians  soon  arrived,  sage,  ware,  and 

tried, 
As  e'er  scrawl'd  jargon  in  a  darken'd 

room; 
With  heedful  glance  the  Sultaun's  tongue 

they  eyed, 
Peep'd  in  his  bath,  and  God  knows  where 

beside, 
And  then  in  solemn  accent  spoke  their 

doom :  — 
"  His  Majesty  is  very  far  from  well." 
Then  each  to  work  with  his  specific  fell : 
The  Ilakim  Ibrahim  instanter  brought 
His  unguent  MahazMi  al  Zerdukkaut, 
While  Roompot,  a  practitioner  more  wily, 
Relied  on  his  Munaskif  al  fillfily.t 
More  and  yet  more  in  deep  array  appear. 
And  some  the  front  assail,  and  some  the 

rear; 
Their  remedies  to  reinforce  and  vary, 
Came  surgeon  eke,  and  eke  apothecary; 
Till    the    tired    Monarch,   tho'  of  words 

grown  chary. 
Yet  dropt,  to  recompense  their  fruitless 

labor. 
Some  hint  about  a  bowstring  or  a  sabre. 
There  lack'd,  I  promise  you,  no  longer 

speeches 
To  rid  the  palace  of  those  learned  leeches. 

*  See  Burton,  Anatomy  of  Melancholy. 
t  See  D'Herbelot,  or  the  "  Recipes  of  Avi- 
ceuua." 


Then  was  thecouncilcall'd — by  their  advice 
(They  deem'd  the  matter  ticklish  all,  and 

nice, 
And  sought  to  shift  it  off  from  their 

own  shoulders), 
Tartars  and  couriers  in  all  speed  were 

sent. 
To  call  a  sort  of  Eastern  Parliament 
Of  feudatory  chieftains  and  freehold- 
ers— 
Such  have  the  Persians  at  this  very  day, 
My   gallant    Malcolm    calls    them    cou- 

roultai;  \  — 
I'm  not  prepared  to  show  in  this  slight 

song 
That  to  Serendib  the  same  forms  belong. 
E'en  let  the  learn'd  go  search,  and  tell 

me  if  I'm  wrong. 


The  Omrahs,  each  with  hand  on  cimetar, 

Gave,  like  Sempronius,  still  their  voice 
for  war :  — 

"  The  sabre  of  the  Sultaun  in  its  sheath. 

Too  long  has  slept,  nor  own'd  the  work 
of  death; 

Let  the  Tambourgi  bid  his  signal  rattle, 

Bang  the  loud  gong,  and  raise  the  shout 
of  battle! 

This  dreary  cloud   that  dims  our  sove- 
reign's day. 

Shall  from  his  kindled  bosom  flit  away. 

When  the  bold  Lootie  wheels  his  courser 
round. 

And  the  arm'd  elephant  shall  shake  the 
ground. 

Each   noble  pants  to  own   the  glorious 
summons  — 

And  for  the  charges  — Lo!  your  faithful 
Commons !  ' ' 

The  Riots  who  attended  in  their  places 
(Serendib  language  calls  a  farmer  Riot) 

Look'd  ruefully  in  one  another's  faces, 
From  this  oration  auguring  much  dis- 
quiet. 

Double    assessment,    forage,    and    free 
quarters; 

And  fearing  these  as  Chinamen  the  Tar- 
tars, 

\  See    Sir    John    Malcolm's    "  History    of 
Persia." 


464 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Or   as    the    whisker'd    vermin    fear   the 

mousers, 
Each    fumbled    in    the    pocket    of    his 

trowsers. 

vin. 
And  next  came  forth  the  reverend  Con- 
vocation, 
Bald  heads,  white  beards,  and  many  a 
turban  green, 
Imaum  and  Mollah  there  of  every  station, 
Santon,  Fakir,  and  Calendar  were  seen. 
Their  votes  were  various  ~  some  advised 
a  Mosque 
With  fitting  revenues  should  be  erected. 
With     seemly    gardens     and    with    gay 
Kiosque, 
To  recreate  a  band  of  priests  selected; 
Others  opined  that  through  the  realms  a 
dole 
Be  made  to  holy  men,  whose  prayers 
might  profit 
The  Sultaun's  weal  in  body  and  in  soul. 
But  their  long-headed  Chief,  the  Sheik 
Ul-Sotit, 
More  closely  touch'd  the  point :  —  "  Thy 

studious  mood," 
Quoth  he,  "O  Prince!    hath    thicken'd 

all  thy  blood, 
And  duU'd  thy  brain  with  labor  beyond 

measure; 
Wherefore    relax  a  space   and  take  thy 

pleasure. 
And   toy  with   beauty,  or  tell  o'er  thy 

treasure; 
From  all  the  cares  of  state,  my  Liege, 

enlarge  thee, 
And   leave   the   burden    to    thy   faithful 
clergy." 


These  counsels  sage  availed  not  a  whit, 

And  so  the  patient  (as  is  not  uncommon 

Where  grave  physicians  lose  their  time 

and  wit) 

Resolved   to    take    advice    of   an    old 

woman; 

His  mother  she,  a  dame  who  once  was 

beauteous, 
And  still  was  call'd  so  by  each  subject 

duteous. 
Now,  whether  Fatima  was  witch  in  ear- 
nest, 
Or  only  made  believe,  I  cannot  say  — 


But    she    profess'd   to   cure    disease    the 

sternest. 
By  dint  of  magic  amulet  or  lay; 
And,  when  all  other  skill  in  vain  was 

shown. 
She  deem'd  it  fitting  time  to  use  her  own. 


"  Sympathia  magica  hath  wonders  done  " 
(Thus  did  old  Fatima  bespeak  her  son). 
"  It  works  upon  the  fibres  and  the  pores. 
And  thus,  insensibly,  our  health  restores, 
And  it  must  help  us  here. — Thou  must 

endure 
The  ill,  my  son,  or  travel  for  the  cure. 
Search  land  and  sea,  and  get  where'er 

you  can. 
The  inmost  vesture  of  a  happy  man, 
I  mean  his  SHIRT,  my  son;  which,  taken 

warm 
And  fresh  from  off  his  back,  shall  chase 

your  harm. 
Bid  every  current  of  your  veins  rejoice. 
And  your  dull  heart  leap  light  as  shep- 
herd-boy's." 
Such  was  the  counsel   from  his  mother 

came;  — 
I  know  not  if  she  had  some  under-game. 
As  Doctors  have,  who  bid  their  patients 

roam 
And  live  abroad,  when  sure  todieat  home : 
Or   if   she    thought,    that,    somehow    or 

another, 
Queen-Regent  sounded  betterthan  Queen- 
Mother;  ^ 
But,  says   the  Chronicle  (who  will,  go 

look  it). 
That  such  was  her  advice  —  the  Sultaun 
took  it. 

XI. 
All  are  on  board  —  the  Sultaun  and  his 

train. 
In  gilded    galley  prompt  to  plough  the 
main. 
The  old  Rais  *  was  the  first  who  ques- 
tion'd,  "Whither?" 
They  paused — "Arabia,"   thought  the 

pensive  Prince, 
"Was  call'd  the  Happy  many  ages  since  — 
For    Mokha,   Rais." — And   they  came 
safely  thither. 

^  Sea  captain. 


THE   SEARCH  AFTER  HAPPINESS. 


465 


But  not  in  Araby,  with  all  her  balm, 
Not  where  Judea  weeps  beneath  her  palm, 
Not  in  rich  Egypt,  not  in  Nubian  waste, 
Could  there  the   step   of   happiness   be 

traced. 
One  Copt  alone  profess'd  to  have  seen 

her  smile. 
When  Bruce  his  goblet  fill'd   at    infant 

Nile: 
She  bless'd  the  dauntless  traveller  as  he 

quaff'd, 
But  vanish'd   from  him  with  the  ended 

draught. 

XII. 
"  Enough  of  turbans,"  said  the  weary 

King, 
"  These  dolimans  of   ours   are   not  the 

thing; 
Try  we  the  Giaouis,  these  men  of  coat 

and  cap,  I 
Incline  to  think  some  of  them  must  be 

happy; 
At  least,  they  have  as  fair  a  cause  as  any 

can, 
They  drink  good  wine  and  keep  no  Ram- 

azan. 
Then  northward,  ho  !  "  —  The  vessel  cuts 

the  sea. 
And  fair  Italia  lies  upon  her  lee.  — 
But  fair  Italia,  she  who  once  unfurl'd 
Her  eagle  banners  o'er  a  conquer'd  world, 
Long   from   her   throne   of    domination 

tumbled, 
Lay,    by   her    quohdam   vassals,    sorely 

humbled; 
The  Pope  himself  look'd  pensive,  pale, 

and  lean, 
And  was  not  half  the  man  he  once  had 

been. 
"  While  these  the  priest  and  those  the 

noble  fleeces. 
Our  poor  old  boot,"  they  said,  "is  torn 

to  pieces. 
Its  tops  the  vengeful  claws  of  Austria  feel, 
And  the  Great  Devil  is  rending  toe  and 

heel.* 
If  happiness  you  seek,  to  tell  you  truly, 
\Vc  think  she  dwells  with  one  Giovanni 

Bulli; 

*  The  "  boot  "  is  Italy  :  Florence,  Venice 
and  the  Northern  Cities  are  called  the  "  tops;  " 
the  "too  and  heel"  are  the  Calarias,  then  in- 
fested with  freebooters,  one  of  the  leaders  being 
known  as  Fra  Diavolo. 


A  tramontane,  a  heretic,  —  the  buck, 
Poffaredio!  still  has  all  the  luck; 
By  land  or  ocean  never  strikes  his  flag  — 
And   then — a   perfect  walking  money- 
bag." 
Off  set  our  prince  to   seek  John  Bull's 

abode, 
But  first  took  France  —  it  lay  upon  the 
road. 

XIII. 

Monsieur  Baboon,  after  much  late  com- 
motion, 
Was  agitated  like  a  settling  ocean. 
Quite  out  of  sorts,  and  could  not  tell  what 

ail'd  him. 
Only  the  glory  of   his  house  had  fail'd 

him; 
Besides    some    tumors    on    his    noddle 

biding, 
Gave  indication  of  a  recent  hiding. 
Our  Prince,  though  Sultauns  of  such  things 

are  heedless. 
Thought  it  a  thing  indelicate  and  needless 
To  ask,  if  at  that  moment  he  was  happy. 
And  Monsieur,  seeing  that  he  y/ascotnme 

il  faut,  a 
Loud  voice  muster'd  up,  for  "  Vive  le 

Roi!'' 
Then  whisper'd,  "  'Ave  you  any  news 

of  Nappy?  " 
The  Sultaun  answer'd  him  with  a  cross 

question :  — 
"  Pray,  can  you  tell  me  aught  of  one 

John  Bull, 
That  dwells  somewhere  beyond  your 

herring-pool?  " 
The  query  seem'd  of  difficult  digestion. 
The    party  shrugg'd,  and    grinn'd,  and 

took  his  snuff. 
And  found  his  whole  good-breeding  scarce 

enough. 

XIV. 
Twitching  his  visage  into  as  many  puckers 
As  damsels  wont  to  put  into  their  tuckers 
(Ere  lil)eral  Fashion  damn'd  lx)th   lace 

and  lawn. 
And  bade  the  veil  of  modesty  be  drawii), 
Replied   the   Frenchman,   after   a   brief 

pause :  — 
"  Jean  Bool !  —  I  vas  not  known  him  — 

Yes,  I  vas  — 
I  vas  remember  dat,  von  year  or  two, 
I  saw  him  at  von  place  call'd  Vaterloo  — 


466 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Ma  foi !  il  s'est  tres  joliment  battu, 
Dat  is  f  orEnglishman, — m'  entendez-vous  ? 
But  den  he  had  wit  him  one  damn  son- 
gun, 
Rogue  I  no  like  —  dey  call  him  Velling- 

ton." 
Monsieur's  politeness  could  not  hide  his 

fret, 
So  Solimaun  took  leave,  and  cross'd  the 

strait. 

XV. 
John  Bull  was  in  his  very  worst  of  moods, 
Raving  of  sterile  farms  and  unsold  goods; 
His  sugar-loaves  and  bales  about  he  threw, 
And  on  his  counter  l>eat  the  devil's  tattoo. 
His  wars  were  ended,  and  the  victory  won. 
But  then,  'twas  reckoning-day  with  honest 

John; 
And    authors    vouch,     'twas    still     this 

Worthy's  way, 
"  Never  to  grumble  till  he  came  to  pay; 
And  then  he  always  thinks,  his  temper's 

such. 
The   work    too   little   and   the    pay  too 

much." 
Yet,  grumbler   as  he    is,  so  kind  and 

hearty, 
That  when  his  mortal  foe  was  on  the  floor, 
And  past  the  power  to   harm   his  quiet 

more. 
Poor   John    had  well    nigh    wept    for 

Bonaparte ! 
Such    was    the    wight    whom     Solimaun 

salam'd,  — 
"  And  who    are  you,"   John    answer'd, 

"and  be  damn'd  !  " 


"  A  stranger,  come  to  see  the  happiest 
man,  — 

So,  signior,  all  avouch,  —  in  Frangistan." 

"  Happy?  my  tenants  breaking  on  my 
hand; 

Unstock'd  my  pastures,  and  untill'd  my 
land; 

Sugar  and  rum  a  drug,  and  mice  and 
moths 

The  sole  consumers  of  my  good  broad- 
cloths — 

Happy?  — Why,  cursed  war  and  rack- 
ing tax 

Have  left  us  scarcely  raiment  to  our 
backs."  — 


' '  In  that  case,  signior,  I  may  take  my  leave ; 
I  came  to  ask  a  favor  —  but  I  grieve  "  — 
"  Favor?  "  said  John,  and  eyed  the  Sul- 

taun  hard, 
"  It's  my  belief  you  come  to  break  the 

yard !  — 
But,  stay,  you  look  like  some  poor  foreign 

sinner,  — 
Take  that  to  buy  yourself  a  shirt    and 

dinner."  - — 
With  that  he  chuck'd  a  guinea  at  his  head ; 
But,  with  due  dignity,  the  Sultaun  said  :  — 
"  Permit  me,  sir,  your  bounty  to  decline; 
A  shirt  indeed  I  seek,  but  none  of  thine. 
Signior,  I  kiss  your  hands,  so   fare  you 

well."  — 
"  Kiss   and   be   damn'd,"  quoth   John, 

"  and  go  to  hell !  " 


Next  door  to  John  there  dwelt  his  sister 

Peg, 
Once  a  wild  lass  as  ever  shook  a  leg 
When    the    blithe    bagpipe    blew  —  but, 

soberer  now. 
She  doucely  span  her  flax  and  niilk'd  her 

cow. 
And  whereas  erst  she  was  a  needy  slattern, 
Nor  now  of  wealth  or  cleanliness  a  pattern, 
Yet  once  a-month  her  house  was  partly 

swept, 
And  once  a-week  a  plenteous  Iward  she 

kept, 
And  whereas,  eke,  tne  vixen    used  her 

claws 
And  teeth,  of  yore,  on  slender  provoca- 
tion. 
She  now  was  grown  amenable  to  laws, 

A  quiet  soul  as  any  in  the  nation; 
The  sole  remembrance  of  her  warlike  joys 
Was  in  old  songs  she  sang  to  please  her 

boys. 
John  Bull,  whom,  in  their  years  of  early 

strife. 
She  wont  to  lead  a  cat-and-doggish  life, 
Now  found    the   woman,  as    he    said,  a 

neighbor, 
Who  look'd  to  the  main  chance,  declined 

no  labor. 
Loved  a  long  grace,  and  spoke  a  northern 

jargon, 
And  was  damn'd  close  in  making   of  a 

bargain. 


THE  SEARCH  AFTER  HAPPINESS. 


467 


The  Sultaun  enter'd,  and  he  made  his  leg, 
And  with  decorum  curtsy'd  sister  Peg. 
(She  loved  a  book,  and  knew  a  thing  or 

two. 
And  guess'd  at  once  with  whom  she  had 

to  do.) 
She  bade  him  "Sit  into  the  fire,"  and  took 
Her  dram,  her  cake,  her  kebbuck  from 

the  nook; 
Ask'd  him  "  about  the  news  from  Eastern 

parts ; 
And  of  her  absent  bairns,  puir  Highland 

hearts ! 
If  peace  brought  down  the  price  of  tea 

and  pepper, 
And    if    the    niimugs    were    grown    ouy 

cheaper;  — 
Were  there  nae  speerings  of  our  Mungo 

Park  — 
Ye'U  be  the  gentleman  that  wants  the 

sark? 
If   ye  wad   buy  a  web   o'    auld   wife's 

spinnin', 
I'll  warrant  ye  it's  a  weel-wearing  linen." 


Then  up  got  Peg,  and  round  the  house 

'gan  scuttle 
In  search  of  goods  her  customer  to  nail, 
Until   the  Sultaun   strain'd  his  princely 

throttle, 
And   hollo'd:  —  "  Ma'am  that  is  not 

what  I  ail. 
Pray,  are  you  happy,  ma'am,  in  this  snug 

glen?" 
"  Happy?"  said  Peg;    "  What  for  d'ye 

want  to  ken? 
Besides,   just    think    upon    this   by-gane 

year. 
Grain  wadna  pay  the  yoking  of  the 

pleugh."  — 
"  what    say    you    to    the    present?  "  — 

"  Meal's  sae  dear. 
To  mak'   their   brose  my  bairns  have 

scarce  aneugh." — 
"  The    devil  take  the  shirt,"  said  Soli- 
maun, 
"  I  think  my  quest  will  end  as  it  began.  — 
Farewell,  ma'am;    nay,   no  ceremony,  I 

beg."  — 
"  Ye'll  no  be  for  the  linen  then?"  said 

Peg, 


Now,  for  the  land  of  verdant  Erin, 
The  Sultaun's  royal  bark  is  steering, 
The  Emerald  Isle,  where  honest  Paddy 

dwells, 
The  cousin  of  John  Bull,  as  story  tells. 
For  a  long  space  had  John,  with  words 

of  thunder. 
Hard   looks,  and    harder   knocks,  kept 

Paddy  under. 
Till  the  poor  lad,  like  boy  that's  flogg'd 

unduly. 
Had  gotten  somewhat  restive  and  unruly. 
Hard  was  his  lot  and  lodging,  you'll  allow, 
A  wigwam  that  would  hardly  serve  a  sow ; 
His  landlord, andof  middle-mentwobrace. 
Had  screw'd  his  rent  up  to  the  starving- 
place; 
His  garmentwasatopcoat,and  an  old  one, 
His  meal  was  a  potato,  and  a  cold  one; 
But  still  for  fun  or  frolic,  and  all  that. 
In  the  round  world  was  not  the  match  of 

Pat. 

XXI. 
The  Sultaun  saw  him  on  a  holiday. 
Which  is  with  Paddy  still  a  jolly  day; 
When  mass  is  ended,  and  his  load  of  sins 
Confess'd,  and  Mother  Church  hath  from 

her  binns 
Dealt  forth  a  bonus  of  imputed  merit. 
Then  is  Pat's  time  for  fancy,  whim,  and 

spirit ! 
To  jest,  to  sing,  to  caper  fair  and  free. 
And  dance  as  light  as  leaf  upon  the  tree. 
"By  Mahomet,"  said  Sultaun  Solimaun, 
"  That  ragged  fellow  is  our  very  man  I 
Rush  in  and  seize  him,  do  not  do  him  hurt. 
But,  will  he   nill  he,  let   me   have   his 

shirt. ^'  — 

XXII. 

Shilela  their  plan  was  well-nigh  after 
baulking 

(Much  less  provocation  will  set  it  a  walk- 
ing). 

But  the  odds  that  foil'd  Hercules  foil'd 
Paddy  Whack; 

They  seiz'd  and  they  floor'd  and  they 
stripp'd  him  —  Alack  ! 

Up-bublioo  !   Paddy  had  not a  shirt 

to  his  back  ! !  ! 

And  the  King,  disappointed,  with  sorrow 
and  shame. 

Went  back  to  Serendib  as  sad  as  he  came. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


THE  SUN  UPON  THE  WEIRDLAW 
HILL. 

Air  —  Rimhin   aluin  ^stu   7>io  run. 
1817. 

The  sun  upon  the  Weirdlaw  Hill, 

In  Ettrick's  vale  is  sinking  sweet; 
The  westland  wind  is  hush  and  still, 

The  lake  lies  sleeping  at  my  feet. 
Yet  not  the  landscape  to  mine  eye 

Bears  thosebright  hues  thatonceitbore; 
Though  evening,  with  her  richest  dye. 

Flames  o'er  the  hills  of  Ettrick's  shore. 

With  listless  look  along  the  plain, 

I  see  Tweed's  silver  current  glide, 
And  coldly  mark  the  holy  fane. 

Of   Melrose  rise  in  ruin'd  pride. 
The  quiet  lake,  the  balmy  air. 

The  hill, the  stream,  the  tower, the  tree. 
Are  they  still  such  as  once  they  were? 

Or  is  the  dreary  change  in  me? 

Alas,  the  vvarp'd  and  broken  board. 

How  can  it  bear  the  painter's  dye  ! 
The  harp  of  strain'd  and  tuneless  chord. 

How  to  the  minstrel's  skill  reply ! 
To  aching  eyes  each  landscape  lowers. 

To  feverish  pulse  each  gale  blows  chill ; 
And  Araby's  or  Eden's  bowers 

Were  barren  as  this  moorland  hill. 


THE  MONKS  OF  BANGOR'S 
MARCH. 

Air  —  "  Ymdaith   Mionge." 

WRITTEN     FOR     MR.    GEORGE    THOMSON'S 
WELSH    MELODIES. 

1817. 

fcTHELFRiD  Or  Olfrid,  King  of  Northumber- 
land, having  besieged  Chester  in  6:3,  and  Brock- 
MAEL,  a  British  Prince,  advancing  to  relieve  it, 
the  religious  of  the  neighboring  Monastery  of 
Bangor  marched  in  procession  to  pray  for  the 
success  of  their  countr\'men.  But  the  British 
being  totally  defeated,  the  heathen  victor  put  the 
monks  to  the  sword,  and  destroyed  their  monas- 
tery. The  time  to  wliich  these  verses  are  adapted 
is  called  the  Monks'  March,  and  is  supposed  to 
have  been  played  at  their  ill-omened  procession. 

When  the  heathen  trumpet's  clang 
Round  beleaguer'd  Chester  rang, 
Veiled  nun  and  friar  gray 
March'd  from  Bangor's  fair  Abbaye : 


High  their  holy  anthem  sounds, 
Cestria's  vale  the  hymn  rebounds, 
Floating  down  the  sylvan  Dee, 

O  miserere.  Do  mine  ! 

On  the  long  procession  goes, 
Glory  round  their  crosses  glows. 
And  the  Virgin-mother  mild, 
In  their  peaceful  banner  smiled: 
Who  could  think  such  saintly  band 
Doom'd  to  feel  unhallow'd  hand? 
Such  was  the  Divine  decree, 

O  miserere,  Domine  ! 

Bands  that  masses  only  sung. 
Hands  that  censers  only  swung. 
Met  the  northern  bow  and  bill, 
Heard  the  war-cry  wild  and  shrill: 
Woe  to  Brockmael's  feeble  hand, 
Woe  to  Olfrid's  bloody  brand. 
Woe  to  Saxon  cruelty, 

O  miserere,  Domine  ! 

Weltering  amid  warriors  slain, 
Spurn'd  by  steeds  with  bloody  mane, 
Slaughter'd  down  by  heathen  blade, 
Bangor's  peaceful  monks  are  laid; 
Word  of  parting  rest  unspoke. 
Mass  unsung,  and  bread  unbroke; 
For  their  souls  for  charity. 

Sing,  O  miserere,  Domine  ! 

Bangor !  o'er  the  murder  wail ! 
Long  thy  ruins  told  the  tale; 
Shatter'd  tower  and  broken  arch 
Long  recall'd  the  woeful  march;* 
On  thy  shrine  no  tapers  burn. 
Never  shall  thy  priests  return; 
The  pilgrim  sighs,  and  sings  for  thee; 
O  miserere,  Domine  ! 


MR.    KEMBLE'S   FAREWELL 
ADDRESS, 

ON    TAKING    LEAVE    OF    THE    EDINBURGH 
STAGE. 

1817. 

As  the  worn  war-horse,  at  the  trumpet's 

sound. 
Erects  his  mane,  and  neighs,  and  paws 

the  ground  — 

*  In  William  of  Malmsbury's  time  the  ruins 
of  Bangor  still  attested  the  cruelty  of  the  North- 
umbrians. 


MR.  KEMBLE'S  FAREWELL  ADDRESS, 


Disdains    the    ease    his    generous    lord 

assigns, 
And  longs  to  rush  on  the  embattled  lines. 
So  I,  your  plaudits  ringing  on  mine  ear. 
Can  scarce  sustain  to  think  our  parting 

near; 
To  think  my  scenic  hour  forever  past, 
And  that  these  valued  plaudits  are  my 

last. 
Why  should  we    part,  while  still   some 

powers  remain, 
That   in  your    service   strive    not  yet   in 

vain? 
Cannot  high  zeal  the  strength  of  youth 

supply, 
And  sense  of  duty  fire  the  fading  eye; 
And  all  the  wrongs  of  age  remain  sub- 
dued 
Beneath  the  burning  glow  of  gratitude? 
Ah  no  !  —  the  taper,  wearing  to  its  close, 
-Oft  for  a  space  in  fitful  lustre  glows; 
But  all  too  soon  the  transient  gleam  is 

past  — 
It  cannot  be  renew'd,  and  will  not  last; 
Even  duty,  zeal,  and  gratitude,  can  wage 
But  short-lived  conflict  with  the  frosts  of 

age. 
Yes !  it  were  poor,  remembering  what  I 

was, 
To  live  a  pensioner  on  your  applause. 
To  drain  the  dregs  of   your  endurance 

dry. 
And  take,  as  alms,  the  praise  I  once  could 

buy; 
Till    every   sneering   youth    around    in- 
quires: — 
"  Is  this  the  man  who  once  could  please 

our  sires?  " 
And  scorn  assumes  compassion's  doubtful 

mien. 
To    warn  me  off  from   the    encumber'd 

scene. 
This  must  not  be ;   and  higher  duties  crave 
Some  space  between  the  theatre  and  the 

grave, 
That,  like  the  Roman  in  the  Capitol, 
I  may  adjust  my  mantle  ere  I  fall : 
My  life's  brief  act  in  public  service  flown. 
The  last  the  closing  scene,  must  be  my 

own. 

Here,    then,   adieu!  while   yet   some 
well-graced  parts 
May  fix  an  ancient  favorite  in  your  hearts, 


Not  quite  to  be  forgotten,  even  when 
You  look  on  better  actors,  younger  men : 
And  if  your  bosoms  own  this  kindly  debt 
Of   old   remembrance,   how  shall   mine 

forget  — 
O,  how  forget !  —  how  oft  I  hither  came 
In  anxious  hope,  how  oft  retum'd  with 

fame ! 
How  oft  around  your  circle  this  weak  hand 
Has  waved  immortal  Shakspeare's  magic 

wand. 
Till  the  full  burst  of  inspiration  came. 
And  I  have  felt,  and  you  have  fann'd  the 

flame ! 
By  memory  treasured,  while    her  reign 

endures, 
Those  hours   must   live  —  and   all  theii 

charms  are  yours. 
O  favor'd  Land,  renown'd  for  arts  and 

arms. 
For  manly  talent,  and  for  female  charms, 
Could  this  full  bosom  prompt  the  sinking 

line. 
What    fervent    benedictions    now   were 

thine ! 
But  my  last  part  is  play'd,  my  kneU  is 

rung. 
When  e'en  your  praise  falls  faltering  from 

my  tongue; 
And  all  that  you  can  hear,  or  I  can  tell. 
Is  —  Friends   and    Pdtrons,   hail !    and 

Fare  you  well ! 


LINES. 

WRITTEN    FOR   MISS  SMITH.* 
1817. 

When  the  lone  pilgrim  views  afar 
The  shrine  that  is  his  guiding  star, 
With  awe  his  footsteps  print  the  road 
Which  the  loved  saint  of  yore  has  trod. 
As  near  he  draws,  and  yet  more  near, 
His  dim  eye  sparkles  with  a  tear; 
The  Gothic  fane's  unwonted  show. 
The  choral  hymn,  the  taper's  glow. 
Oppress  his  soul;  while  they  delight 
And  chasten  rapture  with  affright. 

*  Written  for  recitation  by  the  distinguished 
actress.  Miss  .Smith,  afterwards  Mrs.  Bartley,  on 
the  night  of  her  benefit  at  the  Edinburgh  Theatre, 
1817,  but  they  reached  her  too  late  for  her  pur- 
pose. 


470 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


No  longer  dare  he  think  his  toil 
Can  merit  aught  his  patron's  smile; 
Too  light  appears  the  distant  way. 
The  chilly  eve,  the  sultry  day  — 
All  these  endured  no  favor  claim, 
But  murmuring  forth  the  sainted  name. 
He  lays  his  little  offering  down. 
And  only  deprecates  a  frown. 

We,  too,  who  ply  the  Thespian  art, 
Oft  feel  such  lx)dings  of  the  heart, 
And,  when  our  utmost  powers  are  strain'd, 
Dare  hardly  hope  your  favor  gain'd. 
She,  who  from  sister  climes  has  sought 
The  ancient  land  where  Wallace  fought  — 
Land  long  renown'd  for  arms  and  arts, 
And    conquering    eyes    and     dauntless 

hearts  — 
She,  as  the  flutterings  here  avow, 
Feels  all  the  pilgrim's  terror  now; 
Yet  sure  on  Carledonian  plain 
The  stranger  never  sued  in  vain. 
'Tis  yours  the  hospitable  task 
To  give  the  applause  she  dare  not  ask; 
And  they  who  bid  the  pilgrim  speed, 
The  pilgrim's  blessing  be  their  meed. 


LETTER 

TO   HIS   GRACE  THE  DUKE  OF  BUCCLEUCH, 
DRUMLANRIG   CASTLE. 

Sanquhar,  2  o'clock,  July  30,  1817. 

From  Ross,  where  the  clouds  on  Benlo- 

mond  are  sleeping  — 
From    Greenock,  where   Clyde    to    the 

Ocean  is  sweeping  — 
From  Largs,  where  the  Scotch  gave  the 

Northmen  a  drilling  — 
From  Ardrossan,  whose  harbor  cost  many 

a  shilling  — 
From  old  Cumnock  where  beds  are   as 

hard  as  a  plank,  sir  — 
From  a  chop   and  green  pease,  and  a 

chicken  in  Sanquhar, 
This  eve,  please  the  fates,  at  Drumlanrig 

we  anchor. 

W.  S. 

(Sir  Walter's  companion  on  this  excursion 
was  Captain,  now  Sir  Adam  Ferguson.  —  See 
Li/e,  vol.  v.,  p.  234.] 


TO   THE    MEMORY   OF   EDWARD 
THE    BLACK    PRINCE. 

1817. 

"  A  BLOTTEU  piece  of  paper  dropped  out  of  the 
book,  and  being  taken  up  by  my  father,  he  in- 
terrupted a  hint  from  Owen,  on  the  propriety 
of  securing  loose  memoranda  with  a  little  paste, 
by  exclaiming,  'To  the  memory  of  Edward  the 
Black  Prince  —  What's  all  this  ?  —  verses !  —  By 
Heaven,  Frank,  you  are  a  greater  blockhead 
than  I  supposed  you  !  '  " 

O  FOR  the  voice  of  that  wild  horn, 
On  Fontarabian  echoes  borne, 

The  dying  hero's  call. 
That  told  imperial  Charlemagne, 
How  Paynim  sons  of  swarthy  Spain, 

Had  wrought  his  champion's  fall. 

"  '  Foutarabiau  eciwest '  continued  my  father, 
interrupting  himself;  '  the  Fontarabian  Fair  , 
would  have  been  more  to  the  purpose.  —  Pay- 
nitK? — What's  Paynim? — Could  you  not  say 
Pagan  as  well,  and  write  English,  at  least,  if  you 
must  needs  write  nonsense.'  " 

Sad  over  earth  and  ocean  sounding, 
And  England's  distant  cliffs  astound- 
ing, 

Such  are  the  notes  should  say 
How  Britain's  hope,  and  France's  fear, 
Victor  of  Cressy  and  Poitier, 

In  Bordeaux  dying  lay. 

"  '  Poitiers,  by  the  way,  is  always  spelled  with 
an  s,  and  I  know  no  reason  why  orthography 
should  give  place  to  rhyme.'  " 

"  Raise  my  faint  head,  my  squires," 

he  said, 
"And  let  the  casement  be  display'd, 

That  I  may  see  once  more 
The  splendor  of  the  setting  sun 
Gleam  on  thy  mirror'd  wave,  Garonne, 

And  Blaye's  empurpled  shore." 

"  '  Garonne  and  sun  is  a  bad  rhyme.  Why, 
Frank,  you  do  not  even  understand  die  beggarly 
trade  you  have  chosen.'  " 

"  Like  me,  he  sinks  to  Glory's  sleep. 
His  fall  the  dews  of  evening  steep, 

As  if  in  sorrow  shed. 
So  soft  shall  fall  the  trickling  tear. 
When  England's  maids  and  matrons  hear 
Of  their  Black  Edward  dead. 


SOATGS  AND  MOTTOES  FROM  "ROB  ROY.'' 


471 


"  And  though  my  sun  of  glory  set, 
Nor  France  nor  England  shall  forget 
The  terror  of  my  name; 
And  oft  shall  Britain's  heroes  rise, 
New  planets  in  these  southern  skies, 

Thro'  clouds  of  blood  and  flame." 

"  '  A  cloud  of  flame  is  something  new.  —  Good- 
morrow,  my  masters  all,  and  a  merry  Christmas 
to  you  I  —  Why,  the  bellman  writes  better  lines."  ' 

Rob  Roy,  chap.  ii. 


TRANSLATION    FROM    ARIOSTO.* 

1817. 

"  She  [Miss  Vernon]  proceeded  to  read  the 
first  stanza,  which  was  nearly  to  the  following 
purpose :  "  — 

Ladies  and  knights,  and  arms,  and  love's 
fair  flame, 
Deeds  of  emprize  and  courtesy,  I  sing; 
What  time  the  Moors  from  sultry  Afric 
came, 
LedonbyAgramant,theiryouthfulking, 
He  whom  revenge  and  hasty  ire  did  bring 
O'er    the   broad  wave,  in  France  to 
waste  and  war; 
Such  ills  from  old  Trojano's  death  did 
spring, 
Which  to  avenge  he  came  from  realms 

afar. 
And  menaced   Christian   Charles,  the 
Roman  Emperor. 
Of  dauntless  Ronald,  too,  my  strain  shall 
sound. 
In  import  never  known  in  prose  and 
rhyme. 
How  He,  the  chief  of  judgment  deem'd 
profound. 
For  luckless  love  was  crazed  upon  a 
time  — 

"  '  There  is  a  great  deal  of  it,'  said  she,  glan- 
cing along  the  paper,  and  interrupting  the  sweetest 
sounds  which  mortal  ears  can  drink  in  :  Xhose  of 
a  youthful  poet's  verses,  namely,  read  by  the  lips 
which  are  dearest  to  them." 

Rob  Roy,  chap.  xvi. 


MOTTOES 

FROM   "rob   ROV." 
CHAP.    X. 

In  the  wide  pile,  by  others  heeded  not. 
Hers  was  one  sacred  solitary  spot, 

*  The  Orlando  Furioso. 


Whose  gloomy  isles  and  bending  shelves 

contain, 
For  moral  hunger    food,  and  cures  for 

moral  pain. 

Anonymous. 

CHAP.   XHI. 
Dire  was  his  thought,  who  first  in  poison 

steep'd 
The  weapon  form'd  for  slaughter — direr 

his. 
And   worthier   of    damnation,   who    in- 

stiird 
The  mortal  venom  in  the  social  cup, 
To  fill  the  veins  with  death  instead  of 

life. 

Anonymous. 

CHAP.  xxn. 
Look  round  thee,  young  Astolpho :  Here's 

the  place 
Which  men  (for  being  poor)  are  sent  to 

starve  in,  — 
Rude  remedy,  I  trow,  for  sore  disease. 
Within  these  walls,  stifled  by  damp  and 

stench. 
Doth  Hope's  fair  torch  expire:  and  at 

the  snuff. 
Ere  yet  'tis  quite  extinct,  rude,  wild,  and 

wayward. 
The  desperate  revelries  of  wild  despair. 
Kindling  their  hell-born  cressets,  light  to 

deeds 
That  the  poor  captive  would  have  died 

ere  practised. 
Till  bondage  sunk  his  soul  to  his  condi- 
tion. 

The  Prison,  scene  iii.  act  i. 

CHAP.    XXVH. 
Far  as  the  eye  could  reach  no  tree  was 

seen, 
Earth,  clad  in  russet,  scorn'd  the  lively 

green; 
No   birds,  except  as  birds   of   passage, 

flew; 
No  bee  was  heard  to  hum,  no  dove  to 

coo; 
No  streams,  as  amber  smooth,  as  amber 

clear, 
Were  seen  to  glide,  or  heard  to  warble 

here. 

Prophecy  of  Famine. 


472 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


CHAP.    XXXI. 

"Woe   to  the  vanquish'd  !  "  was  stern 

Brenno's  word, 
When   sunk    proud    Rome    beneath    the 

Gallic  sword  — 
"Woe  to    the  vanquish'd!"  when   his 

massive  blade 
Bore  down  the  scale  against  her  ransom 

weigh'd, 
And  on  the  field  of  foughten  battle  still, 
Woe    knows  no    limit   save   the  victor's 

will. 

77/1?  Gau Iliad. 

CHAP.   XXXH. 
And  be  he  safe  restored  ere  evening  set, 
Or,  if   there's  vengeance  in    an    injured 

heart. 
And  power  to  wreck  it  in  an  armed  hand, 
Your  land  shall  ache  for  't. 

Old  Play. 

CHAP.    XXXVI. 

Farewell  to  the  land  where  the  clouds 
love  to  rest. 

Like  the  shroud  of  the  dead  on  the  moun- 
tain's cold  breast; 

To  the  cataract's  roar  where  the  eagles 
reply. 

And  the  lake  her  lone  bosom  expands  to 
the  sky. 


EPILOGUE  TO  "THE  APPEAL."* 

spoken  by  mrs.  henry  siddons. 

Feb.  i6,  i8i8. 

A  CAT  of  yore  (or  else  old  .(Esop  lied) 
Was  changed  into  a  fair  and  blooming 

bride, 
Piiit  spied  a  mouse  upon  her  marriage-day, 
Forgot  her  spouse,  and  seized  upon  her 

prey; 
Even  thus  my  bridegroom  lawyer,  as  you 

saw. 
Threw  off  poor  me,  and  pounced  upon 

papa. 
His  neck  from  Hymen's  mystic  knot  made 

loose, 
He   twisted   round  my   sire's  the   literal 

noose. 

*  "The  Appeal,"  a  tragedy  by  John  Gait. 


Such  are  the  fruits  of  our  dramatic  labor 
Since  the  New  Jail  became  our  next-door 
neighbor. 

Yes,   times   are   changed;    for,   in  your 

father's  age, 
The  lawyers  were  the  patrons  of  the  stage; 
However  high  advanced  by  future  fate, 
There  stands  the  bench  (^points  to  Ihc  Pif) 

that  first  received  their  weight. 
The  future  legal  sage,  'twas  ours  to  see, 
Doom  though  unwigg'd  and  plead  with- 
out a  fee. 

But  now,  astounding  each  poor  mimic  elf. 
Instead  of  lawyers  comes  the  Law  herself; 
Tremendous   neighbor  on  our   right  she 

dwells, 
Builds  high  her  towers  and  excavates  her 

cells; 
While  on  the  left  she  agitates  the  town, 
With  the   tempestuous    question.   Up  or 

down  ? 
'Twixt  ScyllaandCharybdisthusstand  we, 
Law's  final  end,  and  law's  uncertainty. 
But  soft !   who  lives  at   Rome  the  Pope 

must  flatter. 
And  jails  and  lawsuitsare  no  jestingmatter. 
Then  —  just    farewell !      We    wait    with 

serious  awe 
Till  your  applause  or  censure  gives  the 

law. 
Trustingour  humble  efforts  may  assure  ye. 
We  hold  you  Court  and  Counsel.  Judge 

and  Jury. 


MACKRIMMON'S   LAMENT. 
1818. 

Air  —  "  Clia  till  mi  tuille."  * 

Mackrimmon,  hereditary  piper  to  the  Laird 
of  Macleod,  is  said  to  have  compused  this  Lament 
wlieii  the  Clan  was  about  to  depart  upon  a  dis- 
tant and  dangerous  expedition.  The  Minstrel 
was  impressed  with  a  belief,  which  the  event 
verified,  that  he  was  to  be  slain  in  the  approach- 
ing feud;  and  hence  the  Gaelic  words,  C/ia  till 
itii  tuille ,"  ged  thillis  Macleody  cha  till  Ataclc- 
ritti»io>i"  "  I  shall  never  return ;  although 
Macleod  returns,  yet  Mackrimmon  shall  never 
return  '.  "  The  piece  is  but  too  well  known,  from 
its  being  the  strain  with  which  the  emifjrants 
from  the  West  Highlands  and  Isles  usually  take 
leave  of  their  native  shore. 

*  "  We  return  no  more." 


DONALD   CAIRD'S  COME  AGAIN. 


473 


MACLEOD'S  wizard  flag  from  the  gray 
castle  sallies, 

The  rowers  are  seated,  unmoor'd  are  the 
galleys : 

Gleam  war-ax  and  broadsword,  clang  tar- 
get and  quiver. 

As  Mackrimnion  sings,  "  Farewell  to 
Dunvegan  forever ! 

Farewell  to  each  cliff,  on  which  breakers 
are  foaming; 

Farewell  each  dark  glen,  in  which  red- 
deer  are  roaming; 

Farewell,  lonely  Skye,  to  lake,  mountain, 
and  river; 

Macleod  may  return,  but  Mackrimmon 
shall  never ! 

"  Farewell    the    bright    clouds    that   on 

Quillan  are  sleeping; 
Farewell  the  bright  eyes  in  the  Dun  that 

are  weeping; 
To  each  minstrel  delusion,  farewell !  — 

and  forever  — 
Mackrimmondepartstoreturntoyou  never. 
The  Ransliee^s  wild  voice  sings  the  death- 

lirge  before  me, 
The  paii  df  the  dead  fov  n  manile  hangs 

o'er  me; 
But  my  heart  shall  not  flag,  and  my  nerves 

shall  not  shiver, 
Though  devotedIgo,toreturnagain  never. 

"Too  oft  shall  the  notes  of  Mackrim- 

mon's  bewailing 
Be  heard  when  the  Gael  on  their  exile 

are  sailing; 
Dear  land  I  to  the  shores,  whence  unwill- 
ing we  sever. 
Return  —  return  —  return  shall  we  never  ! 
Cha  till,  cha  till,  cha  till  sin  tuille ! 
Cha  till,  cha  till,  cha  till  sin  tuille, 
Cha  till,  cha  till,  cha  till  sin  tuille, 
Ged  thillis  Macleod,  cha  till  Mackrim- 


DON.\LD   CAIRD'S  COME   AGAIN. 

Air  —  " Malcolm  CaircVs  *  come  again." 

1818. 

CHORUS. 

Donald  Caird's  come  again  ! 
Donald  CairJ's  come  again  ! 

*  Caird  signifies  tinker. 


Tell  the  nervs  in  brugh  and  glen, 
Donald  L'aird''s  come  again. 

Donald  Caird  can  lilt  and  sing. 
Blithely  dance  the  Highland  fling, 
Drink  till  the  gudeman  be  blind, 
Fleech  till  the  gudewife  be  kind; 
Hoop  a  leglin,  clout  a  pan, 
Or  crack  a  pow  wi'  ony  man; 
Tell  the  news  in  brugh  and  glen, 
Donald  Caird's  come  again.  ■ 

Donald  Caird'' s  come  again  ! 
Donald  Caird'' s  come  again  ! 
Tell  the  news  in  Irrttg/i  and  glen, 
Donald  Caird 's  come  again. 

Donald  Caird  can  wire  a  maukin. 
Kens  the  wiles  o'  dun-deer  staukin'. 
Leisters  kipper,  makes  a  shift 
To  shoot  a  muir-fowl  in  the  drift; 
Water-bailiffs,  rangers,  keepers. 
He  can  wauk  when  they  are  sleepers; 
Not  for  bountith  or  reward 
Dare  ye  mell  wi'  Donald  Caird. 

Donald  Caird's  come  again  ! 
Donald  Caird's  come  again  ! 
Gar  the  bagpipes  hum  amain, 
Donald  Caird's  come  again. 

Donald  Caird  can  drink  a  gill 
Fast  as  hostler-wife  can  fill; 
Ilka  ane  that  sells  gude  liquor 
Kens  how  Donald  bends  a  bicker; 
When  he's  fou  he's  stout  and  saucy, 
Keeps  the  cantle  o'  the  cawsey; 
Hieland  chief  and  Lawland  laird 
Maun  gie  room  to  Donald  Caird ! 

Donald  Caird 's  come  again  ! 
Donald  Caird's  come  again  ! 
Tell  the  news  in  brugh  and  glen, 
Donald  Caird's  come  again. 

Steek  the  amrie,  lock  the  kist, 
Else  some  gear  may  weel  be  misst : 
Donald  Caird  finds  orra  things 
Where  Allan  Gregor  fand  the  tings; 
Dunts  of  Kebbuck,  taits  o'  woo. 
Whiles  a  hen  and  whiles  a  sow, 
Webs  or  duds  frae  hedge  or  yard  — 
'Ware  the  wuddie,  Donald  Caird ! 


474 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Donald  Caird''s  come  again  ! 
Donald  Caird's  come  again  ! 
Dinna  let  the  Shirra  ken 
Donald  Caird'' s  come  again. 

On  Donald  Caiid  the  doom  was  stern, 
Craig  to  tether,  legs  to  airn, 
But  Donald  Caird,  wi'  mickle  study. 
Caught  the  gift  to  cheat  the  wuddie; 
Kings  of  airn,  and  bolts  of  steel, 
Fell  like  ice  frae  hand  and  heel ! 
Watch  the  sheep  in  fauld  and  glen, 
Donald  Caird's  come  again  ! 

Donald  Caird'' s  come  again  ! 
Donald  Caird's  come  again  ! 
Dinna  let  the  Justice  ken 
Donald  Caird's  come  again. 


EFFIE  DEAN'S  SONGS. 
1818. 
The  elfin  knight  sate  on  the  brae. 

The   broom  grows  bonny,  the   broom 
grows  fair; 
And  by  there  came  lilting  a  lady  so  gay. 
And  we  daurna  gang  down  to  the  broom 
nae  mair. 


Thro'  the  kirkyard 
I  met  wi'  the  Laird; 

The  silly  puir  body  he  said  me  nae 
harm ; 
But  just  ere  'twas  dark 
I  met  wi'  the  clerk  — 
Heart  of  Mid  Lothian,  chap.  x. 


MADGE   WILDFIRE'S   SONGS. 

1818. 
When  the  gledd's  in  the  blue  cloud. 

The  lavrock  lies  still; 
When  the  hound's  in  the  green-wood. 

The  hind  keeps  the  hill. 


O  sleep  ye  sound,  Sir  James,  she  said, 
When  ye  suld  rise  and  ride? 

There's  twenty  men,  wi'  bow  and  blade. 
Are  seeking  where  ye  hide. 
Heart  of  Mid  Lothian,  chap.  xv. 


Hey  for  cavaliers,  ho  for  cavaliers, 

Dub  a  dub,  dub  a  dub; 

Have  at  old  Beelzebub,  — 
Oliver's  running  for  fear.  — 


I  glance  like  the  wildfire  thro'  country 

and  town; 
I'm  seen  on  the  causeway — I'm  seen  on 

the  down; 
The  lightning  that  flashes  so  bright  and 

so  free, 
Is  scarcely  so  blithe  or  so  bonny  as  me. 


What  did  ye  wi'  the  bridal  ring  —  bridal 

ring —  bridal  ring? 
What  did  ye  wi'  your  wedding  ring,  ye 

little  cutty  (juean,  O? 
I  gied  it  till  a  s(jdger,  a  sodger,  a  sodger, 
I  gied  it  till  a  sodger,  an  auld  true  love 

of  mine,  O. 

Heart  of  A/id  Lothian,  chap.  xvi. 


Good  even,  good  fair  moon,  good  even 

to  thee; 
I  prithee,  dear  moon,  now  show  to  me 
The   form  and   the   features,  the  speech 

and  degree. 
Of  the  man  that  true  lover  of  mine  shall  be. 


It  is  the  bonny  butcher  lad. 

That  wears  the  sleeves  of  blue; 

He  sells  the  flesh  on  Saturday, 
On  Friday  that  he  slew. 


There's  a  bloodhound  ranging  Tinwald 
Wood, 
There's  harness  glancing  sheen; 
There's  a  maiden  sits  on  Tinwald  brae. 
And  she  sings  loud  between. 

O  sleep  ye  sound,  etc. 
Heart  of  Mid  I^othian,  chap,  xviii. 


Up  in  the  air, 
On  my  bonnie  gray  mare. 
And  I  see,  and  I  see,  and  I  see  her  yet. 
Heart  of  Mid  Lothian,  chap.  xix. 


MOTTOES. 


^t> 


In  the  bonnie  cells  of  Bedlam, 

Ere  I  was  ane  and  twenty, 
I  had  hempen  bracelets  strong. 
And  merry  whips,  ding-dong, 
And  prayers  and  fasting  plenty. 


My  banes  are  buried  in  yon  kirk -yard 

Sae  far  ayont  the  sea, 
And  it  is  but  my  l)lithesome  ghaist 

That's  speaking  now  to  thee. 
Heart  of  Mid  Lothian,  chap.  xxix. 


I'm  Madge  of  the  country,  I'm  Madge 

of  the  town, 
And  I'm  Madge  of  the  lad  I  am  blithest 

to  own  — 
The    Lady  of  Beever  in  diamonds  may 

shine, 
But  has  not  a  heart  half  so  lightsome  as 

mine. 
I  am  Queen  of  the  Wake,  and  I'm  Lady 

of   May, 
And   I    lead    the    blithe   ring    round   the 

May-pole  to-day; 
The  wild- fire  that  flashes  so  fair  and  so  free 
Was  never  so  bright  or  so  bonnie  as  me. 
Heart  of  AliJ  I.othian,  chap.   xxxi. 


Our  work  is  over  —  over  now; 
The  goodman  wipes  his  weary  brow, 
The  last  long  wain  wends  slow  away, 
And  we  are  free  to  sport  and  play. 

The  night  comes  on  when  sets  the  sun. 
And  labor  ends  when  day  is  done. 
When  Autumn's  gone,  and  Winter's  come. 
We  hold  our  jovial  harvest-home. 

When  the  fight  of  grace  is  fought,  — 
When  the  marriage  vest  is  wrought,  — 
When  Faith  has  chased  cold  Doubt  away. 
And  hope  but  sickens  at  delay,  — 

When  Charity,  imprison'd  here. 
Longs  for  a  more  expanded  sphere; 
Doff  thy  robe  of  sin  and  clay; 
Christian,  rise,  and  come  away. 


Cauld  is  my  bed,  Lord  Archibald, 
And  sad  my  sleep  of  sorrow : 


But  thine  sail  be  as  sad  and  cauld. 
My  fause  true-love  \   to-morrow. 

And  weep  ye  not,  my  maidens  free, 
Though  death  your  mistress  lx>rrow, 

For  he  for  whom  I  die  to-day 
Shall  die  for  me  to-morrow. 


Proud  Maisie  is  in  the  wood, 

Walking  so  early; 
Sweet  Robin  sits  on  the  bush, 

Singing  so  rarely. 

"Tell  me,  thou  bonny  bird. 
When  shall  I  marry  me  !  "  — 

"  When  six  braw  gentlemen 
Kirkward  shall  carry  ye." 

"  Who  makes  the  bridal  bed, 

Birdie,  say  truly?  "  — 
"The  gray-headed  sexton 

That  delves  the  grave  duly. 

"  The  glow-worm  o'er  grave  and  stone 

Shall  light  thee  steady. 
The  owl  from  the  steeple  sing, 

'  Welcome,  proud  lady.'  " 


MOTTOES. 

FROM    "THE    HEART   OF   MID    I.OTHIAN." 
CHAP.    VIIl. 

Arthur's  Seat  shall  be  my  bed. 

The  sheets  shall  ne'er  be  prest  by  me; 

St.  Anton's  well  shall  be  my  drink. 
Sin'  my  true  love's  forsaken  me. 

Old  Song. 

CHAP.  xn. 
Then  she  stretch'd  out  her  lily  band. 

And  for  to  do  her  best, 
Hae  back  thy  faith  and  troth,  Willie, 
God  gie  thy  soul  good  rest. 

Old  Ballad. 

CHAP.    XIV. 
Dark  and  eerie  was  the  night. 

And  lonely  was  the  way. 
As  Janet  wi'  her  green  mantill 
To  Miles'  Cross  she  did  gae. 

Old  Ballad. 


476 


3IISCELLANE0US  POEMS. 


EPITAPH    ON   MRS.   ERSKINE.* 

1819. 

Plain,  as  her  native  dignity  of  mind, 

Arise  the  tomb  of  her  we  have  resign'd; 

Unflaw'd    and   stainless    be    the    marble 

scroll, 
EmVjlem  of  lovely  form  and  candid  soul. 
But,  oh!   what  symbol  may  avail,  to  tell 
The  kindness,  wit,  and  sense,  we  loved 

so  well !  • 

What  sculptureshowthebrokentiesof  life. 
Here  buried  with  the  parent,  friend,  and 

wife ! 
Or  on  the  tablet  stamp  each  title  dear. 
By  which  thine  urn,  Euphkmia,  claims 

the  tear ! 
Yet  taught,   by  thy  meek  sufferance,  to 

assume 
Patience   in    anguish,   hope    beyond  the 

tomb, 
Resign'd,  though  sad,   this  votive  verse 

shall  flow. 
And  brief,  alas  !  as  thy  brief  span  below. 


LUCY   ASHTON'S   SONG. 
1819. 
Look  not  thou  on  beauty's  charming, 
Sit  thou  still  when  kings  are  arming,  — 
Taste  not  when  the  wine-cup  glistens,  • 
Speak  not  when  the  people  listens,  — 
Stop  thine  ear  against  the  singer,  — 
From  the  red  gold  keep  thy  finger, — 
Vacant  heart,  and  hand,  and  eye, 
Easy  live  and  quiet  die. 
The  Bride  of  La?»/nertnoor,  chap.  iii. 


NORMAN  THE  FORESTER'S  SONG. 

1819. 
The  monk  must  arise  when  the  matins 
ring. 
The  abbot  may  sleep  to  their  chime; 
But    the    yeoman    must    start   when   the 
bugles  sing, 
'Tis  time,  my  hearts,  'tis  time. 

*  Mrs.  Euphemia  Robison,  wife  of  William 
Erskine  (afterwards  Lord  Kinedder),  died  Sejv 
tetnber,  1819. 


There's  bucks  and  raes  on  Billhope  braes, 
There's  a  herd  on  Shortwood  Shaw; 

But  a  lily  white  doe  in  the  garden  goes, 
She's  fairly  worth  them  a'. 

77ie  Bride  of  Lammerinoor,  chap.  iii. 


MOTTOES. 

FROM    "the    bride    OF    LAMMERMOOR." 
CHAP.    VII. 

Now,  Billy  Bewick,  keep  good  heart. 

And  of  thy  talking  let  me  be; 
But  if  thou  art  a  man,  as  I  am  sure  thou 
art. 
Come  over  the  dyke  and  fight  with  me. 
Old  Ballad. 

CHAP.    VIII. 

The  hearth  in  hall  was  black  and  dead. 

No  board  was  dight  in  bower  within. 
Nor  merry  bowl  nor  welcome  bed; 

"  Here's  sorry  cheer,"  quoth  the  Heir 
of  Lynne. 

Old  Ballad.  \ 

CHAP.    XIV. 

As,  to  the  Autumn  breeze's  bugle-sound. 
Various  and  vague  the  dry  leaves  dance 

their  round; 
Or,  from  the  garner-door,  on  ether  borne, 
The  chaff  flies  devious  from  the  winnow'd 

corn ; 
So  vague,   so  devious,  at  the   breath  of 

heaven, 
From  their  fix'd  aim  are  mortal  counsels 

driven. 

Anonymous. 

CHAP.   XVII. 
— —  Here  is  a  father  now. 

Will  truck  his  daughter  for  a  foreign  ven- 
ture, 

Make  her  a  stop-gap  to  some  canker'd 
feud, 

Or   fling    her    o'er,    like    Jonah,    to    the 
fishes. 

To  appease  the  sea  at  highest. 

Anonymous. 

t  The    first   three   lines  are  believed  to  be 
Scott's. 


ANNOT  LYLE'S  SONGS. 


477 


CHAP.    XXVII, 

Why,  now  I  have  Dame  Fortune  by  the 
forelock, 

And  if  she  'scapes  my  grasp,  the  fault  is 
mine; 

He  that  hath  buffeted  with  stern  adversity. 

Best  knows  to  shape  his  course  to  favor- 
ing breezes. 

Old  Play. 


ANNOT  LYLE'S   SONGS. 
1819. 
I. 
Birds  of  omen  dark  and  foul, 
Night-crow,  raven,  bat,  and  owl, 
Leave  the  sick  man  to  his  dream  — 
All  night  long  he  heard  your  scream; 
Haste  to  cave  and  ruin'd  tower. 
Ivy  tod,  or  dingled-bower. 
There  to  wink  and  mope;  for,  hark! 
In  the  mid  air  sings  the  lark. 


Hie  to  moorish  gills  and  rocks, 
Prowling  wolf  and  wily  fox,  — 
1  lie  ye  fast,  nor  turn  your  view. 
Though  the  lamb  bleats  to  the  ewe. 
Couch  your  trains  and  speed  your  flight, 
Safety  parts  with  parting  night; 
And  on  distant  echo  borne, 
Comes  the  hunter's  early  horn. 


The  moon's  wan  crescent  scarcely  gleams, 
Ghost-like  she  fades  in  morning  beams; 
Hie  hence,  each  peevish  imp  and  fay 
That  scare  the  ])ilgrim  on  his  way.  — 
Quench,  kelpy  !  quench,  in  fog  and  fen, 
'l"hy  torch,  that  cheats  benighted  men; 
Thy  dance  is  o'er,  thy  reign  is  done. 
For  Benyieglo  hath  seen  the  sun. 


Wild  thoughts, that, sinful, dark, anddeep, 
O'erpower  the  passive  mind  in  sleep, 
Pass  from  the  slumberer's  soul  away, 
Like  night-mists  from  the  brow  of  day: 
Foul  hag,  whose  blasted  visage  grim 
Smothers  the  pulse,  unnerves  the  limb. 
Spur  thy  dark  palfrey,  and  begone  ! 
Thou  darest  not  face  the  godlike  sun. 
The  Legend  of  Montrose,  chap.  vi. 


GAZE   NOT  UPON   THE   STARS. 
1819. 
Gaze  not  upon  the  stars,  fond  sage, 

In  them  no  influence  lies; 
To  read  the  fate  of  youth  or  age 
Look  on  my  Helen's  eyes. 

Yet,  rash  astrologer,  refrain  ! 

Too  dearly  would  be  won 
The  prescience  of  another's  pain 

If  purchased  by  thine  own. 
The  Legend  of  Af on/rose,  chap,  vi- 


THE  ORPHAN   MAID. 
1819. 
November's  hail -cloud  drifts  away, 

November's  sunbeam  wan 
Looks  coldly  on  the  castle  gray. 
When  forth  comes  Lady  Anne. 

The  orphan  by  the  oak  was  set. 
Her  arms,  her  feet,  were  bare; 

The  hail-drops  had  not  melted  yet. 
Amid  her  raven  hair. 

"  And  dame,"  she  said,  "  by  all  the  ties 
That  child  and  mother  know, 

Aid  one  who  never  knew  these  joys. 
Relieve  an  orphan's  woe." 

The  lady  said :  —  "  An  orphan's  state 

Is  hard  and  sad  to  bear; 
Yet  worse  the  widow'd  mother's  fate, 

Who  mourns  both  lord  and  heir. 

"  Twelve  times  the  rolling  year  has  sped. 
Since,  while  from  vengeance  wild 

Of  fierce  Strathallan's  chief  I  fled, 
Forth's  eddies  whelm'd  my  child."  — 

"Twelve  times  the  year  its  course  has 
borne," 

The  wandering  maid  replied, 
"  Since  fishers  on  St.  Bridget's  morn 

Drew  nets  on  Campsie  side. 

"St.  Bridget  sent  no  scaly  spoil; 

An  infant,  well-nigh  dead. 
They  saved,  and  rear'd  in  want  and  toil, 

To  beg  from  you  her  bread." 


478 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Tliat  orphan  maid  the  lady  kiss'd :  — 
"  My  husband's  looks  you  bear; 

Saint  Bridget  and  her  morn  be  blest ! 
You  are  his  widow's  heir." 

They've   robed  that  maid,  so  poor  and 
pale, 
In  silk  and  sendals  rare, 
And  pearls,  for  drops  of  frozen  hail. 
Are  glistening  in  her  hair. 
The  Legend  of  Montrose,  chap.  ix. 


"WERT  THOU   LIKE   ME." 
1819. 
Wert  thou  like  me  in  life's  low  vale, 

With  thee  how  blest  that  life  I'd  share; 
With  thee  I'd  fly  wherever  gale 

Could  waft  or  bounding  galley  bear. 
But  parted  by  severe  decree, 

Far  different  must  our  fortunes  jirove, 
May  thine  be  joy  —  enough  for  me 

To  weep  and  pray  for  him  I  love. 

The  pangs  this  foolish  heart  must  feel 

When  hope  shall  be  forever  flown, 
No  sullen  murmurs  shall  reveal, 

No  selfish  murmurs  ever  own. 
Nor  will  I  thro'  life's  weary  years 

Like  a  pale  drooping  mourner  move, 
While  I  can  think  my  secret  tears 

May  wound  the  heart  of  him  I  love. 

The  Legend  of  Montrose,  chap.  xxi. 


THE   CRUS.\DER'S   RETURN. 
1819. 
I. 
High  deeds  achieved  of  knightly  fame, 
From  Palestine  the  champion  came; 
The  cross  upon  his  shoulders  borne, 
Battle  and  blast  had  dimm'd  and  torn. 
Each  dint  upon  his  batter'd  shield 
Was  token  of  a  foughten  field; 
And  thus,  beneath  his  lady's  bower, 
He  sung,  as  fell  the  twilight  hour:  — 


*'  Joy  to  the  fair !  —  thy  knight  behold, 
Return'd  from  yonder  land  of  gold; 


No  wealth  he  brings,  no  wealth  can  need. 
Save  his  good  arms  and  battle-steed; 
His  spurs  to  dash  against  a  foe, 
His  lance  and  sword  to  lay  him  low; 
Such  all  the  trophies  of  his  toil, 
Such  —  and  the  hope  of  Tekla's  smile  ! 


"  Joy  to  the  fair !  whose  constant  knight 
Her  f.ivor  fired  to  fe.its  of  might ! 
Unnoted  shall  she  not  remain 
Where  meet  the  bright  and  noble  train; 
Minstrel  shall  sing,  and  herald  tell  — 
'  Mark  yonder  maid  of  beauty  well; 
'Tis  she  for  whose  bright  eyes  was  won 
The  listed  field  of  Ascalon  ! 


" '  Note  well  her  smile  !  it  edged  the  blade 
Which  fifty  wives  to  widows  made, 
When,  vain  his  strength  and  Mahound's 

spell, 
Iconium's  turban'd  Soldan  fell. 
See'st  thou  her  locks,  whose  sunny  glow 
Half  shows, half  shades, her  neck  of  snow  ? 
Twines  not  of  them  one  golden  thread, 
But  for  its  sake  a  Paynim  bled.' 


"  Joy  to  the  fair  !  —  my  name  unknown, 
Each  deed,  and  all  its  praise,  thine  own; 
Then,  oh  !  unbar  this  churlish  gate, 
The  night-dew  falls,  the  hour  is  late. 
Inured  to  Syria's  glowing  breath, 
I  feel  the  north  breeze  chill  as  death; 
Let  grateful  love  quell  maiden  shame. 
And    grant    him  bliss   who    brings    thee 
fame." 

Ivanhoc,  chap,  xviii. 


THE   BAREFOOTED   FRIAR. 

1819. 

I. 

I'll  give  thee,  good  fellow,  a  twelve- 
month or  twain. 

To  search  Europe  thro'  from  Byzantium 
to  Spain  ! 

But  ne'er  shall  you  find,  should  you 
search  till  you  tire, 

So  happy  a  man  as  the  Barefooted  Friar. 


SAXON   WAR-SONG. 


479 


Your  knight  for  his  lady  pricks  forth  in 
career, 

And  is  brought  home  at  even-song  prick'd 
through  with  a  spear; 

I  confess  him  in  haste  —  for  his  lady  de- 
sires 

No  comfort  on  earth  save  the  Barefooted 
Friar's. 


Your  monarch  !  —  Pshaw  !  many  a  prince 

has  been  known 
To  barter  his  robes  for  our  cowl  and  our 

gown; 
IJut  which  of  us  e'er  felt  the  idle  desire 
To  exchange  for  a  crown  the  gray  hood 

of  a  Friar? 


The  Friar  has  walked  out,  and  where'er 

he  has  gone, 
The  land  and  its  fatness  is  mark'd  for  his 

own; 
He  can  roam  where  he  lists,  he  can  stop 

where  he  tires, 
For  every  man's  house  is  the  Barefooted 

Friar's. 


He's  expected  at  noon,  and  no  wight, 
till  he  comes, 

May  profane  the  great  chair,  or  the  por- 
ridge of  plums; 

For  the  best  of  the  cheer,  and  the  seat 
by  the  fire. 

Is  the  undenied  right  of  the  Barefooted 
Friar. 


He's  expected  at  night,  and  the  pasty's 
made  hot; 

They  broach  the  brown  ale,  and  they  fill 
the  black  pot; 

And  the  good-wife  would  wish  the  good- 
man  in  the  mire. 

Ere  he  lack'd  a  soft  pillow,  the  Barefooted 
Friar. 

VII. 
Long  flourish  the  sandal,  the  cord,  and 

the  cope. 
The  dread  of  the  devil  and  trust  of  the 

Pope ! 


For  to  gather  life's  roses  unscathed  by 

the  brier 
Is  granted  alone  to  the  Barefooted  Friar. 
Ivan/we,  chap,  xviii. 


SAXON   WAR-SONG. 
1819. 

"The  fire  was  spreading  rapidly  througli  all 
parts  of  the  castle,  when  Ulrica,  who  had  first 
kindled  it,  appeared  on  a  turret,  in  the  guise  of 
one  of  the  ancient  furies,  yelling  forth  a  war-song, 
such  as  was  of  yore  chanted  on  the  field  of  hattle 
by  the  yet  heathen  Saxons.  .  .  .  Tradition  has 
preserved  some  wild  strophes  of  the  barbarous 
hymn  which  she  chanted  wildly  amid  that  scene 
of  fire  and  slaughter." 


Whet  the  bright  steel, 

Sons  of  the  White  Dragon ! 

Kindle  the  torch. 

Daughter  of  Hengist ! 

The  steel  glimmers  not  for  the  carving 

of  the  banquet, 
It  is  hard,  broad,  and  sharply  pointed; 
The  torch  goeth  not  to  the  bridal  chamber, 
It  steams  and  glitters  blue  with  sulphur. 
Whet  the  steel,  the  raven  croaks  ! 
Light  the  torch,  Zernebock  is  yelling  ! 
Whet  the  steel,  sons  of  the  Dragon ! 
Kindle  the  torch,  daughter  of  Hengist ! 


The  black  cloud  is  low  over  the  thane's 

castle ; 
The  eagle  screams — he  rides  on  its  bosom. 
Scream  not,  gray  rider  of  the  sable  cloud. 
Thy  banquet  is  prepared  ! 
The  maidens  of  Valhalla  look  forth, 
The   race   of    Hengist   will   send   them 

guests. 
Shake   your   black   tresses,   maidens   of 

Valhalla '. 
And  strike  your  loud  timbrels  for  joy ! 
Many  a  haughty  step  bends  to  your  halls. 
Many  a  helmed  head. 

HI. 
Dark  sits  the  evening  upon  the  thane's 

castle, 
The  black  clouds  gather  roiiiul; 
Soon  shall  they  be  red  as  the  blood  of 

the  valiant ! 


48o 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Tlie  destroyer  of  forests  shall  shake  his 

red  crest  against  them; 
He,  the  bright  consumer  of  palaces, 
Broad  waves  he  his  blazing  banner. 
Red,  wide,  and  dusky, 
Over  the  strife  of  the  valiant; 
His   joy  is  in  the    clashing  swords  and 

broken  bucklers; 
He  loves  to  lick  the  hissing  blood  as  it 

bursts  warm  from  the  wound  ! 


All  must  perish ! 

The  sword  cleaveth  the  helmet; 

The  strong  armor  is  pierced  liy  the  lance, 

Fire  devoureth  the  dwelling  of  princes, 

Engines  break  down  the  fences  of  battle. 

All  must  perish ! 

The  race  of  Hengist  is  gone  — 

The  name  of  Horsa  is  no  more ! 

Shrink  not  then  from  your  doom,  sons  of 

the  sword ! 
Let  your  blades  drink  blood  like  wine; 
Feast  ye  in  the  banquet  of  slaughter, 
By  the  light  of  the  blazing  halls ! 
Strong  be  your  swords  while  your  blood 

is  warm. 
And  spare  neither  for  pity  nor  fear. 
For  vengeance  hath  but  an  hour; 
Strong  hate  itself  shall  expire  ! 
I  also  must  perish.* 


REBECCA'S   HYMN. 

When  Israel,  of  the  Lord  beloved. 
Out  from  the  land  of  bondage  came. 

Her  fathers'  God  before  her  moved. 
An  awful  guide  in  smoke  and  flame. 

By  day,  along  the  astonish'd  lands 
The  clouded  pillar  glided  slow; 

*  "  It  will  readily  occur  to  the  antiquary, 
that  these  verses  are  intended  to  imitate  the  an- 
tique poetry  of  the  Scalds  —  the  minstrels  of  the 
old  Scandinavians  —  the  race,  as  the  Laureate 
[Southey]  so  happily  terms  them,  — 

Stem  to  inflict,  and  stubborn  to  endure, 
Who  smiled  in  death.' 

"The  poetry  of  the  Anglo-Saxons,  after  their 
civilization  and  conversion,  was  of  a  different 
and  softer  character;  but  in  the  circumstances 
of  Ulrica,  she  may  be  not  unnaturally  supposed 
to  return  to  the  wild  strains  which  animated  her 
forefathers  during  the  times  of  Paganism  and 
untamed  ferocity." 

Ivankoe,  chap.  xxxi. 


By  night  Arabia's  crimson'd  sands 
Return'd  the  fiery  column's  glow. 

There  rose  the  choral  hymn  of  praise. 

And  trump  and  timbrel  answer'd  keen. 
And  Zion's  daughters  pour'd  their  lays, 

With  priest's  and  warrior's  voice  be- 
tween. 
No  portents  now  our  foes  amaze. 

Forsaken  Israel  wanders  lone: 
Our  fathers  would  not  know  Thy  ways. 

And  Thou  hast  left  them  to  their  own. 

But  present  still,  though  now  unseen ! 

Whenbrightly  shines  theprosperousday, 
Be  thoughts  of  Thee  a  cloudy  screen 

To  temper  the  deceitful  ray. 
And  oh,  when  stoops  on  Judah's  path 

In  shade  and  storm  the  frequent  night, 
Be  Thou,  long-suffering,  slow  to  wrath, 

A  burning  and  a  shining  light ! 

Our  harps  we  left  by  Babel's  streams. 

The  tyrant's  jest,  the  Gentile's  scorn; 
No  censer  round  our  altar  beams. 

And  mute  are  timbrel,  harp,  and  horn. 
But  Thou  hast  said,  The  blood  of  goat. 

The  flesh  of  rams,  I  will  not  prize; 
A  contrite  heart,  a  humble  thought, 

Are  mine  accepted  sacrifice. 

Ivanhoe,  chap,  xxxix. 


A   VIRELAI. 

1819. 

the  black  knight. 

Anna-Marie,  love,  up  is  the  sun, 

Anna-Marie,  love,  morn  is  begun; 

Mists  are  dispersing,  love,  birds  singing 

free. 
Up  in  the  morning,  love,  Anna-Marie. 
Anna-Marie,  love,  up  in  the  morn, 
The  hunter  is  winding  blithe  sounds  on 

his  horn. 
The  echo  rings  merry  from  rock  and  from 

tree. 
'Tis    time    to   arouse    thee,    love,  Anna 

Marie. 

WAMBA. 

O  Tybalt,  love,  Tybalt,  awake  me  not  yet, 
Around  my  soft  pillow  while  softer  dreams 
flit; 


FUNERAL  HYMN. 


48? 


For  what  are  the  joys  that  in  waking  we 

prove, 
Compared  with  these  visions,  O  Tybalt, 

my  love? 
Let  the  birds  to  the  rise  of  the  mist  carol 

shrill; 
Let  the  hunter  blow  out  his  loud  horn  on 

the  hill, 
Softer  sounds,  softer  pleasures,  in  slumber 

I  prove. 
But  think  not  I  dream'd  of  thee,  Tybalt, 

my  love. 

Ivanhoe,  chap.  xl. 


Duet  between  the  Knight  of  the  Fetterlock 
atid  the  Jester. 
1819. 
KNIGHT   AND   WAMBA. 
There  came  three  merry  men  from  south, 
west,  and  north. 
Ever  more  sing  the  roundelay; 
To  win  the  Widow  of  Wycombe  forth. 
And  where  was  the  widow  might  say 
them  nay? 

The  first  was  a  knight,  and  from  Tynedale 
he  came, 
Ever  more  sing  the  roundelay; 
And  his  fathers,  God  save  us,  were  men 
of  great  fame. 
And  where  was  the  widow  might  say 
him  nay? 

Of  his  father  the  laird,  of  his  uncle  the 

squire, 

He  boasted  in  rhyme  and  in  roundelay; 

She  bade  him  go  bask  by  his  sea-coal  fire. 

For  she  was  the  widow  would  say  him 

nay. 

WAMBA. 

The  next  that  came  forth,  swore  by  blood 
and  by  nails, 
Merrily  sing  the  roundelay; 
Ilur's  a  gentleman,  God  wot,  and  Hur's 
lineage  was  of  Wales, 
And  where  was  the  widow  might  say 
him  nay? 

Sir  David  ap  Morgan  ap  Griffith  ap  Hugh 
Ap  Tudor  ap  Rhice,  quoth  his  rounde- 
lay; 


She  said  that  one  widow  for  so  many  was 
too  few. 
And  she  bade  the  Welshman  wend  his 
way. 

But  then  next  came  a  yeoman,  a  yeoman 
of  Kent, 
JoUily  singing  his  roundelay; 
He  spoke  to  the  widow  of  living  and  rent, 
And  where  was  a  widow  could  say  him 
nay? 

BOTH. 

So  the  knight  and  the  squire  were  both 
left  in  the  mire, 
There  for  to  sing  their  roundelay; 
For  a  yeoman  of  Kent,  with hisyearlyrent. 
There  ne'er  was  a  widow  could  say  him 
nay. 

Ivanhoe,  chap.  xl. 


FUNERAL  HYMN. 
1819. 
Dust  unto  dust, 
To  this  all  must; 

The  tenant  has  resign'd 
The  faded  form 
To  waste  and  worm  — 

Corruption  claims  her  kind. 

Thro'  paths  unknown 
Thy  soul  hath  flown. 

To  seek  the  realms  of  woe, 
Where  fiery  pain 
Shall  urge  the  stain 

Of  actions  done  below. 

In  that  sad  place. 
By  Mary's  grace, 

Brief  may  thy  dwelling  be; 
Till  prayers  and  alms. 
And  holy  psalms. 

Shall  set  the  captive  free. 

Ivanhoe,  Chap.  xlii. 


MOTTOES. 

FROM    "  IVANHOE." 
CHAP.  XXVI. 

The  hottest  horse  will  oft  be  cool, 
The  dullest  will  show  fire; 


482 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


The  friar  will  often  play  the  fool, 
The  fool  will  play  the  friar. 

CHAP.  XXX. 
Approach  the  chamber,  look  upon  his  bed. 
His  is  the  passing  of  no  peaceful  ghost, 
Which,  as  the  lark  arises  to  the  sky. 
Mid  morning's  sweetest  breeze  and  softest 

dew. 
Is  wing'd  to  heaven  by  good  men's  sighs 

and  tears ! 
Anselm  parts  otherwise. 

Old  Play. 

CHAP,  xxxni. 

Trust  me,  each  state  must  have  its  poli- 
cies: 

Kingdoms  have  edicts,  cities  have  their 
charters; 

Even  the  wild  outlaw,  in  his  forest-walk, 

Keeps  yet  some  touch  of  civil  discipline. 

For  not  since    Adam  wore  his  verdant 
apron. 

Hath  man  with  man  in  social  union  dwelt. 

But  laws  were  made  to  draw  that  union 
closer. 

Old  Play. 

CHAP.  XXXVI. 
Arouse  the  tiger  of  Hyrcanian  deserts. 
Strive  with  the  half-starved  lion  for  his 

prey; 
Lesser  the  risk,  than  rouse  the  slumbering 

fire 
Of  wild  Fanaticism. 

Anonymous. 

CHAP.  XXXVH. 
Say  not    my  art  is  fraud  —  all   live  by 

seeming. 
The  beggar  begs  with  it,  and  the  gay 

courtier 
Gains  land  and  title,  rank  and  rule,  by 

seeming : 
The  clergy  scorn  it  not,  and   the  bold 

soldier 
Will  eke  with  it  his  service.  —  All  admit 

it, 
All  practise  it;  and  he  who  is  content 
With    showing   what    he    is,   shall    have 

small  credit    ■ 
In  church,  or  camp,  or  state.  —  So  w.igs 

the  world. 

Old  Play. 


CHAP.  XXXVHI. 
Stern  was  the  law  which  bade  its  votaries 

leave 
At  human  woes  with   human   hearts  to 

grieve; 
Stern  was  the  law  which  at  the  winning 

wile 
Of  frank  and  harmless  mirth  forbade  to 

smile; 
But  sterner  still,  when  high  the  iron  rod 
Of  tyrant   power  she  shook,  and  call'd 

that  power  of  God. 

The  .Middle  Ages. 

CHAP.  xui. 
I  found  themwindingof  Marcello'scorpse; 
And  there  was  such  a  solemn  melody, 
'Twixt    doleful    songs,    tears,    and    sad 

elegies. 
Such  as  old  grandames  watching  by  the 

dead 
Are  wont  to  outwear  the  night  with. 
Old  Play. 

SONGS  OF  THE  WHITE  LADY  OF 
AVENEL. 

1820. 

(i.)  — ON   TWEED   RIVER. 

I. 

Merrily   swim   we,   the    moon    shines 

bright. 
Both  current  and  ripple  are  dancing  in 

light. 
We  have  roused  the  night  raven,  I  heard 

him  croak, 
As  we  plashed  along  beneath  the  oak 
That  flings  its  broad  branches  s'o  far  and 

so  wide. 
Their  shadows  are  dancing  in  midst  of 

the  tide. 
"  Who  wakens  my  nestlings?  "  the  raven 

he  said, 
"  My  I)eak  shall  ere  morn  in  his  blood 

be  red ! 
For  a  blue  swollen  corpse  is  a  dainty  meal, 
And  I'll  have  my  share  with  the  pike  and 

the  eel." 

H. 
Merrily  swim  we,  the  moon  shines  bright. 
There's  a  golden  gleam  on  the  distant 

height : 


SONGS   OF  THE    WHITE  LADY  OF  AVENEL. 


483 


There's  a  silver  showeron  the  alders  dank, 
And  the  flrooping  willows  that  wave  on 

the  bank. 
I  see  the  Abbey,  lx)th  turret  and  tower, 
It  is  all  astir  for  the  vesper  hour; 
The   Monks  for  the  chapel  are    leaving 

each  cell. 
But  where's  Father  Philip  should  toll  the 

bell? 

III. 
Merrily  swim  we,  the  moon  shines  bright, 
Downward  we  drift  through  shadow  and 

light; 
Under  yon  rock  the  eddies  sleep. 
Calm  and  silent,  dark  and  deep. 
The  Kelpy  has  risen  from  the  fathomless 

pool, 
He  has  lighted  his  candle  of  death  and 

of  dool; 
Look,  Father,  look,  and  you'll  laugh  to 

see 
How  he  gapes  and  glares  with  his  eyes 

on  thee ! 

IV. 

"  Good  luck  to  your  fishing,  whom  watch 

ye  to-night? 
A  man  of  mean  or  a  man  of  might? 
Is  it  layman  or  priest  that  must  float  in 

your  cove, 
Or  lover  who  crosses  to  visit  his  love? 
Hark !  heard  ye  the  Kelpy  reply  as  we 

past :  — 
"  God's  blessing  on  the  warder,  he  lock'd 

the  bridge  fast ! 
All  that  come  to  my  cove  are  sunk, 
Priest  or  layman,  lover  or  monk." 

Landed  —  landed  1  the  black  book  hath 

won. 
Else  had  you  seen  Berwick  with  morning 

sun  ! 
Snin  ye,  and  save  ye,  and  blithe  mot  ye  be, 
For  seldom  they  land  that  go  swimming 

with  me. 

The  Monastery,  chap.  v. 


(2.)-T0   THE    SUB-PRIOR. 
Goon  evening,  Sir   Priest,  and  so  late  as 

you  ride. 
With  your  mule  so  fair,  and  your  mantle 

so  wide; 


But  ride  you  thro'  valley,  or  ride  vou  o'er 

hill. 
There  is  one  that  has  warrant  to  wait  on 
you  still. 

Back,  back, 
The  volume  black ! 
I  have  a  warrant  to  carry  it  back. 

What,  ho !  Sub- Prior,  and  came  you  but 

here 
To  conjure  a  lx)ok  from  a  dead  Woman's 

bier  ? 
Sain  you,  and  save  you,  be  wary  and  wise, 
Ride  back  with  the  book,  or  you'll  pay 

for  your  prize. 

Back,  back. 

There's  death  in  the  track ! 
In  the  name  of  my  master,  I  bid  thee 

bear  back. 

"  In  the  name  of  MV  Master,"  said  the  aston- 
ished Monk,  "  that  name  before  which  all  things 
created  tremble,  I  conjure  thee  to  say  what  thou 
art  that  hauntest  rae  thus?" 

The  same  voice  replied :  — 

That  which  is  neither  ill  nor  well. 

That  which  belongs  not  to  heaven  nor  to 

hell, 
A  wreath  of  the  mist,  a  bubble  of  the 

stream, 
'Twixt  a  waking  thought  and  a  sleeping 

dream; 

A  form  that  men  spy 
With  the  half-shut  eye 
In  the  beams  of  the  setting  sun,  am  I. 

Vainly,  Sir  Prior,  wouldst  thou  bar  me 

my  right ! 
Like  the  star  when  it  shoots,  I  can  dart 

thro'  the  night; 
I  can  dance  on  the  torrent,  and  ride  on 

the  air. 
And    travel    the  world   with  the    bonny 

night-mare. 

Again,  again, 
At  the  crook  of  the  glen, 
Where  bickers  the  burnie,  I'll  meet  thee 

again. 

Men  of  good  are  bold  as  sackless,* 
Men  of  rude  are  wild  and  reckless. 

*  Sackless  — Innocent. 


484 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Lie  thou  still 
In  the  nook  of  the  hill, 
For  those  be  before  thee,  that  wish  thee 
ill. 

The  Monastery,  chap.  ix. 


HALBERT'S   INCANTATION. 

Thrice  to  the  holly  brake  — 

Thrice  to  the  well :  — 
I  bid  thee  awake, 

White  Maid  of  Avenel ! 

Noon  gleams  on  the  Lake  — 
Noon  glows  on  the  Fell  — 

Wake  thee,  O  wake. 
White  Maid  of  Avenel. 

The  Monastery,  chap.  xi. 


(3)  — THE  WHITE  LADY'S  ANSWER. 

Youth  of  the  dark  eye,  wherefore  didst 

thou  call  nie? 
Wherefore  art  thou  here,  if  terrors  can 

appal  thee? 
He  that  seeks  to  deal  with  us  must  know 

nor  fear  nor  failing; 
To  coward  and  churl  our  speech  is  dark, 

our  gifts  are  unavailing. 
The  breeze  that  brought  me  hither  now 

must  sweep  Egyptian  ground. 
The    fleecy   cloud   on  which   I   ride   for 

Araby  is  boimd; 
The  fleecy  cloud  is  drifting  by,  the  breeze 

sighs  for  my  stay. 
For  I  must  sail  a  thousand  miles  before 

the  close  of  day. 
What  I  am  I  must  not  show  — 
What  I  am  thou  couldst  not  know  — 
Something  betwixt  heaven  and  hell  — 
Something  that  neither  stood  nor  fell  — 
Something  that  thro'  thy  wit  or  will 
May  work  thee  good  —  may  work  thee  ill. 
Neither  substance  quite,  nor  shadow. 
Haunting  lonely  moors  and  meadow. 
Dancing  by  the  haunted  spring, 
Riding  on  the  whirlwind's  wing; 
Aping  in  fantastic  fashion 
Every  change  of  human  passion. 
While  o'er  our  frozen  minds  they  pass. 
Like  shadows  from  the  mirror'd  glass. 
Wayward,  fickle,  is  our  mood. 
Hovering  betwixt  bad  and  good, 


Happier  than  brief-dated  man. 
Living  ten  times  o'er  his  span; 
Far  less  happy,  for  we  have 
Help  nor  hope  beyond  the  grave ! 
Man  awakes  to  joy  or  sorrow; 
Ours  the  sleep  that  knows  no  morrow. 
This  is  all  that  I  can  show  — 
This  is  all  that  thou  may'st  know. 


Ay !  and  I  taught  thee  the  word  and  the 

spell, 
To  waken  me  here  by  the  Fairies'  Well. 
But  thou  hast  loved  the  heron  and  hawk, 
More  than  to  seek  my  haunted  walk; 
And  thou  hast  loved  the  lance  and  the 

sword. 
More  than  good  text  and  holy  word; 
And  thou  hast  loved  the  deer  to  track, 
More  than  the  lines  and  the  letters  l>lack; 
And  thou  art  a  ranger  of  moss  and  wood, 
And  scornest  the  nurture  of  gentle  blood. 


Thy  craven  fear  my  truth  accused, 
Thine  idlehood  my  trust  abused; 
He  that  draws  to  harbor  late, 
Must  sleep  without,  or  burst  the  gate. 
There  is  a  star  for  thee  which  burn'd; 
Its  influence  wanes,  its  course  is  turn'd  : 
Valor  and  constancy  alone 
Can  bring  thee  back   the  chance  that's 
flown.  

Within  that  awful  volume  lies 
The  mystery  of  mysteries ! 
Happiest  they  of  human  race. 
To  whom  God  has  granted  grace 
To  read,  to  fear,  to  hope,  to  pray, 
To  lift  the  latch,  and  force  the  way; 
And  better  had  they  ne'er  been  born, 
Who  read  to  doubt,  or  read  to  scorn. 


Many  a  fathom  dark  and  deep 
I  have  laid  the  book  to  sleep; 
Ethereal  fires  around  it  glowing  — 
Ethereal  music  ever  flowing  — 

The  sacred  pledge  of  Heaven 
All  things  revere. 
Each  in  his  sphere. 

Save  man  for  whom  'twas  given ; 
I>end  thy  hand,  and  thou  shalt  spy 
Things  ne'er  seen  by  mortal  eye. 


SONGS    OF   THE    WHITE  LADY   OF  AVENEL. 


485 


Fearest  thou  to  go  with  me  ? 
Still  it  is  free  to  thee 

A  peasant  to  dwell; 
Thou  may'st  drive  the  dull  steer, 
And  chase  the  king's  deer, 
But  never  more  come  near 

This  haunted  well. 


Here   lies  the  volume   thou   boldly  hast 

sought ; 
I'ouch  it,  and  take   it,  'twill   dearly  be 

bought.         

Rash  thy  deed. 
Mortal  weed 
To  immortal  flames  applying; 
Rasher  trust 
Has  thing  of  dust. 
On  his  own  weak  worth  relying: 
Strip  thee  of  such  fences  vain, 
Strip,  and  prove  thy  luck  again. 


Mortal  warp  and  mortal  woof 
Cannot  break  this  charmed  roof; 
All  that  mortal  art  hath  wrought 
In  our  cell  returns  to  naught. 
The  molten  gold  returns  to  clay, 
The  polish'd  diamond  melts  away: 
All  is  alter'd,  all  is  flown. 
Naught  stands  fast  but  truth  alone. 
Not  for  that  thy  quest  give  o'er: 
Courage  !  prove  thy  chance  once  more. 


Alas !   alas ! 

Not  Ours  the  grace 

Tliese  holy  characters  to  trace; 

Idle  forms  of  painted  air, 

Not  to  us  is  given  to  share 
The  boon  bestow'd  on  Adam's  race. 

With  patience  bide. 

Heaven  will  provide 
The  fitting  time,  the  fitting  guide. 

The  Monastery,  chap.  xii. 


SONGS. 


IN  halbert's  second  interview  with 

THE   WHITE   LADY    OF   AVENEL. 

This  is  the  day  when  the  fairy  kind 
Sit  weeping  alone  for  their  hopeless  lot. 


And  the  wood-maiden  sighs  to  the  sigh- 

.    ing  wind. 
And  the  mermaiden  weeps  in  her  crystal 

grot; 
For  this  is  a  day  that  the  deed  was  wrought, 
In  which  we  have  neither  part  nor  share; 
For   the   children  of  clay  was  salvation 

bought. 
But  not  for  the  forms  of  sea  or  air ! 
And  ever  the  mortal  is  most  forlorn. 
Who  meeteth  our  race  on  the  Friday  morn. 


Daring  youth  !  for  thee  it  is  well. 

Here  calling  me  in  haunted  dell, 

That  thy  heart  has  not  quail 'd, 

Nor  thy  courage  fail'd, 

And  that  thou  couldst  biook 

The  angry  look 

Of  her  of  Avenel. 

Did  one  limb  shiver, 

Or  an  eyelid  quiver, 

Thou  wert  lost  forever. 

Though  I  am  form'd  from  the  ether  blue, 

And  my  blood  is  of  the  unfallen  dew. 

And  thou  art  framed  of  mud  and  dust, 

'Tis  thine  to  speak,  reply  I  nmsl. 


A  mightier  wizard  far  than  I 

Wields  o'er  the  universe  his  power; 

Him  owns  the  eagle  in  the  sky. 
The  turtle  in  the  bower. 

Changeful  in  shape,  yet  mightiest  still. 
He  wields  the  heart  of  man  at  will. 
From  ill  to  good,  from  good  to  ill, 
In  cot  and  castle-tower. 


Ask  thy  heart,  whose  secret  cell 
Is  fill'd  with  Mary  Avenel ! 
Ask  thy  pride,  why  scornful  look 
In  Mary's  view  it  will  not  brook  ? 
Ask  it,  why  thou  seek'st  to  rise 
Among  the  mighty  and  the  wise, — 
Why  thou  spurn'st  thy  lowly  lot, — 
Why  thy  pastimes  are  forgot, — 
Why  thou  wouldst  in  bloody  strife 
Mend  thy  luck  or  lose  thy  life? 
Ask  thy  heart,  and  it  shall  tell. 
Sighing  from  its  secret  cell, 
'Tis  for  Mary  Avenel. 


486 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Do  not  ask  me; 

On  doubts  like  these  thou  canst  not  task 

me. 
We  only  see  the  passing  show 
Of  human  passions'  ebb  and  flow; 
And  view  the  pageant's  idle  glance, 
As  mortals  eye  the  northern  dance, 
When  thousand  streamers,  flashing  bright, 
Career  it  o'er  the  brow  of  night, 
And  gazers  mark  their  changeful  gleams, 
But  feel  no  influence  from  their  beams. 


By  ties  mysterious  link'd,  our  fated  race 
Holds  strange  connection  with  the  sons 

of  men. 
The  star  that  rose  upon  the   House  of 

Avenel, 
When   Norman   Ulric  first  assumed   the 

name, 
That  star,  when  culminating  in  its  orbit, 
Shot  from  its  sphere  a  drop  of  diamond 

dew. 
And  this  bright  font  received  it  —.and  a 

Spirit 
Rose  from  the  fountain,  and  her  date  of 

life 
Hath   co-existence   with    the    House    of 

Avenel, 
And  with  the  star  that  rules  it. 


Look  on  my  girdle  —  on  this  thread  of 

gold  — 
'Tis  fine  as  web  of  lightest  gossamer. 
And,  but  there  is  a  spell  on't,  would  not 

bind, 
■Liglit  as  they  are, the  folds  of  my  thin  robe. 
But  when  'twas  donn'd,  it  was  a  massive 

chain, 
Such  as  might  bind  the  champion  of  the 

Jews, 
Even  when  his  locks  were  longest  —  it 

hath  dwindled. 
Hath  minished  in  its  substance  and  its 

strength. 
As  sank  the  greatness  of  the  House  of 

Avenel. 
When   this   frail  thread  gives  way,  I   to 

the  elements 
Resign  the  principles  of  life  they  lent  me. 
Ask  me  no  more  of  this  !  —  the  stars  for- 
bid it. 


Dim  Imrns  the  once  bright  star  of  Avenel, 

Dim  as  the  beacon  when  the  morn  is  nigh. 

And  the  o'er-wearied  warder  leaves  the 
lighthouse; 

There  is  an  influence  sorrowful  and  fear- 
ful. 

That  dogs  its  downward  course.  Disas- 
trous passion. 

Fierce  hate  and  rivalry,  are  in  the  aspect 

That  lowers  upon  its  fortunes. 


Complain  not  of  me,  child  of  clay. 
If  to  thy  harm  I  yield  the  way. 
We,  who  soar  thy  sphere  above, 
Know  not  aught  of  hate  or  love; 
As  will  or  wisdom  rules  thy  mood, 
My  gifts  to  evil  turn  or  good. 
When  Piercie  Shafton  boasteth  high, 
Let  this  token  meet  his  eye. 
The  Sun  is  westering  from  the  dell. 
Thy  wish  is  granted,  fare  thee  well. 

The  Monastery,  chap.  xvii. 


THE   WHITE   LADY   TO   MARY 
AVENEL. 

1820. 

Maiden,  whose  sorrows  wail  the  Living 
Dead, 
Whose  eyes  shall  commune  with  the 
Dead  Alive, 
Maiden,  attend  !    Beneath  my  foot  lies  hid 
The  Word,  the  Law,  the  Path  which 
thou  dost  strive 
To    find,    and   canst    not    find. — Could 
Spirits  shed 
Tears  for  their  lot,  it  were  my  lot  to 
weep. 
Showing  the   road  which   I   shall   never 
tread. 
Though    my    foot    points    it.  —  Sleep, 
eternal  sleep. 
Dark,   long,  and  cold   forgetfulness  my 
lot!  — 
But  do  not  thou  at  human  ills  repine; 
Secure  there  lies  full  guerdon  in  this  spot 
For  all  the  woes  that  wait  frail  Adam's 
line  — 
Stoop  then  and  make  it  yours.  —  I  may 
not  make  it  mine  ! 

The  Monastery,  chap.  xxx. 


THE    IVHIIE   LADY   TO   EDWARD    GLENDENNING 


487 


THE   WHITE   LADY  TO   EDWARD 

GLENDENNING. 
1820. 

Thou  who  seek'st  my  fountain  lone. 
With  thoughts  and  hopes  thou  dar'st  not 

own; 
Whose  heart  within  leap'd  wildly  glad, 
When  most  his  brow  seem'd   dark   and 

sad; 
Hie  thee  back,  thou  find'st  not  here 
Corpse  or  coffin,  grave  or  bier; 
The  Dead  Alive  is  gone  and  fled  — 
Go  thou,  and  join  the  Living  Dead ! 

The  I^iving  Dead,  whose  sober  brow 
Oft  shrouds  such  thoughts  as  thou  hast 

now, 
Whose  hearts  within  are  seldom  cured 
Of  passions  by  their  vows  abjured; 
Where,  under  sad  and  solemn  show. 
Vain    hopes    are    nursed,    wild    wishes 

glow. 
Seek  the  convent's  vaulted  room, 
Prayer  and  vigil  be  thy  doom; 
Doff  the  green,  and  don  the  gray. 
To  the  cloister  hence  away ! 

The  Monastery,  chap,  xxxii. 


THE   WHITE   LADY'S   FAREWELL. 
1820. 

Fare  thef,  well,  thou  Holly  green ! 
Thou  shalt  seldom  now  be  seen, 
With  all   thy  glittering   garlands    bend- 
ing. 
As  to  greet  my  slow  descending. 
Startling  the  bewilder'd  hind, 
Who  sees  thee  wave  without  a  wind. 

Farewell,  Fountain  !  now  not  long 
Shalt  thou  murmur  to  my  song. 
While  thy  crystal  bubbles  glancing, 
Keep  the  time  in  mystic  dancing. 
Rise  and  swell,  arc  burst  and  lost, 
Like  mortal  schemes  by  fortune  cross'd. 

The  knot  of  fate  at  length  is  tied, 
The  Churl  is  Ix)rd,  the  Maid  is  Bride ! 
Vainly  did  my  magic  sleight 
Send  the  lover  from  her  sight; 


Wither  bush,  and  perish  well, 
Fall'n  is  lofty  Avenel ! 

The  Monastery,  chap,  xxxvii. 


BORDER   BALLAD. 
1820. 
I. 
March,  march,  Ettrick  and  Teviotdale, 
Why  the  deil  dinna  ye  march  forward 
in  order? 
March,  march,  Eskdal^  and  Liddisdale, 
All  the  Blue  Bonnets  are   bound   for 
the  Border. 

Many  a  Vjanner  spread, 
Flutters  above  your  head, 
Many  a  crest  that  is  famous  in  slor)'. 
Mount  and  make  ready  then, 
SJons  of  the  mountain  glen. 
Fight  for  the  Queen  and  our  old  .Scot- 
tish glory. 

II. 
Come  from   the  hills  where  your  hirsels 
are  grazing. 
Come  from  the  glen  of  the  buck  and 
the  roe; 
Come  to  the  crag  where  the  beacon  is 
blazing. 
Come  with  the  buckler,  the  lance,  and 
the  bow. 

Trumpets  are  sounding. 
War-steeds  are  bounding. 
Stand  to  your  arms,  and  march  in  good 
order ; 

England  shall  many  a  day 
Tell  of  the  bloody  fray, 
When  the  Blue  Bonnets  came  over  the 
Border. 

The  Monastery,  chap.  xxv. 


PARAPHRASE   FROM   HORACE. 

Ne  sit  ancUlae  tibi  amor  fmdori. 

Take  thou  no  scorn 

Of  fiction  l>orn 
Fair  Fiction's  muse  to  woo. 

Old  Homer's  theme 

Was  but  a  dream  — 
Himself  a  fiction  too. 

The  Monastery,  Introduction. 


488 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 
MOTTOES. 


FROM    "  THE   MONASTERY." 

1820. 

CHAP.    I. 

0  AY !  the  Monks,  the  Monks,  they  did 

the  mischief ! 
Theirs  all  the  grossness,  all  the  superstition 
Of  a  most  gross  and  superstitious  age.  — 
May  He  be  praised  that  sent  the  healthful 

tempest, 
And  scattcr'd  all  these  pestilential  vapors; 
But  that  we  owed   them  all  to  yonder 

Harlot, 
Throned  on  the  seven  hills  with  her  cup 

of  gold, 

1  will  as  soon  believe,  with  kind  Sir  Roger, 
That  old  Moll  White  took  wing  with  cat 

and  broomstick, 
And  raised  the  last  night's  thunder. 

Old  Play. 

CHAP.    H. 

In  yon  lone  vale  his  early  youth  was  bred. 
Not  solitary  then  —  the  bugle-horn 
Of  fell  Alecto  often  waked  its  windings. 
From  where  the  brook  joins  the  majestic 

river. 
To  the  wild  northern  bog,  the  curlew's 

haunt. 
Where  oozes   forth    its   first    and   feeble 

streamlet. 

Old  Play. 

CHAP.    V. 

A  priest,  ye  cry,  a  priest!     Lame  Shep- 
herds they, 

How  shall  they  gather  in  the  straggling 
flock  ? 

Dumb  dogs  which  bark  not — how  shall 
they  compel 

The  loitering,  vagrants    to   the    Master's 
fold? 

Fitter  to  bask  before  the  blazing  fire, 

And  snuff  the  mess  neat-handed  Phyllis 
dresses. 

Than  on  the  snow-wreath  battle  with  the 
wolf. 

The  Reformation. 

CHAP.  VI. 
Now  let  us  sit  in  conclave.     That  these 

weeds 
Be  rooted  from  the  vineyard  of  the  church, 


That  these  foul  tares  he  severed  from  the 

wheat, 
We  are,  I  trust,  agreed.     Yet  how  to  do 

this. 
Nor  hurt  the  wholesome  crop  and  tender 

vine  plants. 
Craves  good  advisement. 

The  Reformation. 

CHAP.    VHI. 

Nay,  dally  not  with  time,  the  wise  man's 

treasure. 
Though  fools  are  lavish  on't;  — the  fatal 

Fisher 
Hooks  souls,  while  we  waste  moments. 
Old  Play. 

CHAP.    XI. 

You  call  this  education,  do  you  not? 

Why  'tis  the  forced  march  of  a  herd  of 
bullocks 

Before  a  shouting  drover.     The  glad  van 

Move  on  at  ease,  and  pause  a  while  to 
snatch 

A  passing  morsel  from  the  dewy  green- 
sward; 

While  all  the  blows,  the  oaths,  the  indig- 
nation. 

Fall  on  the  croupe  of  the  ill-fated  laggard 

That  cripples  in  the  rear. 

Old  Play. 

CHAP.  XII. 

There's  something  in  that  ancient  super- 
stition. 

Which,  erring  as  it  is,  our  fancy  loves. 

The  spring  that,  with  its  thousand  crystal 
bubbles. 

Bursts  from  the  bosom  of  some  desert  rock 

In  secret  solitude,  may  well  be  deem'd 

The  haunt  of  something  purer,  more  re- 
fined. 

And  mightier  than  ourselves. 

Old  Play. 

CHAP.  XIV. 

Nay,  let  me  have  the  friends  who  eat  my 
victuals, 

As  various  as  my  dishes.  The  feast's 
naught. 

Where  one  huge  plate  predominates.  — 
John  Plaintext, 

He  shall  be  mighty  beef,  our  English 
staple; 

The  worthy  Alderman,  a  butter'd  dump- 
ling; 


MOTTOES  FROM  "THE  MONASTERY. 


489 


Yon  pair  of  whisker 'd  Cornets,  ruffs  and 

rees; 
Their  friend  the  Dandy,  a  green  goose  in 

sippets. 
And  so  the  board  is  spread  at  once  and 

fill'd 
On  the  same  principle  —  Variety. 

■  New  Play. 
CHAP.  XV. 
He  strikes  no  coin,  'tis  true,  but  coins 

new  phrases. 
And  vends   them   forth  as  knaves  vend 

gilded  counters. 
Which  wise  men  scorn,  and  fools  accept 

in  payment. 

Old  Play. 

CHAP.  XIX. 

Now  choose  thee,  gallant,  betwixt  wealth 
and  honor; 

There  lies  the  pelf,  in  sum  to  bear  thee 
through 

The  dance  of  youth,  and  the  turmoil  of 
manhood. 

Yet  leave  enough  for  age's  chimney- 
corner; 

But  an  thou  grasp  to  it,  farewell.  Ambi- 
tion ! 

Farewell  each  hope  of  bettering  thy  con- 
dition, 

And  raising  thy  low  rank  above  the  churls 

That  till  the  earth  for  bread  ! 

Old  Play. 

CHAP.  XXI. 

Indifferent,  Ijut  indifferent  —  pshaw!  he 
doth  it  not 

Like  one  who  is  his  craft's  master  —  ne'er- 
theless 

I  have  seen  a  clown  confer  a  bloody  cox- 
comb 

On  one  who  was  a  master  of  defence. 
Old  Play. 

CHAP.  XXII. 

Yes,  life  hath  ,lcft  him  —  every  busy 
thought, 

Each  fiery  passion,  every  strong  affection. 

The  sense  of  outward  ill  and  inward  sor- 
row. 

Are  fled  at  once  from  the  pale  trunk  be- 
fore me; 

And  I  have  given  that  which  spoke  and 
moved, 

Thought,  acted,  suffcr'd,  as  a  living  man. 


To  be  a  ghastly  form  of  bloody  clay, 
Soon  the  foul  food  for  reptiles. 

Old  Play. 

CHAP.   XXIII. 

'Tis  when  the  wound  is  stiffening  with 

the  cold. 
The  warrior  first  feels  pain  —  'tis  when 

the  heat 
And  fiery  fever  of  his  soul  is  past, 
The  sinner  feels  remorse. 

Old  Play. 
CHAP.  XXIV. 
I'll  walk  on  tiptoe;  arm   my  eye  with 

caution. 
My  heart  with  courage,  and   my  hand 

with  weapon, 
Like  him  who  ventures  on  a  lion's  den. 
Old  Play. 

CHAP.  XXVII. 

Now,  by  Our   Lady,  Sheriff,    'tis   hard 

reckoning. 
That  I,   with    every    odds  of  birth    and 

barony. 
Should  be  detain'd  here  for  the  casual 

death 
Of  a  wild  forester,  whose  utmost  having 
Is  but  the  brazen  buckle  of  the  belt 
In  which  he  sticks  his  hedge-knife. 

Old  Play. 

CHAP.  XXX. 

You  call  it  an  ill  angel  —  it  may  be  so; 
But  sure  I  am,  among  the  ranks  which 

fell, 
'Tis  the  first  fiend  e'er  counseU'd  man  to 

rise. 
And  win  the  bliss  the  sprite  himself  had 

forfeited. 

Old  Play. 

CHAP.  XXXI. 

At  school  I  knew  him  —  a  sharp-witted 

youth. 
Grave,  thoughtful,  and  reserved  among 

his  mates, 
Turning  the  hours  of  sport  and  food  to 

lalxjr, 
Starving  his  body  to  inform  his  mind. 
Old  Play. 

CHAP.  XXXII. 

Then  in  my  gown  of  sober  gray 

Along  the  mountain  path  I'll  wander, 

And  wind  my  solitary  way 

To  the  sad  shrine  that  courts  me  yonder. 


490 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


There  in  the  cahn  monastic  shade 
All  injuries  may  be  forgiven, 

And  there  for  thee,  obdurate  maid. 
My  orisons  shall  rise  to  Heaven. 
The  Cruel  Lady  of  the  Mountain. 

CHAP.  XXXIll. 

Now  on  my  faith  this  gear  is  all  entangled, 
Like    to    the   yarn-clew    of    the    drowsy 

knitter, 
Dragg'd   by  the    frolic    kitten   thro"   the 

cabin. 
While  the  good  dame  sits  nodding  o'er 

the  fire  — 
Masters,  attend;    'twill  crave  some  skill 

to  clear  it ! 

Old  Play. 

CHAP.  XXXIV. 

It  is  not  texts  will  do  it.     Church  artillery 
Are  silenced  soon  by  real  ordnance. 
And    canons    are    but    vain    opposed    to 

cannon. 
Go,  coin  your  crosier,  melt  your  church 

plate  down. 
Bid  the  starved  soldiers  banquet  in  your 

halls. 
And  quaff  your  long-saved  hogsheads.  — 

Turn  them  out 
Thus  primed  with  your  good  cheer,   to 

guard  your  wall. 
And  they  will  venture  for  't. 

out  Play. 

MOTTOES 

FROM    "the    abbot." 

1820. 

CHAP.  V. 

In  the  wild  storm. 

The  seaman  hews  his  mast  down,  and  the 

merchant 
Heaves    to    the    billows   wares    he   once 

deem'd  precious; 
So  prince  and   peer,   mid   popular   con- 
tentions. 
Cast  off  their  favorites. 

Old  Play. 

CHAP.  VI. 

Thou  hast  each  secret  of  the  household, 

Francis; 
I  dare  be  sworn  thou  hast  been  in  the 

buttery 


Steeping  thy  curious  humor  in  fat  ale. 
And  in  the  butler's  tattle  — ay,  or  chatting 
With   the  glib  waiting-woman  o'er  her 

comfits  — 
These   bear    the    key    to  each   domestic 

mystery. 

Old  Play. 

■  CHAP.  VII. 

When  I  hae  a  saxpence  under  my  thumb, 
Then  I  get  credit  in  ilka  town; 
But  when  I  am  poor,  they  bid  me  gae  by, 
0,  poverty  parts  good  company. 

Old  Song. 

CHAP.  VIII. 

The  sacred  tapers'  lights  are  gone, 
Gray  moss  has  clad  the  altar  stone, 
The  holy  image  is  o'erthrown, 

The  bell  lias  ceased  to  toll. 
The    long-ribb'd    aisles    are    burst    and 

shrunk. 
The  holy  shrines  to  ruin  sunk. 
Departed  is  the  pious  monk, 

God's  blessing  on  his  soul ! 

Pediviva. 

CHAP.  IX. 

Kneel  with  me — swear  it  —  'tis  not  in 

words  I  trust, 
Save  when  they're  fenced  with  an  appeal 

to  Heiven. 

Old  Play. 

CHAP.  XI. 

Life  hath  its  May,  and  all  is  mirthful  then; 
The  woods  are  vocal,  and  the  flowers  all 

odor ; 
Its  very  blast  has  mirth  in't, — and  the 

maidens. 
The  while  they  don  their  cloaks  to  screen 

their  kirtles, 
Laugh  at  the  rain  that  wets  them. 

Old  Play. 
CHAP.   XII. 

Nay,  hear  me,  brother— I  am  elder,  wiser, 
And  holier  than  thou;  and  age,  and  wis- 
dom, 
And  holiness,  have  peremptory  claims, 
And  will  be  listen'd  to. 

Old  Play. 

CHAP.   XVI. 

Youth  !  thou  wear'st  to  manhood  now, 
Darker  lip  and  darker  brow, 
Statelier  step,  more  pensive  mien, 
In  thy  face  and  gait  are  seen; 


MOTTOES  FROM  '^THE  ABBOT." 


491 


Thou  must  now  Virook  midnight  watches, 
Take  thy  food  and  sport  by  snatches ! 
For  the  gambol  and  the  jest, 
Thou  wert  wont  to  love  the  best, 
Graver  follies  must  thou  follow, 
But  as  senseless,  false,  and  hollow. 

Life,  a  Poem. 

CHAP.  XVIII. 

The  sky  is  clouded,  Gaspard, 

And  the  vcxt  ocean  sleeps  a  troubled  sleep 
Beneath  a  lurid  gleam  of  parting  sunshine. 
Such    slumber    hangs   o'er    discontented 

lands, 
While  factions  doubt,  as  yet  if  they  have 

strength  • 

To  front  the  open  battle. 

Albion,  a  Poem. 

CHAP.  XIX. 

It  is  and  is  not — 'tis  the  thing  I  sought  for. 
Have  kneel'd  for,  pray'd  for,  risk'd  my 

fame  and  life  for, 
And  yet  it  is  not  —  no  more  than  the 

shadow 
Upon  the  hard,  cold,  flat,  and  polish'd 

mirror. 
Is   the   warm,  graceful,   rounded,  living 

substance 
Which  it  presents  in  form  and  lineament. 
Old  Play. 

CHAP.  XX. 

Now  have  you  reft  me  from  my  staff,  my 
guide. 

Who  taught  my  youth  as  men  teach  un- 
tamed falcons 

To  use  my  strength  discreetly  —  I  am  reft 

Of  comrade  and  of  counsel ! 

Old  Play. 

CHAP.  xxni. 

Give   me  a  morsel  on   the   greensward 
rather, 

Coarse   as  you   will  the   cooking.  —  Let 
the  fresh  spring 

Bubble  beside  my  napkin  —  and  the  free 
birds. 

Twittering  and  chirping,  hop  from  bough 
to  bough, 

To   claim   the    crumbs   I   leave   for   per- 
quisites — 

Your  prison- feasts  I  like  not. 

The  Woodman,  a  Drama. 


CHAP.  XXIY. 

'Tis  a  weary  life  this 

Vaults  overhead,  and  grates  and  bars 
around  me. 

And  my  sad  hours  spent  with  as  sad  com- 
panions, 

Whose  thoughts  are  brooding  o'er  their 
own  mischances. 

Far,  far  too  deeply  to  take  part  in  mine. 
The  iVoodsman. 

CHAP.    XXV. 

And  when  Love's  torch  hath  set  the 
heart  in  flame. 

Comes  Seignor  Reason  with  his  saws  and 
cautions, 

Giving  such  aid  as  the  old  gray-beard 
Sexton, 

Who  from  the  church-vault  drags  his 
crazy  engine. 

To  ply  its  dribbling  ineffectual  stream- 
let 

Against  a  conflagration. 

Old  Play. 

CHAP.    XXVIH. 

Yes,  it  is  she  whose  eyes  looked  on  thy 
childhood, 

And  watch'd  with  trembling  hope  thy 
dawn  of  youth. 

That  now  with  these  same  eye-balls, 
dimm'd  with  age. 

And  dimmer  yet  with  tears,  sees  thy  dis- 
honor. 

Old  Play. 

CHAP.  XXX. 
In  some  breasts  passion  lies  conceal'd  and 

silent. 
Like  war's  swart  jiowder  in  a  castle  vault. 
Until   occasion,  like  the  linstock,  lights 

it: 
Then  comes  at  once  the  lightning  and 

the  thunder. 
And  distant  echoes  tell  that  all  is  rent 

asunder. 

Old  Play. 

CHAP.  XXXVI. 

He  mounted  himself  on  a  coal  black  steed. 

And  her  on  a  freckled  gray. 
With  a  buglet  horn  hung  down  from  his 
side, 
And  roundly  they  rode  away. 

Old  Ballad. 


492 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


GOLDTHRED'S   SONG. 
1821. 
Of  all  the  birds  on  bush  or  tree, 

Commend  me  to  the  owl, 
Since  he  may  best  ensample  be 
To  those  the  cup  that  trowl. 
For  when  the  sun  hath  left  the  west, 
He  chooses  the  tree  that  he  loves  the  best, 
And  he  whoops   out  his   song,   and  he 

laughs  at  his  jest. 
Then,  tho'  hours  be  late,  and  weather 

foul. 
We'll  drink  to  the  health  of  the  bonny, 
bonny  owl. 

The  lark  is  but  a  bumpkin  fowl. 

He  sleeps  in  his  nest  till  morn; 

But  my  blessing  upon  the  jolly  owl. 

That  all  night  blows  his  horn. 

Then  up  with  your  cup  till  you  stagger 
in  speech, 

And  match  me  this  scratch,  till  you  swag- 
ger and  screech. 

And  drink  till  you  wink,  my  merry  men 
each; 

For,  tho'  hours  be  late,  and  weather  be 
foul. 

We'll  drink  to  the  health  of  the  bonny, 
bonny  owl. 

Kenilworlh,  chap.  ii. 


SPEECH   OF  THE   PORTER.* 

1821. 

What  stir,  what  turmoil  have  we  for  the 

nones? 
Stand  back,  my  masters,  or  beware  your 

bones ! 
Sirs,  I'm  a  warder,  and  no  man  of  straw; 
My  voice  keeps  order,  and  my  club  gives 
law. 

Yet  soft  —  nay,  stay  —  what  vision  have 
we  here? 

What  dainty  darling's  this?  —  what  peer- 
less peer? 

What  loveliest  face,  that  loving  ranks 
enfold 

Like  brightest  diamond  chased  in  purest 
gold? 

*  Imitated  from  Gascoigne. 


Dazzled  and  blind,  mine  office  I  forsake. 
My  club,  my  key,  my  knee,  my  homage 

take! 
Bright  paragon,  pass  on  in  joy  and  bliss;  — 
Beshrew  the  gate  that  opes  not  wide  at 

such  a  sight  as  this ! 

Kenilworth,  chap.  xxx. 


MOTTOES 

FROM     "  KENILWORTH." 
182I, 

CHAP.  ni. 
Nay,  I'll  hold  touch:  —  the  game  shall 

be  played  out, 
It  ne'er  shall  stop  for  me,  this  merry 

wager; 
That  which  I  say  when  gamesome,  I'll 

avouch 
In  my  most  sober  mood,  ne'er  trust  me 

else. 

The  Hazard  Table. 

CHAP.  IV. 

Not  serve  two  masters? —  Here's  a  youth 

will  try  it  — 
Would  fain  serve  God,  yet  give  the  devil 

his  due; 
Says  grace  before  he  doth  a  deed  of  vil- 

lany, 
And  returns   his   thanks   devoutly  when 

'tis  acted. 

Old  Play. 

CHAP.  V. 

He  was  a  man 

Versed  in  the  world  as  pilot  in  his  com- 
pass. 
The  needle  pointed  ever  to  that  interest 
Which  was  his  lodestar,  and  he  spread 

his  sails 
With  vantage  to  the  gale  of  others'  pas- 
sions. 

The  Deceiver,  a  Tragedy. 

CHAP.  VH. 

This  is  He 

Who  rides  on  the  court-gale;   controls  its 

tides; 
Knows  all  their  secret  shoals  and  fatal 

eddies; 
Whose  frown  abases,  and  whose  smile 

exalts. 


MOTTOES  FROM  ''  KENILWORTH: 


493 


He  shines  like  any  rainbow  — and,  per- 
chance, 
His  colors  are  as  transient. 

Old  Play. 

CHAP.  XIV. 

This  is  rare  news  thou  tell'st  me,  my  good 

fellow; 
There  are  two  bulls  fierce  battling  on  the 

green 
For  one  fair  heifer  —  if  the  one  goes  down. 
The  dale  will  be  more  peaceful,  and  the 

herd, 
Which  have  small  interest  in  their  brul- 

ziement, 
May  pasture  there  in  peace. 

Old  Play. 

CHAP.  XVH. 

Well,  then,  our  course  is  chosen;  spread 
the  sail, 

Heave  aft  the  lead,  and  mark  the  sound- 
ings well; 

Look  to  the  helm,  good  master  —  many 
a  shoal 

Marks  this  stern  coast,  and  rocks  where 
sits  the  Siren, 

Who,  like  Ambition,  lures  men  totheirruin. 
The  Shipwreck. 

CHAP.  XXV. 
Hark  !  the  bells  summon,  and  the  bugle 

calls. 
But  she  the  fairest  answers  not ;   the  tide 
Of  nobles  and  of  ladies  throngs  the  halls, 
But  she  the  loveliest  must  in  secret  hide. 
What    eyes    were   thine,    proud    Prince, 

which  in  the  gleam 
Of  yon  gay  meteors  lost  that  better  sense. 
That  o'er  the  glow-worm  doth  the  star 

esteem. 
And  merit's  modest  blush  o'er  courtly 

insolence. 

The  Glass  Slipper. 

CHAP.    XXVI H. 

What,  man,  ne'er  lack  a  draught,  when 

the  full  can 
Stands  at  thine  elbow,  and  craves  empty- 
ing !  — 
Nay,  fear  not  me,  for  I  have  no  delight 
To  watch  men's  vices,  since  I  have  myself 
Of  virtue   naught  to  boast   of.  —  I'm  a 
striker, 


Would  have  the  world  strike  with  me, 
pell-mell,  all. 

Pandamonium. 

CHAP.  XXX. 
Now  bid  the  steeple  rock  —  she  comes, 

she  comes !  — 
Speak  for  us,  bells  —  speak  for  us,  shrill- 

tongued  tuckets ! 
Stand  to  thy  linstock,  gunner;  let  the 

cannon 
Play  such  a  peal,  as  if  a  paynim  foe 
Came  stretch'd  in  turban'd  ranks  to  storm 

the  ramparts; 
We  will  have   pageants  too  —  but  that 

craves  wit, 
And  I'm  a  rough-hewn  soldier. 
The  Virgin- Queen,  A  Tragi-Comedy. 

CHAP.  XXXII. 

The  wisest  sovereigns  err  like  private  men. 
And  royal  hand  has  sometimes  laid  the 

sword 
Of  chivalry  upon  a  worthless  shoulder. 
Which  better  had  been  branded  by  the 

hangman. 
What  then?    Kings  do  their  best,  — an<J 

they  and  we 
Must  answer  for  the  intent,  and  not  the 

event. 

Old  Play. 
CHAP.  XXXIH. 
Here'stands  the  victim ;  —  there  the  proud 

betrayer,  — 
E'en  as  the  hind  pull'd  down  by  stran- 
gling dogs. 
Lies  at  the   hunter's    feet  —  who  courf- 

eous  proffers 
To   some   high    dame,    the   Dian   of  the 

chase. 
To  whom  he  looks  for  guerdon,  his  sharp 

blade. 
To  gash  the  sobbing  throat. 

The  Woodsman. 

CHAP.  XL. 

High  o'er  the  eastern  steep  the  sun  is 

lieaming. 
And    darkness    flies    with    her    deceitful 

shadows; 
So  truth  prevails  o'er  falsehood. 

Old  Play. 


494 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


THE   SONG   OF  THE   TEMPEST.* 
1821. 


Stern  eagle  of  the  far  north-west, 
Thou  that  bearest  in  thy  grasp  the  thun- 

derlxjlt, 
Thou  whose  rushing  pinions  stir  ocean  to 

madness, 
Thou   the   destroyer  of   herds,  thou   the 

scatlerer  of  navies, 
Amidst  the  scream  of  thy  rage. 
Amidst  the  rushing  of  thy  onward  wings, 
Tho'  thy  scream  be  loud  as  the  cry  of  a 

perishing  nation, 
Tho'  the  rushing  of  thy  wings  be  like  the 

roar  of  ten  thousand  waves. 
Yet  hear,  in  thine  ire  and  thy  haste. 
Hear  thou  tlie  voice  of  the  Reim-kennar. 


Thou  hast  met  the  pine-trees  of  Dront- 

heiin. 
Their  dark  green  heads  lie  prostrate  be- 
side their  uprooted  stems; 
Thou  hast  met  the  rider  of  the  ocean, 
The  tall,  the  strong  bark  of  the  fearless 

rover, 
And  she  has  struck  to  thee  the  topsail 
That  she  had  not  vail'd  to  a  royal  armada. 
Thou  hast  met  the  tower  that  bears  its 

crest  among  the  clouds, 
The  liattled  massive  tower  of  the  jarl  of 

former  days. 
And  the  cope-stone  of  the  turret 
Is  lying  upon  its  hospitable  hearth; 
But  thou  too  shalt  stoop,  proud  compel- 

ler  of  clouds. 
When    thou    hearest    the    voice    of    the 

Reim-kennar. 


There  are  verses  that  can  stop  the  stag 
in  the  forest. 

Ay,  when  the  dark-color'd  dog  is  open- 
ing on  his  track; 

There  are' verses  can  make  the  wild  hawk 
pause  on  the  wing, 

*  A  Norwe|:ian  invocarion,  still  preserved  in 
the  island  of  Uist  under  the  name  of  the  Song  of 
the  "  Reim-keiiiiar,"  tho'  some  call  it  the  "  Song 
of  the  Tempest." 


Like  the  falcon  that  wears  the  hood  and 
jesses. 

And  who  knows  the  shrill  whistle  of  the 
fowler. 

Thou  who  canst  mock  at  the  scream  of 
the  drowning  mariner. 

And  the  crash  of  the  ravaged  forest. 

And  the  groan  of  the  overwhelmed 
crowds, 

When  the  church  hath  fallen  in  the  mo- 
ment of  prayer; 

There  are  sounds  whichthoualso  must  list, 

When  they  are  chanted  by  the  voice  of 
the  Reim-kennar. 


Enough   of  woe  hast   thou  wrought  on 

the  ocean, 
The  widows  wring   their   hands   on    the 

beach ; 
Enough  of  woe  hast  thou  wrought  on  the 

land, 
The  Iius])andman   folds  his  arms  in  de- 
spair. 
Cease  thou  the  waving  of  thy  pinions; 
Let  the  ocean  repose  in  her  dark  strength. 
Cease  thou  the  flashing  of  thine  eye; 
Let  the  thunderbolt  sleep  in  the  armory 

of  Odin. 
Be    tliou   still    at    my    bidding,  viewless 

racer  of  the  north-western  heaven,  — 
Sleep   thou  at   the  voice  of   Noma  the 

Reim-kennar. 

"  A  loni^  silence  followed  the  last  verse,  until 
Noma  resumed  her  chant,  but  with  a  changed 
and  more  soothing  modulation  of  voice  and  tune." 


Eagle  of  the  far  north-western  waters. 

Thou  hast  heard  the  voice  of  the  Reim- 
kennar, 

Thou  hast  closed  thy  wide  sails   at  her 
bidding. 

And  folded  them  in  peace  by  thy  side. 

My  blessing  be  on  thy  retiring  path; 

When  thou  stoopest  from  thy  place  on 
high, 

Soft  be  thy  slumbers  in  the  caverns  of 
the  unknown  ocean. 

Rest  till  destiny  shall  again  awaken  thee; 

Eagle  of  the  north-west,  thou  hast  heard 
the  voice  of  the  Reim-kennar. 

The  Pirale,  chap.  vi. 


CLAUD  HALCRO'S  SONG:   ''MARY.' 


495 


CLAUD    HALCRO'S   SONG: 
"MARY." 
1821. 
Farewell  to  Norlhmaven, 

Gray  Hillswicko,  farewell ! 
To  the  calms  of  thy  haven. 

The  storms  on  thy  fell  — 
To  each  breeze  that  can  vary 

The  mood  of  thy  main, 
And  to  thee,  bonny  Mary  ! 

We  meet  not  again  ! 

Farewell  the  wild  ferry, 

Which  Hacon  could  brave, 
When  the  peaks  of  the  Skerry 

Were  white  in  the  wave. 
There's  a  maid  may  look  over 

These  wild  waves  in  vain,  — 
For  the  skiff  of  her  lover  — 

He  comes  not  again ! 

\  The  vows  thou  hast  broke. 

On  the  wild  currents  fling  them; 
On  the  quicksand  and  rock 

Let  the  mermaidens  sing  them. 
New  sweetness  they'll  give  her 

Bewildering  strain; 
But  there's  one  who  will  never 

Believe  them  again. 

O  were  there  an  island, 

Tho'  ever  so  wild, 
Where  woman  could  smile,  and 

No  man  be  Ix-guiled  — 
Too  tempting  a  snare 

To  poor  mortals  were  given; 
And  the  hope  would  fix  there, 

That  should  anchor  in  heaven. 
The  Pirate,  chap.  xii. 

THE  SONG   OF   HAROLD 
HARFAGER.* 
1821. 
The  sun  is  rising  dimly  red, 
The  wind  is  wailing  low  and  dread; 
From  his  cliff  the  eagle  sallies. 
Leaves  the  wolf  his  darksome  valleys; 

•  "  Thf  bard  [Halcro]  chanted  to  a  low,  wild, 
monotonous  air,  varied  only  i)y  the  efforts  of  the 
singer  to  give  interest  and  emphasis  to  particu- 
lar piissages,  the  following  imitation  of  a  northern 
■war-song." 


In  the  midst  the  ravens  hover, 
Peep  the  wild  dogs  from  the  cover. 
Screaming,  croaking,  baying,  yelling, 
Each  in  his  wild  accents  telling :  — 
"  Soon  we  feast  on  dead  and  dying, 
Fair-hair'd  Harold's  flag  is  flying." 

Many  a  crest  on  air  is  streaming, 
Many  a  helmet  darkly  gleaming, 
Many  an  arm  the  ax  uprears, 
Doom'd  to  hew  the  wood  of  spears. 
All  along  the  crowded  ranks 
Horses  neigh  and  armor  clanks; 
Chiefs  are  shouting,  clarions  ringing, 
Louder  still  the  bard  is  singing:  — 
"  Gather  footmen,  gather  horsemen. 
To  the  field,  ye  valiant  Norsemen ! 

"Halt  ye  not  for  food  or  slumber. 
View  not  vantage,  count  not  number : 
Jolly  reapers,  forward  still. 
Grow  the  crop  on  vale  or  hill, 
Thick  or  scatter'd,  stiff  or  lithe. 
It  shall  down  before  the  scythe. 
Forward  with  your  sickles  bright. 
Reap  the  harvest  of  the  fight.  — 
Onward  footmen,  onward  horsemen. 
To  the  charge,  ye  gallant  Norsemen  ! 

"  Fatal  Choosers  t  of  the  Slaughter, 
O'er  you  hovers  Odin's  daughter; 
Hear  the  choice  she  spreads  before  ye,  — 
Victory,  and  wealth,  and  glory; 
Or  old  Valhalla's  roaring  hail, 
Her  ever-circling  mead  and  ale. 
Where  for  eternity  unite 
The  joys  of  wassail  and  of  fight. 
Headlong  forward,  foot  and  horsemen. 
Charge  and  fight,  and  die   like   Norse- 
men!" — 

The  Pirate,  chap.  xv. 


SONG  OF    THE   MERMAIDS   AND 

MERMEN. 

182T. 

MERMAID. 

Fathoms  deep  l^eneath  the  wave, 
Stringing  beads  of  glistering  pearl. 

Singing  the  achievements  brave 
Of  many  an  old  Norwegian  earl; 

t  The  Valkyriur. 


496 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Dwelling  where  the  tempest's  raving 

Falls  as  light  upon  our  ear. 
As  the  sigh  of  lover,  craving 

Pity  from  his  lady  dear. 
Children  of  wild  Thule,  we. 
From  the  deep  caves  of  the  sea. 
As  the  lark  springs  from  the  lea. 
Hither  come,  to  share  your  glee. 


From  reining  of  the  water-horse, 

That  bounded  till  the  waves  were  foam- 
ing. 
Watching  the  infant  tempest's  course, 

Chasing  the  sea-snake  in  his  roaming; 
From  winding  charge-notes  on  the  shell. 

When  the  huge  whale  and  swordfish 
duel. 
Or  tolling  shroudless  seamen's  knell. 

When  the  winds  and  waves  are  cruel; 
Children  of  wild  Thule,  we 
Have  plough'd  such  furrows  on  the  sea. 
As  the  steer  draws  on  the  lea, 
And  hither  we  come  to  share  your  glee. 

MERMAIDS   AND    MERMEN. 

We  heard  you  in  our  twilight  caves, 

A  hundred  fathom  deep  below, 
For  notes  of  joy  can  pierce  the  waves. 

That  drown  each  sound  of  war  and  woe. 
Those  who  dwell  beneath  the  sea 

Love  the  sons  of  ITiuIe  well; 
.Thus,  to  aid  your  mirth  bring  we 

Dance,  and  song,  and  sounding  shell. 
Children  of  dark  Thule,  know. 
Those  who  dwell  by  haaf  and  voe, 
Where  your  daring  shallops  row 
Come  to  share  the  festal  show. 

The  Pirate,  chap.  xvi. 


NORNA'S   SONG. 
1821. 
For  leagues  along  the  watery  way. 
Thro'  gulf  and  stream  my  course  has 
been; 
The  billows  know  my  Runic  lay, 

And  smooth  their  crests  to  silent  green. 

The  billows  know  my  Runic  lay,  — 
The  gulf  grows  smooth,  the  stream  is 
stilU 


But  human  hearts,  more  wild  than  they. 
Know  but  the  rule  of  wayward  will. 

One  hour  is  mine,  in  all  the  year, 
To  tell  my  woes,  — and  one  alone; 

When    gleams    this     magic     lamp    'tis 
here,  — 
When  dies  the  mystic  light,  'tis  gone. 

Daughters  of  northern  Magnus,  hail ! 

The  lamp  is  lit,  the  flame  is  clear,  — 
To  you  I  come  to  tell  my  tale, 

Awake,  arise,  my  tale  to  hear  ! 

Tfu  Pirate,  chap.  xix. 


NORNA   AND  TROLD. 
1821. 

NORNA. 

Dwellers  of  the  mountain,  rise, 
Trold  the  powerful,  Haims  the  wise! 
Ye  who  taught  weak  woman's  tongue 
Words  that  sway  the  weak  and  strong,  — 
Ye  who  taught  weak  woman's  hand 
How  to  wield  the  magic  wand, 
And  wake  the  gales  on  Foulah's  steep, 
Or     lull     wild     Sumburgh's     waves    to 

sleep ! 
Still  are  ye  yet  ?     Not  yours  the  power 
Ye  knew  in  Odin's  mightier  hour. 
What  are  ye  now  but  empty  names, 
Powerful  Trold,  sagacious  Haims, 
That  lightly  spoken,  lightly  heard. 
Float  on  the  ear  like  thistle's  beard? 

TROU)  THE   DWARF. 
A  thousand  winters  dark  have  flown 
Since  o'er  the  threshold  of  my  stone 
A  votaress  past,  my  power  to  own. 
Visitor  bold 
Of  the  mansion  of  Trold, 

Maiden  haughty  of  heart. 
Who  hast  hither  presumed 
Ungifted,  undoom'd 

Thou  shah  not  depart :  — 
The  power  thou  dost  covet 
O'er  tempest  and  wave, 
Shall  be  thine,  thou  proud  maiden. 

By  beach  and  by  cave,  — 
By  stack  and  by  skerry,  by  noup  and 
by  voe, 


CLAUD  HALCRO  AND  NORNA. 


497 


By  air  and  by  wick,  and  by  helyer  and 
gio  * 
And    by   every    wild    shore    which    the 
northern  winds  know 
And  the  northern  tides  lave. 
But   tho'  this  shall  l)e  given  thee,  thou 

desperately  Virave, 
I  doom  thee  that  never 

The  gift  thou  shalt  have 
Till  thou  reave  thy  life's  giver 
Of  the  gift  which  he  gave. 

NORNA. 

Dark  are  thy  words  and  severe, 

Thou  dweller  in  the  stone; 
But  trembling  and  fear 

To  her  are  unknown, 
Who  hath  sought  thee  here 

In  thy  dwelling  lone. 
Come  what  comes  soever, 

The  worst  I  can  endure; 
Life  is  but  a  short  fever. 

And  death  is  the  cure. 

The  Pirate,  chap.  xix. 


CLAUD   HALCRO   AND   NORNA. 
1821. 

CLAUD   HALCRO. 
Mother  darksome.  Mother  dread. 
Dweller  on  the  Fitful  Head, 
Thou  canst  sec  what  deeds  are  dotie 
Under  the  never-setting  sun. 
Look  thro'  sleet,  and  look  thro'  frost, 
Look  to  Greenland's  caves  and  coast,  — 
By  the  ice-l)erg  is  a  sail 
Chasing  of  the  swarthy  whale; 
Mother  doubtful.  Mother  dread. 
Tell  us,  has  the  good  ship  sped? 

NORNA. 

The  thought  of  the  aged  is  ever  on  gear,  — 
On  his  fishing,  his  furrow,  his  flock,  and 

his  steer; 
But  thrive  may  his  fishing,  flock,  furrow, 

and  herd, 
While  the  aged  for  anguish  shall  tear  his 

gray  beard. 

•  Stack,  an  insulated  precipitous  rock  ; 
skerry,  a  bare  rocky  islet ;  noup,  a  precipitous 
headland,  sloping  gently  inland ;  voe,  a  salt  in- 
land lake ;  air,  open  sea  beach ;  helyer,  a  cavern 
into  which  the  sea  flows  ;  gio,  a  deep  ravine. 


The  ship,  well-laden  as  bark  need  be. 

Lies  deep  in  the  furrow  of  the  Iceland 
sea;  — 

The  breeze  for  Zetland  blows  fair  and 
soft, 

And  gayly  the  garland  is  fluttering  aloft; 

Seven  good  fishes  have  spouted  their  last, 

And  their  jaw-bones  are  hanging  to  yard 
and  mast; 

Two  are  for  Lerwick,  and  two  for  Kirk- 
wall,— 

Three  for  Burgh-Westra,  the  choicest  of 
all. 

CLAUD   HALCRO. 

Mother  doubtful.  Mother  dread! 
Dweller  of  the  Fitful  Head, 
Thou  hast  conn'd  full  many  a  rhyme, 
That  lives  upon  the  surge  of  time : 
Tell  me,  shall  my  lays  be  sung. 
Like  Hacon's  of  the  Golden  Tongue, 
Long  after  Halcro's  dead  and  gone? 
Or,  shall  Hialtland's  minstrel  own 
One  note  to  rival  glorious  John? 

NORNA. 

The  infant  loves  the  rattle's  noise; 
Age,  double  childhood,  hath  its  toys; 
But  different  far  the  descant  rings. 
As  strikes  a  different  hand  the  strings. 
The  eagle  mounts  the  polar  sky  — 
The  imber-goose,  unskill'd  to  fly. 
Must  be  content  to  glide  along, 
Where  seal  and  sea-dog  list  his  song. 

CLAUD   HALCRO. 
Be  mine  the  imber^oose  to  play. 
And  haunt  lone  cave  and  silent  bay; 
The  archer's  aim  so  shall  I  shun  — 
So  shall  I  'scape  the  levell'dgun  — 
Content  my  verses'  tuneless  jingle 
With  Thule's  sounding  tides  to  mingle. 
While,  to  the  ear  of  wondering  wight, 
Upon  the  distant  headland's  height, 
Soften'd  by  murmur  of  the  sea. 
The  rude  sounds  seem  like  harmony ! 
«»♦*** 

Mother  doubtful.  Mother  dread. 
Dweller  of  the  Fitful  Head, 
A  gallant  bark  from  far  abroad, 
Snint  Magnus  hath  her  in  his  road, 
With  guns  and  firelocks  not  a  few  — 
A  silken  and  a  scarlet  crew, 


498 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Deep  stored  with  precious  merchandise. 
Of  gold  and  goods  of  rare  device  — 
What  interest  hath  our  comrade  bold 
In  bark  and  crew,  in  goods  and  gold? 


Gold  is  ruddy,  fair,  and  free. 
Blood  is  crimson,  and  dark  to  see; 
I  look'd  out  on  Saint  Magnus  Bay, 
And  I  saw  a  falcon  that  struck  her  prey, 
A  gobbet  of  flesh  in  her  l>eak  she  bore, 
And  talons  and  singles  are  dripping  with 

gore; — 
Let  him  that  asks  after  them  look  on  his 

hand. 
And  if  there  is  blood  on't,  he's  one  of 

their  band. 

CLAUD    HAI.CRO. 

Mother  doubtful,  Mother  dread. 
Dweller  of  the  Fitful  Head, 
Well  thou  know'st  it  is  thy  task 
To  tell  what  Beauty  will  not  ask;  — 
Then  steep  thy  words  in  wine  and  milk. 
And  weave  a  doom  of  gold  and  silk;  — 
For  we  would  know,  shall  Brenda  prove 
In  love,  and  happy  in  her  love? 

NORNA. 
Untouch'd  by  love,  the  maiden's  breast 
Is  like  the  snow  on  Rona's  crest, 
High  seated  in  the  middle  sky, 
In  bright  and  barren  purity; 
But  by  the  sunbeam  gently  kiss'd, 
Scarce  by  the  gazing  eye  'tis  miss'd, 
Ere  down  the  lonely  valley  stealing. 
Fresh  grass  and  growth  its  course  reveal- 
ing. 
It  cheers  the  flock,  revives  the  flower. 
And  decks  some  happy  shepherd's  Ixjwer. 

MAGNUS   TROIL. 
Mother,  speak,  and  do  not  tarry. 
Here's  a  maiden  fain  would  marry; 
Shall  she  marry,  ay  or  not? 
If  she  marry,  what's  her  lot? 

NORNA. 

Untouch'd  by  love,  the  maiden's  breast 
Is  like  the  snow  on  Rona's  crest; 
So  pure,  so  free  from  earthly  dye. 
It  seems,  whilst  leaning  on  the  sky. 
Part  of  the  heaven  to  which  'tis  nigh; 


But  passion,  like  the  wild  March  rain, 
May  soil  the  wreath  with  many  a  slain. 
We  gaze  —  the  lovely  vision's  gone  — 
A  torrent  fills  the  bed  of  stone. 
That  hurrying  to  destruction's  shock, 
Leaps  headlong  from  the  lofty  rock. 

The  Pirate,  chap.  xxi. 


SONG  OF  THE   ZETLAND 

FISHERMEN. 

1821. 

Farewell,  merry  maidens,  to  song  and 

to  laugh. 
For  the  brave  lads  of  Westra  are  bound 

to  the  haaf; 
And  we  must  have  labor,  and  hunger,  and 

pain, 
Ere  we  dance  with  the  maids  of  Dunross- 

ness  again. 

For  now,  in  our  trim  boats  of  Noroway 

deal. 
We  must  dance  on  the  waves,  with  the 

porpoise  and  seal ! 
The  breeze  it  shall  pipe,  so  it  pipe  not 

too  high. 
And  the  gull  be  our  songstress  whene'er 

she  flits  by. 

.Sing  on,  my  brave  bird,  while  we  follow, 
like  thee, 

By  bank,  shoal,  and  quicksand,  the 
swarms  of  the  sea; 

And  when  twenty  score  fishes  are  strain- 
ing our  line, 

Sing  louder,  brave  bird,  for  their  spoils 
shall  lie  thine. 

We'll  sing  while  we  bait,  and  we'll  sing 

while  we  haul, 
For  the  deeps  of  the  haaf  have  enough 

for  us  all : 
There  is  torsk  for  the  gentle,  and  skate 

for  the  carle, 
And  there's  wealth  for  bold  Magnus,  the 

son  of  the  earl. 

Huzza  !  my  brave  comrades,  give  way  for 

the  haaf, 
We  shall  sooner  come  back  to  the  dance 

and  the  laugh; 


CLE  VELAND ' .?  SERENADE. 


4» 


For  life  without  mirth  is  a  lamp  without 

oil; 
Then  mirth  and   long  life  to   the   bold 

Magnus  Troil ! 

The  Pirate,  chap.  xxii. 


CLEVELAND'S   SERENADE. 

1821. 
Love  wakes  and  weeps 
While  Beauty  sleeps ! 
O  for  Music's  softest  numWrs 
To  prompt  a  theme, 
For  Beauty's  dream, 
Soft  as  the  pillow  of  her  slumbers ! 

Thro'  groves  of  palm 

Sigh  gales  of  balm, 
Fireflies  on  the  air  are  wheeling; 

While  thro'  the  gloom 

Comes  soft  perfume. 
The  distant  beds  of  flowers  revealing. 

O  wake  and  live  ! 

No  dream  can  give 
A  shadow'd  bliss,  the  real  excelling; 

No  longer  sleep. 

From  lattice  peep. 
And  list  the  tale  that  Love  is  telling ! 


"  Her  lover,  as  if  determined  upon  gaining  her 
ear  by  music  of  another  strain,  sung  the  following 
fragment  of  a  sea-ditty  :  "  — 


you 


Farewell  !     farewell !     the    voice 
hear 

Has  left  its  last  soft  tone  with  you,  — 
Its  next  must  join  the  seaward  cheer. 

And  shout  among  the  shouting  crew. 

The  accents  which  I  scarce  could  form 
Beneath     your      frown's     controlling 
check, 

Must  give  the  word  alwve  the  storm, 
To  cut  the  mast  and  clear  the  wreck. 

The  timid  eye  I  dared  not  raise,  — 
The  hand,  that  shook  when  press 'd  to 
thine, 

Must  point  the  guns  upon  the  chase  — 
Must  bid  the  deadly  cutlass  shine. 


To  all  I  love,  or  hope,  or  fear, 
Honor,  or  own,  a  long  adieu  ! 

To  all  that  life  has  soft  and  dear. 
Farewell !  save  memory  of  you  ! 

The  Pirate,  chap,  xxiii 


CLAUD  HALCRO'S   VERSES. 

1821. 

"  A  SCRAP  of  an  old  Norse  ditty  which  might 
run  thus  in  English :  "  — 

And  you  shall  deal  the  funeral  dole; 

Ay,  deal  it,  mother  mine. 
To  weary  l)ody,  and  to  heavy  soul, 

The  white  bread  and  the  wine. 

And  you  shall  deal  my  horses  of  pride; 

Ay,  deal  them,  mother  mine; 
And  you  shall  deal  my  lands  so  wide. 

And  deal  my  castles  nine. 

But  deal  not  vengeance  for  the  deed, 

And  deal  not  for  the  crime; 
Thy  Iwdy  to  its  place,  and  the  soul  to 
Heaven's  grace. 
And  the  rest  in  God's  own  time. 

The  Pirate,  chap,  xxiii. 


CLAUD   HALCRO'S  INVOCATION. 

1821. 

"  Haixro  began  to  conjure  her  in  an  ancient 
rhyme  which  occurred  to  him  as  suited  to  the 
occasion,  and  which  had  in  its  gibberish  a  wild 
and  unearthly  sound  which  may  be  lost  in  the 
ensuing  translation  :  "  — 

St.  Magnus  control  thee,  that  martyr  of 

treason; 
St.  Ronan  rebuke  thee  with  rhyme  and 

with  reason; 
By  the  mass  of  St.  Martin,  the  might  of 

St.  Mary, 
Be  thou  gone,  or  thy  weird  shall  be  worse 
if  thou  tarry  ! 
If  of  good,  go  hence  and  hallow  thee; 
If  of  ill,  let  the  earth  swallow  thee; 
If  thou'rt  of  air,  let  the  gray  mist  fold 

thee; 
If  of  earth,  let  the  swart  mine  hold  thee. 
If  a  pixie,  seek  thy  ring; 
If  a  nixie,  seek  thy  spring; 


50P 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


If  on  middle  earth  thou'st  been 
Slave  of  sorrow,  shame,  and  sin. 
Hast  cat  the  bread  of  toil  and  strife. 
And  drec'd  the  lot  which  men  call  life. 
Begone  to  thy  stone !  for  thy  coffin  is 

scant  of  thee; 
The  worm,  thy  playfellow,  wails  for  the 

want  of  thee. 
Hence,  houseless  ghost !  let  the  earth  hide 

thee ; 
Till  Michael  shall  blow  the  blast  see  that 

there  thou  bide  thee  ! 
Phantom,  fly  hence  !  take  the  Cross  f"-  a 

token. 
Hence  pass  till  Hallow-moss !  — my  spell 
is  spoken ! 


Where  corpse-light 
Dances  bright, 
Be  it  day  or  night, 
Be  it  by  ligiit  or  dark 
There  shall  corpse  lie  stiff  and  stark. 


Menseful  maiden  ne'er  should  rise 
Till  the  first  beam  tinge  the  skies; 
Silk-fringed  eyelids  still  should  close. 
Till  the  sun  hast  kiss'd  the  rose; 
Maiden's  foot  we  should  not  view 
Mark'd  with  tiny  print  on  dew, 
Till  the  opening  flowerets  spread 
Carpet  meet  for  beauty's  tread. 

The  Pirate^  chap,  xxiii. 


NORNA'S  RUNIC  RHYMF. 
1821. 
Champion,  f.imed  for  warlike  toil, 
Art  thou  silent,  Rilx)lt  Troil  ? 
Sand,  and  dust,  and  pebbly  stones. 
Are  leaving  Itare  thy  giant  bones. 
Who  dared  touch  the  wild  bear's  skin 
Ye  slumber'd  on,  while  life  was  in?  — 
A  woman  now,  or  babe,  may  come 
And  cast  the  covering  from  thy  tomb. 

Yet  be  not  wrathful.  Chief,  nor  blight 
Mine  eyes  or  ears  with  sound  or  sight ! 
I  come  not,  with  unhallow'd  tread. 
To  wake  the  slumbers  of  the  dead, 
Or  lay  thy  giant  relics  bare; 
But  what  I  seek  thou  well  canst  spare. 


Be  it  to  my  hand  allow'd 
To  shear  a  merk's  weight  from  thy  shroud; 
Yet  leave  thee  sheeted  lead  enough 
To  shield  thy  bones  from  weather  rough 

See,  I  draw  my  magic  knife  — 
Never,  while  thou  wert  in  life, 
Laid'st  thou  still  for  sloth  or  fear. 
When  point  and  edge  were  glittering  near ; 
See,  the  cenvients  now  I  sever  — 
Waken  now,  or  sleep  forever  ! 
Thou  wilt  not  wake? — the  deed  is  done  !— 
The  prize  I  sought  is  fairly  won. 

Thanks,  Ribolt,  thanks,  — for  this  the  sej 
Shall  smooth  its  ruffled  crest  for  thee  — 
And  whik  afar  its  billows  foam, 
Sulwide  to  peace  near  Ribolt 's  tomb. 
Thanks,  Ribolt, thanks — for  this  the  migh 
Of  wild  winds  raging  at  their  height, 
When  to  thy  place  of  slumber  nigh. 
Shall  soften  to  a  lullaby. 

She,  the  dame  oi  doubt  and  dread. 
Noma  of  the  Fitful  Head, 
Mighty  in  her  own  despite,  — 
Miserable  in  her  might; 
In  despair  and  frenzy  great. 
In  her  greatness  desolate; 
Wisest,  wickedest  who  lives,  — 
Well  can  keep  the  word  she  gives. 

The  Pirate,  chap.  xxv. 


NORNA'S  SPELLS. 
1821. 

"  Muttering  that  the  elemental  spirit  must  bi 
thank.-'  [T  jrna],  recited,  in  her  usual  monoto 
nou-,.  yet  wild  mode  of  i,hanting,  the  followinj 
ver^-s:  "  — 

Thou,  so  needful,  yet  so  dread. 
With  cloudy  crest,  and  wing  of  red  — 
Thou,  without  whose  genial  breath 
The  North  would  sleep  the  sleep  of  death ; 
Who  deign'st  to  warm  the  cottage  hearth 
Yet  hurl'st  proud  palaces  to  earth,  — 
Brightest,  keenest,  of  the  Powers, 
Which  form  and  rule  this  world  of  ours. 
With  my  rhyme  of  Runic,  I 
Thank  thee  for  thy  agency. 

"She  then  sv^red  a  portion  from  the  smal 
mass  of  sheet  lead  which  lay  upon  the  table  and 


VO/fJVA'S  SPELLS. 


501 


placing  it  in  the  crucible,  subjected  it  to  the  action 
of  the  lighted  charcoal,  and,  as  it  melted,  she 
sung :  "  — 

Old  Reim-kennar,  to  thy  art 
Mother  Hertha  sends  her  part; 
She,  whose  gracious  hoiinty  gives 
Needful  food  for  all  that  lives. 
From  the  deep  mine  of  the  North 
Came  the  mystic  metal  forth, 
Doom'd  amidst  disjointed  stones, 
Long  to  cere  a  champion's  bones, 
Disinhumed  my  charms  to  aid  — 
Mother  Earth,  my  thanks  are  paid. 

"  She  then  poured  out  some  water  from  the 
jar  into  a  large  cup  or  goblet,  and  sung  once  more, 
as  she  slowly  stirred  it  round  with  the  end  of  her 
staff :  "  — 

Girdle  of  our  islands  dear. 
Element  of  Water,  hear ! 
Thou  whose  power  can  overwhelm 
Broken  mounds  and  ruin'd  realm 

On  the  lowly  Belgian  strand; 
All  tly  fiercest  range  can  never 
Of  our  soil  a  furlong  sever 

From  our  rock-defended  land; 
Play  then  gently  thou  thy  part. 
To  assist  old  Noma's  art. 

"  She  then,  with  a  pair  of  pincers  removed  the 
crucible  from  the  chafing-dish,  and  poured  the  lead, 
now  entirely  melted,  into  the  bowl  of  water,  re- 
peating at  the  same  time  :  "  — 

Elements,  each  other  greeting. 

Gifts  and  power  attend  your  meeting: 

TO  THE   SPIRIT  OF  THE  WINDS. 
Thou,  that  over  billows  dark, 
Safely  send'st  the  fisher's  bark. 
Giving  him  a  path  and  motion 
Thro'  the  wilderness  of  ocean; 
Thou,  that  when  the  billows  brave  ye, 
O'er  the  shelves  canst  drive  the  navy,  — 
Didst  thou  chafe  as  one  neglected, 
While  thy  brethren  were  respected? 
To  appease  thee,  see,  I  tear 
Tliis  full  grasp  of  grizzled  hair. 
Oft  thy  breath  hath  thro'  it  sung. 
Softening  to  my  magic  tongue,  — 
Now,  'tis  thine  to  bid  it  fly 
ITiro'  the  wide  expanse  of  sky. 
Mid  the  countless  swarms  to  sail 
Of  wild-fowl  wheeling  on  thy  gale; 
Take  thy  portion  and  rejoice,  — 
Spirit,  thou  hast  heard  my  voice ! 


"  She  selected  from  the  fused  metal  a  piece 
about  the  size  of  a  small  nut,  bearing  in  shape  a 
close  resemblance  to  that  of  the  human  heart,  and 
approaching  Minna,  again  spoke  in  song :  "  —    . 

She  who  sits  by  haunted  well, 

Is  subject  to  the  Nixie's  spell; 

She  who  walks  on  lonely  beach, 

To  the  Mermaid's  charmed  speech; 

She  who  walks  round  ring  of  green. 

Offends  the  peevish  fairy  Queen; 

And  she  who  takes  rest  in  the  Dwarfie's 

cave, 
A  weary  weird  of  woe  shall  have. 

By  ring,  by  spring,  by  cave,  by  shore, 
Minna  Troil  has  braved  all  this  and  more; 
And  yet  hath  the  root  of  her  sorrow  and  ill, 
A  source  that's  more  deep  and  more  mys- 
tical still.  — 

Thou  art  within  a  demon's  hold. 

More  wise  than  Haims,  more  strong  than 

Trold. 
No  siren  sings  so  sweet  as  he,  — 
No  fay  springs  lighter  on  the  lea; 
No  elfin  power  hath  half  the  art, 
To  soothe,  to  move,  to  wring  the  heart,  -~ 
Life-blood  from  the  cheek  to  drain. 
Drench  the  eye  and  dry  the  vein. 
Maiden,  ere  we  farther  go. 
Dost  thou  note  me,  ay  or  no  ? 

MINNA. 
I  mark  thee,  my  mother,  both  word,  look, 

and  sign; 
Speak  on  with  thy  riddle  —  to  read  it  be 

mine. 

NORNA. 

Mark  me !  for  the  word  I  speak 
Shall  bring  the  color  to  thy  cheek. 
This  laden  heart,  so  light  of  cost. 
The  symlx)l  of  a  treasure  lost. 
Thou  shalt  wear  in  hope  and  in  peace, 
That  the  cause  of  your  sickness  and  sor 

row  may  cease, 
When  crimson  foot  meets  crimson  hand 
I.,  the  Martyr's  Aisle,  and  in  Orkney  land. 

"  She  knotted  the  leaden  heart  to  a  chain  of 
gold  and  hung  it  around  Minna's  neck,  singing,  as 
she  performed  that  last  branch  of  the  spell :     — 

Be  patient,  be  patient;  for  Patience  hath 

power 
To  ward  us  in  danger,  like  mantle  io 

shower; 


S02 


MISCELLANE  O  US  POEMS. 


A  fairy  gift  you  best  may  hold 

In  a  chain  of  fairy  gold;  — 

The  chain  and  the  gift  are  each  a  true 

token, 
That  not  without  warrant  old  Noma  has 

spoken; 
But  thy  nearest  and  dearest  must  never 

behold  them, 
Till   time   shall   accomplish   the  truths   I 

have  told  them. 

EAd  Pirate,  chap,  xxviii. 


BRYCE   SNAILSFOOT'S   SIGN. 

1821. 

"  Thb  sign  bore  on  the  opposite  side  an  em- 
blematic device,  resembling  our  first  parents  in 
their  vegetable  garments,  with  this  legend  .  "  — 

Poor  sinners  whom  the  snake  deceives 
Are  fain  to  cover  them  with  leaves. 
Zetland  hath  no  leaves,  'tis  true, 
Because  that  trees  are  none  or  few; 
But  we  have  flax  and  taits  of  woo'  * 
For  linen  cloth  and  wadmaal  t  blue; 
And  we  have  many  of  foreign  knacks 
Of  finer  waft  than  woo'  or  flax. 
Ye  gallanty  Lambmas  lads,  appear, 
And  bring  your  Lambmas  sisters  here; 
Bryce  Snailsfoot  spares  not  cost  or  care 
To  pleasure  every  gentle  pair. 

The  Pirate,  chap,  xxxii. 


FRAGMENT   OF  A  SEA-DITTY. 
1821. 
Robin  Rover 

Said  to  his  crew :  — 
'« Up  with  the  black  flag, 

Down  with  the  blue ! 
Fire  on  the  main-top. 

Fire  on  the  bow. 
Fire  on  the  gun-deck. 
Fire  down  below  !  " 

The  Pirate,  chap,  xxxii. 

*  Tuft*  of  wool. 

t  Wadmaal,  vadmel  ;  homespun  woollen  cloth 
of  which  the  Norwegian  peasantry  make  their 
fclotfaes. 


DICK   FLETCHER'S   DITTY. 
1821. 
It  was  a  ship,  and  a  ship  of  fame, 
Launch'd  off  the  stocks,  bound  for  the 

main. 
With  a  hundred  and  fifty  brisk  young  men, 
All  pick'd  and  chosen  every  one. 

Captain  Glen  was  our  Captain's  name, 
A  very  gallant  and  brisk  young  man. 
As  bold  a  sailor  as  e'er  went  to  sea; 
And  we  were  bound  for  high  Barbary  ! 
'The  Pirate,  chap,  xxxvi. 


MOTTOES. 

FROM    "THE    PIRATE." 
CHAP.   II. 

'Tis  not  alone  the  scene  —  the  man,  An 

selmo. 
The  man  finds  sympathies  in  these  wild 

wastes, 
And  roughly  tumbling  seas,  which  fairer 

views 
And  smoother  waves  deny  him. 

Ancient  Drama. 

CHAP.    III. 

O,  Bessy  Bell  and  Mary  Gray, 
They  were  twa  bonnie  lassies; 

They  biggit  a  house  on  yon  burn-brae, 
And  theekit  ower  wi'  rashes. 

Fair  Bessy  Bell  I  looed  yestreen, 
And  thought  I  ne'er  could  alter: 

But  Mary  Gray's  twa  pawky  een 
Have  garr'd  my  fancy  falter. 

Scots  Song. 

CHAP.    IV. 

This  is  no  pilgrim's  morning  —  yon  gray 

mist 
Lies  upon  hill  and   dale,  and  field  and 

forest. 
Like    the    dun  wimple   of   a  new-made 

widow : 
And  by  my  faith,  although  my  heart  be 

soft, 
I'd  rather  hear  that  widow  weep  and  sigh, 
AnJ  tell  the  virtues  of  the  dear  departed. 


MOTTOES  FROM  ''THE  PIRATE. 


503 


Than,  when  the  tempest  sends  his  voice 

ahroati, 
Be  subject  to  its  fury. 

The  Double  Nuptials. 

CHAP.  V. 
The  wind  blew  keen  frae  north  and  east; 

It  blew  upon  the  floor. 
Quo'  our  good  man  to  our  good  wife :  — 

"  Get  up  and  bar  the  door." 

"  My  hand  is  in  my  housewifeskep. 

Good  man,  as  ye  may  see; 
If    it   shouldna   be  barr'd    this    hundred 
years 
It's  no  be  barr'd  for  me." 

Old  Song. 
CHAP.  vn. 
She  does  no  work  by  halves,  yon  raving 

ocean ; 
Engulfing  those  she  strangles,  her  wild 

womb 
Affords  the  mariners  whom  she  hath  dealt 

on. 
Their  death  at  once,  and  sepulchre. 

Old  Play. 

CHAP.  IX. 

This  is  a  gentle  trader,  and  a  prudent;  — 
He's  no  Autolycus,  to  blear  your  eye 
With  quips  of  worldly  gauds  and  game- 

someness; 
But  seasons  all  his  glittering  merchandise 
With  wholesome  doctrine  suited  to  the  use. 
As  men  sauce  goose  with  sage  and  rose- 
mary. 

Old  Play. 

CHAP   XI. 

All  vour  ancient  customs 


And  long-descended  usages,  I'll  change 

Ye  shall  not  eat,  nor  drink,  nor  speak, 
nor  move, 

Think,  look,  or  walk,  as  ye  were  wont  to 
do. 

Even  your  marriage-lieds  shall  know  mu- 
tation; 

The  bride  shall  have  the  stock,  the  groom 
the  wall; 

For    all    old    practice    will    I    turn    and 
change, 

And  call  it  reformation  —  marry  will  I ! 
'  Tii  Even  that  we're  at  Odds. 


CHAP.    XIV. 

We'll  keep  our  customs  ; —  what  is  law 

itself, 
But  old  establish'd  custom?  Whatreligion 
(I  mean,  with  one-half  of  the  men  that 

use  it). 
Save  the  good  use  and  wont  that  carries 

thbm 
To  worship  how  and  where  their  fathers 

worshipp'd  ? 
All    things   resolve    in    custom;  — we'll 

keep  ours. 

Old  Play. 

CHAP   XXHI. 

There  was  shaking  of  hands,  and  sorrow 
of  heart. 

For  the  hour  was  approaching  when  merry 
folks  must  part; 

So  we  called  for  our  horses,  and  asked 
lor  our  way. 

While  the  jolly  old  landlord  said,  "Noth- 
ing's to  pay." 

Lilliftit,  a  Poem. 

CHAP.    XXIX. 

See  yonder  woman,  whom    our    swains 

revere. 
And  dread  in  secret,  while  they  take  her 

counsel 
When  sweetheart  shall  be  kind,  or  when 

cross  dame  shall  die; 
Where  lurks  the  thief  who  stole  the  silver 

tankard, 
And  how  the  pestilent  murrain  may  be 

cured. 
This  sage  adviser's  mad,  stark  mad,  my 

friend; 
Yet,  in  her  madness   hath  the  art  and 

cunning 
To  wring  fools'  secrets  from  their  inmost 

bosoms. 
And  pay  inquirers  with  the  coin  they  gave 

her. 

Old  Play. 
CHAP.    XXX. 
What    ho,  my  jovial  mates t    come  on! 

we'll  frolic  it 
Like  fairies  frisking  in  the  merry  moon- 
shine. 
Seen  by  the  curtal  friar,  who,  from  some 

christening. 
Or  some  blithe  bridal,  hies  belated  cell- 
ward;  — 


504 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


He  starts,  and  changes  his.  bold  bottle 

swagger 
To  churchman's  pace  professional,  —  and, 

ransacking 
His  treacherous  memory  for  some  holy 

hymn, 
Finds  but  the  roundel  of    the  midnight 

catch. 

Old  Play. 

CHAP.    XXXII. 

I  strive  like  the  vessel  in  the  tide-way. 

Which,  lacking  favoring  lireeze,  hath  not 
the  power 

To  stem  the   powerful  current.  —  Even 
so, 

Resolving  daily  to  forsake  my  vices. 

Habits,    strong     circumstance,    renewed 
temptation. 

Sweep    me  to  sea  again.  —  O  heavenly 
breath, 

Fill  thou  my  sails,  and  aid  the  feeble  ves- 
sel, 

Which  ne'er  can  reach  the  blessed  port 
without  thee ! 

'  Tis  Odds  uuhen  Eiiens  meel. 

CHAP.    XXXIII. 

Parental  love,  my  friend,  has  power  o'er 
wisdom. 

And  is   the  charm,  which,  like   the    fal- 
coner's lure. 

Can  bring  from  heaven  the  highest  soaring 
spirits.  — • 

So,  when  famed  Prosper  doff 'd  his  magic 
robe. 

It  was  Miranda  pluck'd  it  from  his  shoul- 
ders. 

Old  Play. 

CHAP.    XXXIV. 

Hark  to  the  insult  loud,  the  bitter  sneer. 
The  fierce  threat  answering  to  the  brutal 

jeer; 
Oaths  fly  like  pistol  shots,  and  vengeful 

words 
Clash  with   each    other    like    conflicting 

swords. 
The  robbers'  quarrel  by  such  sounds  is 

shown, 
And  true  rnen  have  some  chance  to  gain 

their  own. 

Captivity,  a  Poem. 


CHAP.    XXXVII. 

Over  the  mountains,  and  under  the  waves. 

Over  the  fountains,  and  under  the  graves, 

Under  floods  that  are  deepest, 

Which  Neptune  obey, 
Over  rocks  that  are  steepest. 
Love  will  find  out  the  way 

Old  Song. 


ON   ETTRICK    FOREST'S    MOUN- 
TAINS  DUN.* 
1822. 
On  Ettrick  Forest's  mountains  dun, 
'Tis  blithe  to  hear  the  sportsman's  gun, 
And  seek  the  heath -frequenting  brood 
Far  through  the  noonday  solitude; 
Ky  many  a  cairn  and  trenched  mound, 
VVhere  chiefs  of  yore  sleep  lone  and  sound. 
And  springs,  where  gray-hair'd  shepherds 

tell. 
That  still  the  fairies  love  to  dwell. 

Along  the  silver  streams  of  Tweed, 
'Tis  blithe  the  mimic  fly  to  lead. 
When  to  the  hook  the  salmon  springs, 
And  the  line  whistles  thro'  the  rings; 
The  boiling  eddy  see  him  try, 
Tiicn  dashing  from  the  current  high. 
Till  watchful  eye  and  cautious  hand 
Have  led  his  wasted  strength  to  land. 

'Tis  l)lithe  along  the  midnight  tide. 
With  stalwart  arin  the  l)oat  to  guide; 
On  high  the  dazzling  l)laze  to  rear. 
And  heedful  plunge  the  Ijarbed  spear; 
Rock,  wood,  and  scaur,  emerging  bright, 
Fling  on  the  stream  their  ruddy  light. 
And  from  the  bank  our  band  appears 
Like  Genii,  arm'd  with  fiery  spears. 

'Tis  blithe  at  eve  to  tell  the  tale, 
How  we  succeed  and  how  we  fail. 
Whether  at  Alwyn's  t  lordly  meal. 
Or  lowlier  board  of  Ashestiel; 
While  the  gay  tapers  cheerly  shine. 
Bickers  the  fire,  and  flows  the  wine  — 
Days  free  from  thought,  and  nights  from 

care. 
My  blessing  on  the  Forest  fair  ! 

*  Written  after  the  poet  had  been  engaged  In 
a  week's  shooting  and  fishing  with  friends 
t  Alyivn,  the  seat  of  the  Lord  Somerville. 


FAREWELL    TO    THE   MUSE. 


50s 


FAREWELL  TO  THE   MUSE.* 
1822. 
Enchantress,  farewell,  who  so  oft  hast 
decoy 'd  me. 
At  the  close  of  the  evening  thro'  wood- 
lands to  roam, 
Where   the   forester,  lated,  with  wonder 
espied  me 
Explore  the  wild  scenes  he  was  quitting 
for  home. 
Farewell,  and  take  with  thee  thy  numbers 
wild  speaking 
The  language  alternate  of  rapture  and 
woe: 
Oh !  none  but  some  lover  whose  heart- 
strings are  breaking. 
The  pang  that  I  feel  at  our  parting  can 
know. 

Each  joy  thou  couldst  double,  and  when 
there  came  sorrow, 
Or  pale  disappointment,  to  darken  my 
way, 
What  voice  was   like    thine,   that    could 
sing  of  to-morrow, 
Till  forgot  in  the  strain  was  the  grief 
of  to-day ! 
But  when  friends  drop  around  us  in  life's 
weary  waning, 
The   grief,  Queen   of    Numbers,   thou 
canst  not  assuage; 
Nor  the  gradual  estrangement  of   those 
yet  remaining. 
The  languor  of  pain,  and  the  chillness 
of  age. 

'Twas    thou    that    once    taught    me,    in 
accents  bewailing, 
To  sing  how  a  warrior  lay  stretch'd  on 
the  plain, 
And  a  maiden  hung  o'er  him  with  aid  un- 
availing, 
Andheldtohislipsthecoldgobletinvain. 
As  vain  thy  enchantments,  O  Queen  of 
wild  Numbers, 
To  a  bard  when  the  reign  of  his  fancy 
is  o'er, 
And  the  quick  pulse  of  feeling  in  apathy 
slumbers  — 
Farewell,  then,  Enchantress !    I   meet 
thee  no  more  ! 

*  Written    during    illness    for     Mr.     George 
Thomson's  Scottish  Collection. 


THE   MAID  OF   ISLA. 

Air  —  The  Maid  of  Isla. 

WRITTEN    FOR    MR.   GEORGE   THOMSON'S 

SCOTTISH    MELODIES. 

1822. 

Oh,  Maid  of  Isla,  from  the  cliff. 

That  looks  on  troubled  wave  and  sky. 

Dost  thou  not  see  yon  little  skiff 
Contend  with  ocean  gallantly? 

Now  beating  'gainst  the  breeze  and  surge, 
And  steep'd  her  leeward  deck  in  foam, 

Why  does  she  war  unequal  urge?  — 
Oh,  Isla's  maid,  she  seeks  her  home. 

Oh,  Isla's  Maid,  yon  sea-bird  mark, 

Her  white  wing  gleams  thro'  mist  and 
spray, 
Against  the  storm-cloud,  lowering  dark. 

As  to  the  rock  she  wheels  away;  — 
Where  clouds  are  dark,  and  billows  rave. 

Why  to  the  shelter  should  she  come 
Of  cliff,  exposed  to  wind  and  wave?  — 

Oh,  Maid  of  Isla,  'tis  her  home  ! 

As  breeze  and  tide  to  yonder  skiff, 

Thou'it  adverse  to  the  suit  I  bring. 
And  cold  as  is  yon  wintry  cliff, 

Where   sea-birds   close   their  wearied 
wing. 
Yet  cold  as  rock,  unkind  as  wave, 

Still,  Isla's  Maid,  to  thee  I  come; 
For  in  thy  love,  or  in  his  grave. 

Must  Allan  Vourich  find  his  home. 


CARLE,   NOW   THE   KING'S 
COME.  + 

BEING    NEW   WORDS  TO  AN    AULD  SPRING. 
1822. 

The  news  has  flown  frae  mouth  to  mouth, 
The  North  for  ance  has  bang'd  the  South; 
The  deil  a  Scotsman's  die  o'  drouth. 
Carle,  now  the  King's  come  ! 

CHORUS. 

Carle,  now  the  King's  come ! 
Carle,  now  the  King's  come  ! 
Thou  shalt  dance,  and  I  will  sing 
Carle,  now  the  King's  come ! 

t  An  imitation  of  an  old  Jacobite  ditty, 
written  on  the  arrival  of  George  IV.  in  Scot- 
laud,  August,  1822,  and  printed  as  a  broadside. 


5o6 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Auld  England  held  him  laiig  and  fast; 
And  Ireland  had  a  joyfu'  cast; 
But  Scotland's  turn  is  come  at  last  — 
Carle,  now  the  King's  come  ! 

Auld  Reekie,  in  her  rokelay  gray, 
Thought  never  to  have  seen  the  day; 
He's  been  a  weary  time  away  — - 

But,  Carle,  now  the  King's  come  ! 

She's  skirling  frae  the  castle-hill; 
The  Carline's  voice  is  grown  sae  shrill, 
Ye'll  hear  her  at  the  Canon-mill  — 
Carle,  now  the  King's  come! 

"Up,  bairns!"  she   cries,    "  baith   grit 

and  sma', 
And  busk  ye  for  the  weapon-shaw ! 
Stand  by  me,  and  we'll  bang  them  a'  — 
Carle,  now  the  King's  come  ! 

"  Come  from  Newbattle's  ancient  spires, 
Bauld   Lothian,   with   your   knights  and 

squires. 
And  match  the  metal  of  your  sires  — 
Carle,  now  the  King's  come  ! 

"  You're  welcome  hame,  my  Montagu  !  * 
Bring  in  your  hand  the  young  Huccleuch ; 
I'm  missing  some  that  I  may  rue  — 
Carle,  now  the  King's  come  ! 

"  Come,  Haddington,  the  kind  and  gay, 
You've    graced    my   causeway   mony   a 

day; 
I'll  weep  the  cause  if  you  should  stay  — 
Carle,  now  the  King's  come  ! 

"  Come,  premier  Duke,t  and  carry  doun 
Frae  yonder  craig  his  ancient  croun; 
It's  had  a  lang  sleep  an'  a  souii'  — 

But,  Carle,  now  the  King's  come  ! 

"  Come,  Athole,  from  the  hill  and  wood, 
Bring  down  your  clansmen  like  a  cloud; 
Come,     Morton,     show    the     Douglas' 
blood,  — 

Carle,  now  the  King's  come  ! 

•  Lord  Montagu,  uncle  and  guardian  to  the 
young  Duke  of  Buccleuch,  placed  His  Grace's 
residence  of  Dalkeith  at  his  Majesty's  disposal 
during  his  visit  to  Scotland. 

t  The  Duke  of  Hamilton,  Karl  of  Angus,  the 
premier  duke  of  Scotland.     He  carried  the  an- 


"Come,  Tweeddale,  true    as   sword  to 

sheath. 
Come,    Hopetoun,    fear'd   on   fields    of 

death ; 
Come,    Clerk,  %   and    give    your    bugle 
breath; 

Carle,  now  the  King's  come  ! 

"  Come,    Wemyss,    who    modest    merit 

aids, 
Come,  Koseberry,  from  Dalmeny  shades, 
Breadalbane,  bring  your  belted  plaids. 
Carle,  now  the  King's  come ! 

"  Come,  stately  Niddrie,  auld  and  true, 
Girt  with  the  sword  that  Minden  knew; 
We  have  o'er  few  such  lairds  as  you  — 
Carle,  now  the  King's  come ! 

"  King  Arthur's  grown  a  common  crier: 
He's  heard  in  Fife  and  far  Cantire,  — 
'  Fie,  lads,  behold  my  crest  of  fire  !  ' 
Carle,  now  the  King's  come  ! 

"Saint    Abb    roars    out:     'I    see    him 

pass, 
Between  Tantallon  and  the  Bass  ! ' 
Calton,  get  out  your  keeking-glass  — 
Carle,  now  the  King's  come  !  " 

The  Carline  stopp'd;  and,  sure  I  am, 
For  very  glee  had  fa'en  a  dwam, 
But  Oman  §  help'd  her  to  a  dram.  — 
Cogie,  now  the  Kings  come ! 

Cogie,  now  the  King's  come ! 
Cogie,  now  the  King's  come  ! 
I'se  l)e  fou  and  ye's  be  toom,  || 
Cogie,  now  the  King's  come ! 

PART    SECOND. 

A  Hawick  gill  of  mountain  dew, 
Heised  up  Auld  Reekie's  heart,  I  trow, 

cient  royal  crown  of  Scotland  on  horseback  iv» 
King  George's  procession  from  Holyrood  to  the 
castle.     "  Yonder  craig  "  is  the  castle. 

X  The  liaron  of  Pennycuik,  bound  by  his 
tenure  to  meet  the  sovereign  whenever  he  or 
she  visits  Edinburgh  at  the  Harestone  (in  which 
the  standard  of  James  IV.  was  erected  when  his 
army  encamped  on  the  Borough  muir),  and  there 
blow  three  blasts  on  a  horn. 

§  The  landlord  of  the  Waterloo  Hotel. 

II  Empty. 


CARLE,  NOW    THE  KING'S   COME. 


yyi 


It  minded  her  of  Waterloo  — 

Carle,  now  the  King's  come  ! 

Again  I  heard  her  summons  swell, 
For,  sic  a  dirdum  and  a  yell, 
It  drown'd  Saint  Giles's  jowing  bell  — 
Carle,  now  the  King's  come  ! 

"  My  trusty  Provost,  tried  and  tight, 
Stand  forward  for  the  Good  Town's  right. 
There's    waur    than    you     been     made 
knight  *  — 

Carle,  now  the  King's  come ! 

"  My  reverend  Clergy,  look  ye  say 
The  best  of  thanksgivings  ye  ha'e, 
And  warstle  for  a  sunny  day  — 

Carle,  now  the  King's  come  ! 

"  My  Doctors,  look  that  you  agree. 
Cure  a'  the  town  without  a  fee; 
My  Lawyers,  dinna  pike  a  plea,  — 
Carle,  now  the  King's  come ! 

"  Come  forth  each  sturdy  Burgher's  bnirn. 
That  dints  on  wood  or  clanks  on  airn. 
That  fires  the  o'en,  or  winds  the  pirn  — 
Carle,  now  the  King's  come  ! 

"  Come  forward  with  the  Blanket  Blue,t 
Your  sires  were  loyal  men  and  true. 
As  Scotland's  foemen  oft  might  rue  — 
Carle,  now  the  King's  come  ! 

"  Scots  downa  loup,  and  rin  and  rave, 
We're  steady  folks  and  something  grave, 
We'll  keep  the  causeway  firm  and  brave, 
Carle,  now  the  King's  come  ! 

"  Sir  Thomas,  X  thunder  from  your  rock. 
Till  Pentland  dinnles  wi'  the  shock, 
And  lace  wi'  fire  my  snood  o'  smoke  — 
Carle,  now  the  King's  come ! 

"  Melville,  bring  out  your  bands  of  blue, 
A'  Louden  lads,  baith  stout  and  true, 

*  The  Lord  Provost  had   the  agreeable   siir- 

Crise  of  hearing  his  health  proposed,  at  the  civic 
anquet  given  to  George  iV.  in  the  Parliament 
House,  as  "  Sir  William  Arbuthnot,  I$art." 

t  A  Blue  Blanket  is  the  standard  of  the  in- 
corporated trades  of  Edinburgh. 

t  Sir  Thomas  Bradford,  then  commander  of 
the  forces  in  Scotland. 


With  Elcho,  Hope,  and  Cockburn,  too — 
Carle,  now  the  King's  come  !  § 

"  And  you,  who  on  yon  bluidy  braes 
Gompell'd  the  vanquish 'd  Despot's  praise, 
Rank     out  —  rank     out  —  my    gallant 
Greys  II  — 

Carle,  now  the  King's  come  ! 

"  Cock  o'  the  North,  my  Huntly  bra,' 
Where  are  you  with  the  Forty-twa? 
Ah !  wae's  my  heart  that  ye're  awa'  — 
Carle,  now  the  King's  come ! 

"  But  yonder  come  my  canty  Celts, 
With  durk  and  pistols  at  their  belts; 
Thank  God,  we've  still  some  plaids  and 
kilts  — 

Carle,  now  the  King's  come ! 

"Lord,    how   the    pibrochs    groan   and 

yell! 
Macdonnel's  ta'en  the  field  himsel', 
Macleod  comes  branking  o'er  the  fell  — 
Carle,  how  the  King's  come ! 

'*  Bend  up  your  bow  each  Archer  spark, 
For    you're    to    guard    him    light    and 

dark; 
Faith,  lads,  for  ance  ye've  hit  the  mark  — 
Carle,  now  the  King's  come ! 

"Young  Errol,  IT  take  the  sword  of  state, 
The  sceptre,  Panie-Morarchate;  ** 
Kriight  Mareschal,  see  ye  clear  the  gate  — 
Carle,  now  the  King's  come  ! 

"Kind  cummer,Leith, ye've  been  mis-set, 
But  dinna  be  upon  the  fret  — 
Ye'se  hae  the  handsel  of  him  yet. 

Carle,  now  the  King's  come  ! 

§  Lord  Melville,  Colonel  of  the  Mid-Lothian 
Yeomanry  Cavalry  ;  Sir  John  Hope  of  Pinkie, 
Bart.,  major;  Robert  Cockburn,  Esq.,  and  Lord 
Elcho,  captain  in  the  same  corjis  in  whicli  Sir 
Walter  Scott  had  formerly  been  quarter-master. 

II  The  Scots  Greys,  of  whom  General  Sir 
James  Stewart  of  Coltness,  Bart,  was  commander. 
Napoleon  said  of  them  at  Waterloo:  Ces beaux 
chevaux  gris,  cotnme  ih  travaillent ! 

1i  The  Karl  of  Errol  is  herediury  Lord  High 
Constable  of  Scotland. 

**  In  more  correct  Gaelic  autography,  Benam- 
horar-chat,  Female  Lord  of  the  Chatte,  or  Great 
Lady  of  the  Cat,  the  Keltic  title  of  the  Countess 
of  Sutherland,  whose  cognizance  was  a  wild  cat 


5o8 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


"  My    daughters,    come    with    een    sae 

blue. 
Your    garlands    weave,   your    blossoms 

strew. 
He  ne'er  saw  fairer  flowers  than  you  — 
Carle,  now  the  King's  come  ! 

"  What  shall  we  do  for  the  propine  — 
We  used  to  offer  something  fine, 
But  ne'er  a  groat's  in  pouch  of  mine  — 
Carle,  now  the  King's  come  ! 

"  Deil  care  —  for  that  I'se  never  start, 
We'll  welcome  him  with  Highland  heart; 
Whate'er  we  have  he's  get  a  part  — 
Carle,  now  the  King's  come  ! 

"  I'll  show  him  mason-work  this  day  — 
Nane  of  your  bricks  of  Babel  clay. 
But  towers  shall  stand  till  Time's  away  — 
Carle,  now  the  King's  come ! 

"  I'll  show  him  wit,  I'll  show  him  lair. 
And  gallant  lads  and  lasses  fair. 
And  what  wad  kind  heart  wish  for  mair  ? 
Carle,  now  the  King's  come  ! 

-'  Step  out.  Sir  John,*  of  projects  rife, 
Come  win  the  thanks  of  an  auld  wife. 
And   bring   him   health    and   length    of 
life  — 

Carle,  now  the  King's  come !  " 


RHYMES  OF   ALSATIA. 
1822. 


THE  CLAIMING  OF   PRIVILEGE. 
Your  suppliant,  by  name 

Nigel  Graham, 
In  fear  of  mishap 
From  a  shoulder-tap. 
And  dreading  a  claw 
From  the  talons  of  law, 

That  are  sharper  than  briars, 
His  freedom  to  sue 
And  rescue  by  you, 


*  Sir  John  Sinclair,  Bart.,  author  of  "  Tlie 
Code  of  Health  and  Longevity,"  and  father  of 
the  celebrated  writer,  Catherine  Sinclair. 


Thro'  weapon  and  wit. 
From  warrant  and  writ. 
From  bailiff's  hand. 
From  tip  staff's  wand 

Is  come  hither  to  Whitefriars. 

II. 
THE  OATH. 

By  spigot  and  barrel. 

By  bilboe  and  buff. 
Thou  art  sworn  to  the  quarrel 

Of  the  blades  of  the  huff. 
For  Whitefriars  and  its  claims 

To  be  champion  or  martyr. 
And  to  fight  for  its  Dames 

Like  a  Knight  of  the  Garter. 

III. 
THE   PRIVILEGE  OF   SANCTUARY. 

From  the  touch  of  the  tip, 

From  the  blight  of  the  warrant. 
From  the  watchmen  who  skip 

On  the  harman-beck's  errand  ;t 
From  the  Bailiff's  cramp  speech 

That  makes  man  a  thrall, 
I  charm  thee  from  each 

And  I  charm  thee  from  all 
Thy  freedom's  complete 

As  a  blade  of  the  huff. 
To  be  cheated  and  cheat. 

To  be  cuff'd  and  to  cuff; 
To  stride,  swear,  and  swagger, 
To  drink  till  you  stagger. 

To  stare  and  to  stab. 
And  to  brandish  your  dagger 

In  the  cause  of  your  drab; 
To  walk  wool-ward  in  winter, 

Drink  brandy,  and  smok»^, 
And  go  fresco  in  summer 

For  want  of  a  cloak; 
To  eke  out  your  living 

By  the  wag  of  your  elbow. 
By  falham  and  gourd 

And  by  baring  of  bilboe; 
To  live  by  your  shifts 

And  to  swear  by  your  honor 
Are  the  freedom  and  gifts 

Of  which  I  am  the  donor. 
The  Fortunes  of  Nigel,  chap.  xvii. 

t  Constable. 


MOTTOES  FROM  ''THE  FORTUNES  OF  NIGEL" 


509 


MOTTOES. 

FROM   "THE    FORTUNES   OF   NIGEL." 
1822. 
CHAP.    I. 
Now  Scott  and  English  are  agreed. 
And  Saunders  hastes  to  cross  the  Tweed, 
Where,  such  t  he  splendors  that  attend  him. 
His  very  mother  scarce  had  kenned  him. 
His  metamorphosis  behold. 
From  Glasgow  frieze  to  cloth  of  gold, 
His  backsword  with  the  iron  hilt. 
To  rapier  fairly  hatched  and  gilt; 
Was  ever  seen  a  gallant  braver? 
His  very  bonnet's  grown  a  beaver. 

The  Reformation. 

CHAP.    H. 

This,  Sir,  is  one  among  the  Seignory, 
Has  wealth  at  will,  and  will  to  use  his 

wealth. 
And  wit  to  increase  it.     Marry,  his  worst 

folly 
Lies  in  a  thriftless  sort  of  charity. 
That    goes    a-gadding   sometimes    after 

objects 
Which  wise  men  will  not  see  when  thrust 

upon  them. 

The  Old  Couple. 

CHAP.  IV. 

Ay,  sir,  the  clouted  shoe  hath  ofttimes 
craft  in't, 

As  says    the   rustic    proverb:   and    your 
citizen, 

In's  grogram  suit,  gold  chain,  and  well- 
blacked  shoes, 

Bears  under  his  flat  cap  ofttimes  a  brain 

Wiser  than  burns   l>eneath  the  cap  and 
feather, 

Or  seethes  within  the  statesman's  velvet 
nightcap. 

Read  me  my  Riddle. 

CHAP.  V. 
Wherefore  come  ye  not  to  court? 
Certain  'tis  the  rarest  sport; 
There  are  silks  and  jewels  glistening. 
Prattling  fools  and  wise  men  listening. 
Bullies  among  brave  men  justling. 
Beggars  amongst  nobles  bustling; 
I^w-breathed  talkers,  minion  lispers, 
Cutting  honest  throats  by  whispers; 


Wherefore  come  ye  not  to  court  ? 
Skelton  swears  'tis  glorious  sport. 

Skelton  Skeltoniztth. 

CHAP.  VI. 
O,  I  do  know  him,  'tis  the  mouldy  lemon 
Which  our  court  wits  will  wet  their  lips 

withal. 
When  they  would  sauce  their  honied  con- 
versation 
With  somewhat  sharper  flavor.  —  Marry, 

sir. 
That  virtue's  well-nigh  left  him  —  all  the 

juice 
That   was   so    sharp    and    poignant,    is 

squeezed  out; 
While  the  poor  rind,  although  as  sour  as 

ever, 
Must  season  soon  the  draff  we  give  our 

grunters, 
For  two-legged  things  are  weary  on't. 
The  Chamberlain,  a  Comedy. 

CHAP.  VII. 
Things  needful  we  have  thought  on;   but 

the  thing 
Of  all  most  needful — that  which  Scrip- 
ture terms. 
As  if  alone  it  merited  regard. 
The  ONE  thing  needful — that's  yet  un- 
considered. 

The  Chamberlain. 

CHAP.  VIII. 

Ay!  mark  the  matron  well;    and  laugh 

not,  Harry, 
At  her  old  steeple-hat  and  velvet  guard. 
I've  call'd  her  like  the  ear  of  Dionysius; 
I   mean  that   ear-form'd  vault,  buill   on 

his  dungeon 
To   catch   the  groan    and   discontented 

murmurs 
Of  his  poor  bondsmen.  —  Even  so  doth 

Martha 
Drink  up,  for  her  own  purpose,  all  that 

passes. 
Or  is  supposed  to  pass,  in  this  wide  city  — 
She  can  retail  it  too,  if  that  her  profit 
Shall  call  on  her  to  do  so;  and  retail  it 
For  your   advantage,  so   that   you   can 

make 
Your  profit  jump  with  hers. 

The  Conspiracy. 


5IO 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


CHAP.  XII. 

. This  is  the  very  barnyard, 

Where  muster  daily  the  prime  cocks  o' 

the  game, 
Ruffle  their   pinions,  crow  till  they  are 

hoarse, 
And  spar  alx)ut  a  barleycorn.     Here,  too, 

chickens. 
The  callow,  unfledged  brood  of  forward 

folly. 
Learn  first  to  rear  the  crest,  and  aim  the 

spur. 
And   tune    their    note    like    full-plumed 

Chanticleer. 

The  Bear  Garden. 

CHAP.  XIII. 

Let  the  proud  salmon  gorge  the  feathered 

hook. 
Then  strike,  and  then  you  have  him.  — 

He  will  wince; 
Spin  out  your  line  that  it  shall  whistle 

from  you 
Some  twenty  yards  or  so,  yet  you  shall 

have  him  — 
Marry!   you  must  have  patience. — The 

stout  rock 
Which  is  his  trust,  hath  edges  something 

sharp; 
And  the  deep  pool  hath  ooze  and  sludge 

enough 
To  mar  your  fishing  —  'less  you  are  more 

careful. 

Albion,  or  the  Double  Kings. 

CHAP.  XIV. 
Bingo,  why,  Bingo  !   hey,  boy,  —  here, 

sir,  here  — 
He's  gone  and  off,  but  he'll  be   home 

before  us;  — 
'Tis  the  most  wayward  cur  e'er  mumbled 

bone. 
Or  dogged  a  master's  footsteps. — Bingo 

loves  me 
Better    than     beggar     ever     loved     his 

alms; 
Yet  when  he  takes  such  humor,  you  may 

coax 
Sweet  Mistress  Fantasy,  your  worship's 

mistress. 
Out  of  her  sullen  moods,  as  soon  as  Bingo. 
The  Dominie  and  his  Dog. 


CHAP.  XV. 

'Twas  when  fleet  Snowball's  head  was 
woxen  gray, 

A  luckless  leveret  met  him  on  his  way,  — 

Who  knows  not  Snowball  —  he  whose 
race  renowned 

Is  still  victorious  on  each  coursing  ground  ? 

Swaffham,  Newmarket,  and  the  Roman 
camp 

Have  seen  them  victors  o'er  each  meaner 
stamp.  — 

In  vain  the  youngling  sought  with  doub- 
ling wile 

The  hedge,  the  hill,  the  thicket,  or  the 
stile. 

Experience  sage  the  lack  of  speed  sup- 
plied, 

•\nd  in  the  gap  he  sought,  the  victim  died, 

•So  was  I  once,  in  thy  fair  street.  Saint 
James, 

Through  walking  cavaliers,  and  car-borne 
dames, 

Descried,  pursued,  turned  o'er  again  and 
o'er, 

Coursed,  coted,  mouthed  by  an  unfeeling 
bore. 

Etc.,  etc.,  etc. 

CHAP.    XVI. 
Give  way  —  give  way  —  I  must  and  will 

have  justice  ! 
And  tell  me  not  of  privilege  and  place; 
Where  I  am  injured,  there  I'll  sue  redress. 
Look  to  it,  every  one  who  bars  my  access; 
I  have  a  heart  to  feel  the  injury, 
A  hand  to  right  myself,  and,  by  my  honor. 
That  hand  shall  grasp  what  gray-beard 

Law  denies  me. 

The  Chamberlain. 

CHAP.  XVII. 

Come  hither,  young  one  —  Mark  me  I 
Thou  art  now 

'Mongst  men  o'  the  sword,  that  live  by 
reputation 

More  than  by  constant  income.  —  Single- 
suited 

They  are,  I  grant  you;  yet  each  single 
suit 

Maintains,  on  the  rough  guess,  a  thousand 
followers  — 

And  they  be  men,  who, hazarding  their  all, 


MOTTOES  FROM  '^TIIE   FORTUNES   OF  NIGEL.' 


S'l 


Needful  apparel,  necessary  income, 
And  human  body,  and  immortal  soul, 
Do  in  the  very  deed  but  hazard  nothing  — 
So  strictly  is  that  all  bound  in  reversion; 
Clothes   to   the    broker,  income  to  the 

ursurer, — 
And  body  to  disease,  and  soul  to  the  foul 

fiend; 
Who  laughs  to  see  soldadoes  and  foola- 

does. 
Play  better  than  himself  his  game  on  earth. 
7 'he  Mohocks. 

CHAP.    XIX. 

By  this  good  light,  a  wench  of  matchless 
mettle  ! 

This  were  a  leaguer-lass  to  love  a  soldier, 

To  bind  his  wounds,  and  kiss  his  bloody 
brow, 

And  sing  a  roundel  as  she  help'd  to  arm 
him, 

Though  the  rough  foeman's  drums  were 
beat  so  nigh. 

They  seem'd  to  bear  the  burden. 

Old  Play. 
CHAP.    XX. 

Credit  me,  friend,  it  hath  been  ever  thus, 

Since  the  ark  rested  on  Mt.  Ararat,  — 

False  men  hath  sworn,  and  woman  hath 
believed. 

Repented,  and  reproach'd,  and  then  be- 
lieved once  more. 

The  New  World. 

CHAP.  XXI. 
Rove  not  from  pole  to  pole;    the  man 

lives  here 
Whose  razor's  edge's  only  equal'd  by  his 

beer; 
And  where  in  either  sense  the  Cockney- 
put 
May,  if  he  pleases,  get  confounded  cut. 
On  the  Sign  of  an  Ale-House 
kept  by  a  Barber. 

CHAP.  XXII. 
Chance  will  not  do  the  work. —  Chance 

sends  the  breeze; 
But  if  the  pilot  slumlx;r  at  the  helm, 
The  very  wind  that  wafts  us  towards  the 

port 


May  dash  us  on  the  shelves.  —  The  steers- 
man's part  is  vigilance. 
Blow  it  or  rough  or  smooth. 

Old  Play. 
CHAP.    XXIII. 
SwASH-BUCKLEK.  Bilboe's  the  word. 
Pierrot.   It    hath    been    spoke    too 
often, 
The  spell  hath  lost  its  charm; — I  tell 

thee,  friend, 
The   meanest  cur  that  walks  the  streets 

will  turn  ' 

And  snarl  against  your  proffer'd  basti- 
nado. 
Swash-buckler.  Tis  art  shall  do  it, 
then.     I  will  dose  the  mongrels. 
Or  in  plain  terms,  I'll  use   the  private 

knife 
'Stead  of  the  brandish'd  falchion. 

Old  Play. 
CHAP.    XXIV. 
This  is  the  time — heaven's  maiden-sen- 
tinel 
Hath  quitted  her  high  watch  —  the  lesser 

spangles 
Are    paling   one   by  one;  give   me   the 

ladder 
And  the  short  lever  ; — bid  Anthony 
Keep  with  his  carabine  the  wicket-gate; 
And  do  thou  bare  thy  knife  and  follow  me, 
For  we  will  in  and  do  it.     Darkness  like 

this 
Is  dawning  of  our  fortunes. 

Old  Play. 

CHAP.    XXV. 

Death  finds   us   mid   our   playthings  — 

snatches  us, 
As  a  cross  nurse  nriight  do  a  wayward 

child, 
From   all   our   toys   and   baubles.     His 

rough  call 
Unlooses  all  our  favorite  ties  on  earth; 
And  well  if  they  are  such  as  may  be  an- 

swer'd 
In  yonder  world,  where  all  is  judged  of 

truly. 

Old  Play. 

CHAP.   XXVI. 
Give  us  good  voyage,  gentle  stream  — 

we  stun  not 
Thy  sober  ear  with  sounds  of  revelry; 


512 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Wake  not  the  slumbering  echoes  of  thy 

banks 
With  voice  of  flute  and  horn;  — we  do 

not  seek 
On  the  broad  pathway  of  thy  swelling 

bosom 
To  glide  in  silent  safety. 

The  Double  Bridal, 

CHAP.   XXVII. 

This  way  lie  safety  and  a  sure  retreat, 

Yonder  lie  danger,  shame,  and  punish- 
ment. 

Most  welcome  danger,  then.  Nay,  let 
me  say, 

Tho'  spoke  with  swelling  heart,  —  wel- 
come e'en  shame, 

And  welcome  punishment;  for,  call  me 
guilty, 

I  do  but  pay  the  tax  that's  due  to  justice; 

And  call  me  guiltless,  then  that  punish- 
ment 

Is  shame  to  those  alone  who  do  inflict  it. 
The  Tribunal. 

CHAP.   XXIX. 
How  fares  the  man  on  whom  good  men 

would  look 
With  eyes  where  scorn  and  censure  com- 
bated, 
But  that  kind  Christian  love  hath  taught 

the  lesson  — 
That  they  who  merit  most  contempt  and 

hate, 
Do  most  deserve  our  pity. 

Old  Play. 
CHAP.   XXXI. 
Marry,  come  up,  sir,  with  your  gentle 

blood ! 
Here's  a  red  stream  beneath  his  coarse 

blue  doublet, 
That  warms   the   heart  as  kindly  as  if 

drawn 
From  the  far  source  of  old  Assyrian  kings, 
Who  first  made  mankind  subject  to  their 

sway. 

Old  Play. 

CHAP.   XXXV. 

We  are  not  worse  at  once  —  the  course 

of  evil 
Begins  so  slowly,  and  from  such  slight 

source. 


An  infant's  hand  might  stem  its  breacli 
with  clay; 

But  let  the  stream  get  deeper,  and  phi- 
losophy — 

Ay,  and  religion  too  —  shall  strive  in  vain 

To  turn  the  headlong  torrent. 

Old  Play. 


THE   BANNATYNE   CLUB.* 

1823. 

I. 

Assist  me,  ye  friends  of  Old  Books  and 

Old  Wine, 
To  sing  in  the  praises  of  sage  Bannatyne, 
Who  left  such  a  treasure  of  old  Scottish  lore 
As  enables  each  age  to  print  one  volume 
more. 
One  volume  more,  my  friends,  one  vol- 
ume more. 
We'll  ransack  old  Banny  for  one  vol- 
ume more. 

II. 
And  first,  Allan  Ramsay  was  eager  toglean 
From    Bannatyne's    Horlus    his    bright 

Evergreen; 
Two  light  littlevolumes(intendedforfour) 
Still  leave  us  the  task  to  print  one  volume' 
more. 

One  volume  more,  etc. 


His  ways  were  not  ours,  for  he  cared  not 

a  pin 
How  much  he  left  out,  or  how  much  he 

put  in; 
The  truth  of  the  reading  he  thought  was 

a  bore. 
So  this  accurate  age  calls  for  one  volume 

more. 

One  volume  more,  etc. 


Correct   and   sagacious,   then   came  my 

Lord  Hailes, 
And  weigh'd  every  letter  in  critical  scales, 

*  This  Club  was  founded  in  1822  for  the  pub- 
lication or  reprint  of  rare  and  curious  works  con- 
nected with  the  history  and  antiquities  of  Scotland. 
Sir  Walter  Scott  was  its  first  president,  and  wrote 
these  verses  for  the  anniversary  dinner  of  March, 
1823. 


MOTTOES   FROM  '' PEVERIL    OF   THE   PEAK:' 


513 


But  left  out  some  brief  words,  which  the 

prudish  alihor, 
And  castrated  Banny  in  one  volume  more. 
One    volume    more,   my   friends,   one 

volume  more. 
We'll  restore  Banny's  manhood  in  one 
volume  more. 

V. 
John  Pinkerton  next,  and  I'm  truly  con- 
cern'd 
I   can't    call    that   worthy  so  candid    as 

learnM; 
He  rail^l  at  the  plaid  and  blasphemed  the 

Claymore, 
And  set  Scots  by  the  ears  in  his  one  vol- 
ume more. 
One   volume    more,    my   friends,   one 

volume  more, 
Kelt  and  Cloth  shall  be  pleased  with 
one  volume  more. 


As  bitter  as  gall,  and  as  sharp  as  a  razor. 
And  feeding  on  herbs  as  a  Nebuchad- 
nezzar ; 
His  diet  too  acid,  his  temper  too  sour. 
Little  Ritson  came  out  with  his  two  vol- 
umes more. 
But  one  volume  more,  my  friends,  one 

volume  more. 
We'll  dine  on  roast  beef  and  print  one 
volume  more. 

VII. 

The  stout  Gothic  yeditur  next  on  the  roll. 
With  his  beard  like  a  brush  and  as  black 

as  a  coal, 
And  honest  Graysteel  that  was  true  to 

the  core,* 
Lent  their  hearts,  and  their  hands  each 

to  one  volume  more. 

One  volume  more,  etc. 

VIII. 

Since  by  these   single  champions  what 

wonders  were  done, 
What  may  not  be  achieved  by  our  Thirty 

and  One; 

*  "The  stout  Gothic  yeditur"  was  James 
Sibbold  ;  the  nickname  was  bestowed  upon  him 
by  Lord  Eldin,  then  Mr.  John  Clerk.  David 
Herd,  editor  of  "  Songs  and  Historical  Ballads, 
was  called  Graysteel  from  having  been  long  in 
unsuccessful  quest  of  the  romance  of  that  name. 


Law,  Gospel,  and  Commerce  we  count 

in  our  corps, 
And  the  Trade  and  the  Press  join  for  one 

volume  more. 

One  volume  more,  etc. 

IX. 

Ancient  liliels  and  contraband  books  I 

assure  ye. 
We'll  print  as  secure  from  Exchequer  or 

Jury; 
Then  hear  your  Committee  and  let  them 

count  o'er 
The   Chiels   they  intend  in  their  three 

volumes  more. 

Three  volumes  more,  etc. 


They'll   produce    you   King    Jamie   the 

sapient  and  Sext, 
And  the  Rob  of  Dumblane  and  her  Bishops 

come  next; 
One  tome  miscellaneous  they'll  add  to 

your  store, 
Resolving  next  year  to  print  four  volumes 

more. 
Four  volumes  more,  my  friends,  four 

volumes  more; 
Pay  down  your  subscriptions  for  four 

volumes  more. 


MOTTOES. 

FROM  "  PEVERIL  OF  THE  PEAK." 

1823. 

CHAP.  II. 

Why,  then,  we  will  have  liellowing  of 

beeves. 
Broaching    of    barrels,    brandishing    of 

spigots; 
Blood  shall  flow  freely,  but  it  shall  be  gore 
Of  herds  and  flocks,  and  venison  and 

poultry, 
Join'd  to  the  brave  heart's-blood  of  John- 

a-Barley-corn ! 

Old  Play. 

CHAP.  HI. 
Here's    neither   want   of    appetite    nor 

mouths; 
Pray  Heaven  we  be  not  scant  of  meat  or 
mirth ! 

Old  Play. 


514 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


CHAP.  IV. 

No,  sir,  —  I  will  not  pledge  ; — I'm  one 

of  those 
Who  think  good  wine  needs  neither  bush 

nor  preface 
To  make  it  welcome.     If  you  doubt  my 

word, 
Fill  the  quart-cup,  and  see  if  I  will  choke 

on't. 

Old  Play. 

CHAP.    VK 

You  shall  have  no  worse  prison  than  my 

chamber, 
Nor  jailer  than  myself. 

The  Captain. 

CHAP.    IX. 
Bkssus.   'Tis  a  challenge,  Sir,  is  it  not  ? 
Gentleman.   'Tis  an  inviting  to  the 
field. 

King  and  No  King. 

CHAP.  XVI. 

ASCASTO.  Can  she  not  speak? 
Oswald.  If  speech  be  only  in  accented 

sounds. 
Framed   by    the    tongue    and    lips,    the 

maiden's  dumb; 
But  if  by  quick  and  apprehensive  look, 
By  motion,   sign,    and   glance,    to   give 

each  meaning, 
Express  as  clothed  in  language,  be  term'd 

speech. 
She  hath  that  wondrous  faculty;    for  her 

eyes, 
Like    the    bright    stars   of    heaven,    can 

hold  discourse. 
Though  it  be  mute  and  soundless. 

Old  Play. 

CHAP.  XVII. 

This  is  a  love  meeting?     See,  the  maiden 

mourns. 
And  the  sad  suitor   bends  his  looks  on 

earth. 
There's  more  hath  pass'd  between  them 

than  belongs 
To  Love's  sweet  sorrows. 

Old  Play. 

CHAP.   XIX. 

Now,  hoist  the  anchor,  mates,   and  let 
the  sails 


Give   their  broad  bosom  to  the  buxom 

wind, 
Like  lass  that  wooes  a  lover. 

Anonymous. 

CHAP.    XXII. 
He  was  a  fellow  in  a  peasant's  garb; 
Yet  one  could  censure  you  a  woodcock's 

carving 
Like  any  courtier  at  the  ordinary. 

The  Ordinary. 
CHAP.    XXIII. 
The  Gordon  theri  his  bugle  blew,* 

And  said :  —  "  Awa,  awa  ! 
The  Mouse  of  Rhodes  is  all  on  flame, 
I  hauld  it  time  to  ga' !  " 

Old  Ballad. 

CHAP.   XXIV. 

\Vc  meet,  as  men  see  phantoms  in  a  dream, 
Which  glide  and  sigh,  and  sign,  and  move 

their  lips. 
But  make  no  sound;  or,  if  they  utter  voice, 
'Tis  but  a  low  and  undistinguished  moan- 

inR. 
Which  has  nor  word  nor  sense  of  uttered 
sound. 

The  Chieftain. 

CHAP.  XXV. 

The  course  of  human  life  is  changeful  still. 
As  is  the  fickle  wind  and  wandering  rill; 
Or,  like  the  light  dance  which  the  wild 

breeze  weaves 
Amidst  the  faded  race  of  fallen  leaves; 
Which  now  its  breath  bears  down,  now 

tosses  high. 
Beats  to  the  earth,  or  wafts  to  middle  sky. 
Such,  and  so  varied,  the  precarious  play 
Of  fate  with  man,  frail  tenant  of  a  day. 
Anonymous. 

CHAP.   XXVI. 

Necessity  —  thou  best  of  peacemakers. 
As  well  as  surest  prompter  of  invention  — 
Help  us  to  composition  ! 

Anonymous. 

CHAP.  XXVII. 

This  is  some  creature  of  the  elements 

Most  like  your  sea-gull.     He  can  wheel 

and  whistle 
His  screaming  song,  e'en  when  the  storm 

is  loudest. 


COUNTY  GUY. 


515 


Take  for  his  sheeted  couch  the  restless 

foam 
Of  the  wild  wave-crest,  slumber  in  the 

calm, 
And  dally  with  the  storm.     Yet  'tis  a  gull, 
An  arrant  gull,  with  all  this. 

The  Chieftain. 

CHAP.   XXXI. 

I  fear  the  devil  worst  when  gown  and 

cassock, 
Or,  in  the  lack  of  them,  old  Calvin's  cloak. 
Conceals  his  cloven  hoof. 

Anonymous. 

CHAP,  xxxni. 
'Tis  the  black  ban-dog  of  our  jail.     Pray 

look  on  him. 
Hut  at  a  wary  distance;  rouse  him  not; 
Me  bays  not  till  he  worries. 

The  Black  Dog  of  Nev.igate. 

CHAP,  xxxvni. 
"Speak   not    of    nicencss  when    there's 

chance  of  wreck," 
The  captain  said,  as  ladies  writhed  their 

neck 
To  see  the  dying  dolphin  flap  the  deck; 
"  If  we  go  down,  on  us  these  gentry  sup; 
We  dine  upon  them,  if  we  haul  them  up. 
Wise  men  applaud  us  when  we  eat  the 

eaters, 
As  the  devil  laughs  when  the  keen  folks 

cheat  the  cheaters." 

The  Sea  Voyage. 

CHAP.  XLIV. 

And  some  for  safety  took  the   dreadful 

leap; 
Some  for  the  voice  of  Heaven  seemed 

calling  on  them; 
Some    for   advancement,  or   for   lucre's 

sake  — 
I  leaped  in  frolic.  The  Dream. 

CHAP.   XLV. 

High  feasting  was  there  there — the  gilded 

roofs 
Rung  to  the  wassail-health  —  the  dancer's 

step 
Sprung  to  the  chord  responsive  —  the  gay 

gamester 
To  fate's  disposal  flung  his  heap  of  gold, 


And  laughed  alike  when  it  increased  or 

lessened; 
Such   virtue   hath  court-air   to  teach  us 

patience 
Which  schoolmen  preach  in  vain. 

Why  come  ye  not  to  Court? 


COUNTY   GUY. 
1823. 
Ah  !  County  Guy,  the  hour  is  nigh, 

The  sun  has  left  the  lea, 
The  orange  flower  perfumes  the  bower. 

The  breeze  is  on  the  sea. 
The  lark,  his  lay  who  thrill'd  all  day, 

Sits  hush'd  his  partner  nigh; 
Breeze,  bird,  and  flower,  confess  the  hout, 

But  where  is  County  Guy? 

The  village  maid  steals  thro'  the  shade, 

Her  shepherd's  suit  to  hear; 
To  beauty  shy,  by  lattice  high, 

Sings  high-born  Cavalier. 
The  star  of  Love,  all  stars  above. 

Now  reigns  o'er  earth  and  sky; 
And  high  and  low  the  influence  know  — 

But  where  is  County  Guy? 

Quentin  Durward,  chap,  iv 


PARAPHRASE   FROM  "ORLANDO 

FURIOSO." 

1823. 

SoMK  better  bard  shall  sing  in  feudal  state 

How  Braquemonl's  Castle  oped  its  Gothic 

gate. 
When  on  the  wandering  Scot  its  lovely 

heir 
Bestow'd  her  beauty  and  an  earldom  fair. 

Quentin  Dunoard,  chap,  xxxvii. 


MOTTOES. 

FROM    "QUENTIN    DURWARD." 
CHAP.  III. 

Full  in  the  midst  a  mighty  pile  arose. 
Where   iron-grated   gates  their  strength 
oppose 


5i6 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


To  each  invading  step,  and  strongand  steep 

The  battled  walls  arose,  the  fosse  sunk 
deep. 

Slow  round  the  fortress  rolled  the  slug- 
gish stream, 

And  high  in  middle  air  the  warder's  tur- 
rets gleam. 

Anonymous. 

CHAP.  VII. 
yustice  of  Peace.     Here,  hand  me  down 

the  statute  —  read  the  articles  — 
Swear,  kiss  the  lx>ok  —  subscribe,  and  be 

a  hero; 

Drawing  a  portion  from  the  public  stock 

For  deeds  of  valor  to  be  done  hereafter  — 

Sixpence  per  day,  subsistence  and  arrears. 

The  Recruiting  Officer. 

CHAP.  XI. 

Painters  show  Cupid  blind  ^  Hath  Hy- 
men eyes? 

Or  is  his  sight  warped  by  those  spectacles 

Which  parents,  guardians,  and  advisers 
lend  him. 

That  he  may  look  through  them  on  lands 
and  mansions. 

On  jewels,  gold,  and  all  such  rich  dota- 
tions, 

And  see  their  value  ten  times  magnified  ? — 

Methinks  'twill  brook  a  question. 
The  Miseries  of  Enforced  Marriage. 

CHAP.  XII 
This  is  a  lecturer  so  skill'd  in  policy, 
That  (no  disparagement  to  Satan's  cun- 
ning) 
He  well  might  read  a  lesson  to  the  devil. 
And  teach  the  old  seducer  new  tempta- 
tions. 

Old  Play. 

CHAP.  XIV. 

I  see  thee  yet,  fair  France  —  thou  favor'd 
land 

Of  art  and  nature — thou  art  still  beforeme: 

Thy  sons,  to  whom  their  labor  is  a  sport. 

So  well  thy  grateful  soil  returns  its  tribute ; 

Thy  sun-burnt  daughters,  with  their  laugh- 
ing eyes 

And    glossy   raven-locks.     But,    favor'd 
France, 

Thou  hast  had  many  a  tale  of  woe  to  tell. 

In  ancient  times  as  now. 

Anonymous. 


CHAP.  XV. 
He  was  a  son  of  Egypt,  as  he  told  me, 
And  one    descended    from   those  dread 

magicians, 
Who  waged  rash  war,  when  Israel  dwelt 

in  Goshen, 
With  Israel  and  her  Prophet  —  matching 

rod 
With  his  the  sons  of   Levi's — and  en- 
countering 
Jehovah's  miracles  with  incantations. 
Till  upon  Egypt  came  the  avenging  Angel- 
And   those   proud  sages  wept   for  their 

first-born. 
As  wept  the  unlettered  peasant. 

Anonymous. 
CHAP.   XVI. 
I  am  as  free  as  Nature  first  made  man. 
Ere  the  base  laws  of  servitude  began. 
When  wild  in  woods  the  noble  savage 
ran. 

The  Conquest  of  Granada.* 

CHAP.    XXIV. 

Rescue  or  none,  Sir  Knight,  I  am  your 
captive ; 

Deal  with  me  what  your  nobleness  sug- 
gests— 

Thinking  the  chance  of  war  may  one  day 
place  you 

Where  I  must  now  be  reckon 'd  —  i'  the  roll 

Of  melancholy  prisoners. 

Anonymous. 

CHAP.  XXV. 
No  human  quality  is  so  well  wove 
In  warp  and  woof,  but  there's  some  flaw 

in  it; 
I've  known  a  brave  man  fly  a  shepherd's 

cur, 
A  wise  man  so  demean  him,  drivelling 

idiocy 
Had  well-nigh  been  ashamed  on't.     For 

your  crafty, 
Your  worldly-wise  man,he,above  the  rest, 
Weaves  his  own  snares  so  fine,  he's  often 

caught  in  them. 

Old  Play. 

*  It  will  be  remembered  that  when  Scott  was 
about  fifteen  he  wrote  a  poem  in  four  books,  en- 
titled, "  The  Conquest  of  Granada,"  but  immedi- 
ately burned  it.  The  lines  may  be  a  reminis- 
cence of  the  lost  poem. 


MOTTOES  FROM  "ST.  ROMAN'S    WELL." 


517 


CHAP.  XXVI. 

When    Princes    meet,    astrologers    may 

mark  it 
An  ominous  conjunction,  full  of  boding. 
Like  that  of  Mars  with  Saturn. 

Old  Play. 

CHAP.  XXIX. 
Thy  time  is  not  yet  out  —  the  devil  thou 

servest 
Has  not  as  yet  deserted  thee.     He  aids 
The  friends  who  drudge  for  him,  as  the 

blind  man 
Was  aided  by  the  guide,  who  lent  his 

shoulder 
O'er  rough  and  smooth,  until  he  reach'd 

the  brink 
Of  the  fell  precipice  —  then  hurl'd  him 

downward. 

Old  Play. 

CHAP.  XXX. 

Our  counsels  waver  like  the  unsteady  bark. 
That  reels  amid  the  strife  of  meeting  cur- 
rents. 

Old  Play. 

CHAP.  XXXI. 

Hold   fast   thy   truth,   young  soldier.  — 
Gentle  maiden, 

Keep  you  your  promise   plight  —  leave 
age  its  subtleties, 

And  gray-hair'd  policy  its  maze  of  false- 
hood; 

But  be  you  candid  as  the  morning  sky, 

Ere  the  high  sun  sucks  vapors  up  to  stain 
it. 

The  Trial. 


MOITOES. 

FROM   "  ST.    RONAN'S   WELL." 

1823. 

CHAP.  III. 

There  must  be  government  in  all  society : 

Bees  have   their   Queen,  and  stag-herds 
have  their  leader; 

Rome  had  her  consuls,  Athens  had  her 
archons, 

And  we,  sir,  have  our  Managing  Com- 
mittee. 

The  Album  of  St.  Ronan's. 


CHAP.  IX. 

We  meet  as  shadows  in  the  land  of  dreams 
Which  speak  not  but  in  signs. 

Anonymotts. 

CHAP.  X. 
Come,  let  me  have   thy  counsel,  for  I 

need  it; 
Thou  art  of  those,  who  better  help  their 

friends 
With  sage  advice,  than  usurers  with  gold. 
Or  brawlers  with  their  swords  —  I'll  trust 

to  thee. 
For  I  ask  only  from  thee  words,  not  deeds. 
The  Devil  halh  met  his  Match. 

CHAP.  XI. 

Nearest  of  blood  should  still  be  next  in 
love  ; 

And  when  I  see  these  happy  children 
playing. 

While  William  gathers  flowers  for  Ellen's 
ringlets. 

And  Ellen  dresses  flies  for  William's  angle, 

I  scarce  can  think,  that  in  advancing  life. 

Coldness,   unkindness,   interest,   or   sus- 
picion, 

Will  e'er  divide  that  unity  so  sacred, 

Which  Nature  bound  at  birth. 

Anonymotu. 

CHAP.    XXIII. 

Oh  !  you  would  be  a  vestal  maid,  I  war- 
rant. 
The  bride  of  Heaven  —Come  — we  may 

shake  your  purpose: 
For  here  I  bring  in  hand  a  jolly  suitor 
Hath  ta'en  degrees  :n  the  seven  sciences 
The  ladies  love  best  —  He  is  young  and 

noble. 
Handsome  and  valiant,  gay  and  rich,  and 

liberal. 

The  Nun. 

CHAP.  XXXII. 

It  comes  —  it  wrings  me  in  my  parting 

hour. 
The  long-hid  crime— the  well-disguised 

guilt. 
Bring  me  some  lioly  priest  to  lay  tbe 

'^'■''^'  Old  Play. 


5«8 


MISCELLAXEOCS   POEMS. 


CHAP.    XXXIII. 

On  the  lee-bcam  lies  the  land,  boys, 
See  all  clear  to  reef  each  course; 

Let  the  fore-sheet  go,  don't  mind,  boys, 
Though  the  weatlier  should  be  worse. 
The  Storm. 

CHAP.  XXXVIII. 

What  sheeted  ghost  is  wandering  through 

the  storm? 
For  never  did  a  maid  of  middle  earth 
Choose  such  a  time  or  spot  to  vent  her 

sorrows. 

Old  Play. 

CHAP.    XXXIX. 

Here  come  we  to  our  close  —  for  that 
which  follows 

Is  but  the  tale  of  dull,  unvaried  misery. 

Steep  crags  and  headlong  linns  may  court 
the  pencil 

Like  sudden  haps,  dark  plots,  and  strange 
adventures; 

But  who  would  paint  the  dull  and  fog- 
wrapt  moor, 

In  its  long  tract  of  sterile  desolation? 
Old  Play. 

EPILOGUE. 

TO  THE  DRAMA  FOUNDED  ON  "  ST.  RONAN'S 
WELL." 

1824. 

"  After  the  play,  the  following  humorous 
address  (ascribed  to  an  eminent  literary  char- 
acter) was  spoken  with  infinite  effect  by  Mr. 
Mackay  in  the  character  of  Meg  DotJS."  — 
Edittburgh  Weekly  J attrtud,  ythjunc,  1S24. 

Enter  Meg  Dods,  encircled  l>y  a  crcnod 
of  unruly  hoys,  -whom  a  Torwti's  Offi- 
cer is  driving  off. 

That's  right,  friend  — drive  the  gaitlings 

back, 
And  lend  yon  muckle  ane  a  whack ; 
Your  Embro'  bairns  are  grown  a  pack 

Sae  proud  and  saucy, 
They  scarce  will  let  an  auld  wife  walk 

Upon  your  causey. 

I've  seen  the  day  they  would  been  scaur'd 
Wi'  the  Tolbooth,  or  wi'  the  Guard, 
Or  maybe  wud  hae  some  regard 

For  Jamie  Laing  *  — 

*  James  I^ing,  head  of  the  Edinburgh  PoHce 
at  that  time,  and  a  constant  terror  to  evil-doers. 


The  Water-hole  t  was  right  well  wared 
On  sic  a  gang. 

But  whar's  the  gude  Tolbooth  t  gane  now  ? 
Whar's  theauld  Claught,§wi'redandblue? 
Whar's  Jamie  Laing?  and  whar's  John 
Doo?ll 

And  whar's  the  Weigh-house  ? 
Deil  hae't  I  see  but  what  is  new. 

Except  ihe  Playhouse. 

Yoursells  are  changed  frae  head  to  heel; 
There's  some  that  gar  the  causeway  reel 
With  clashing  hufe  and  rattling  wheel. 

And  horses  cantcrin', 
Wha's  fathers  daunder'd  hanie  as  weel 

Wi'  lass  and  lantern. 

Mysell  l>eing  in  the  public  line, 

I  look  for  howfs  I  kcnn'd  lang  syne, 

Whar  gentles  used  to  drink  gude  wine. 

And  eat  cheap  dinners; 
But  deil  a  soul  gangs  there  to  dine. 

Of  saunts  or  sinners  ! 

Fortune's  IT  and  Hunter's  gane,  alas! 
And  Bayle's  is  lost  in  empty  space; 
And  now,  if  folk  would  splice  a  brace, 

Or  crack  a  bottle, 
They  gang  to  a  new-fangled  place 

They  ca'  a  Hottle. 

The  deevil  hottle  them  for  Meg. 
They  are  sae  greedy  and  sae  gleg. 
That  if  ye're  served  but  wi'  an  egg, 

(And  that's  puir  pickin',) 
In  comes  a  chiel,  and  makes  a  leg, 

And  charges  chicken ! 

"And  wha  may  ye  be,"  gin  ye  speer, 
"That   brings  your   auld-warld   clavers 

here !  ' ' 
Troth,  if  there's  onylx)dy  near 

That  kens  the  roads, 
I'll  haud  ye  Burgundy  to  beer, 

He  kens  Meg  Dods. 

t  Watcli-hole. 

X  The  Tolbooth  was  the  great  Edinburgh  Jail, 
pulled  down  in  1817. 

§  The  Claught  was  the  old  Town  Guard. 

II  John  Doo,  or  Dbu,  one  of  the  Guard  or 
Police. 

T  Fortune's,  Hunter's,  and  Bayls's  were  li.\ 
eras. 


COIVLEV'S  CATCH  AMPLIFIED. 


519 


I  came  a  piece  frac  west  o'  Currie; 
And,  since  I  see  you're  in  a  hurry, 
Your  patience  I'll  nae  langer  worry. 

But  be  sae  crouse 
As  speak  a  word  for  ane  Will  Murray, 

That  keeps  this  house.* 

Plays  are  auld-fashion'd  things  in  truth. 
And  ye've  seen  wonders  mair  uncouth; 
Yet  actors  shouldna  suffer  drouth. 

Or  want  of  dramock. 
Although  they  speak  but  wi'  their  mouth. 

Not  with  their  staniock. 

But  ye  take  care  of  a'  folk's  pantry; 
And  surely  to  hae  stooden  sentry 
Ower  this  big  house  (that's  far  frae  rent 
free). 

For  a  lone  sister. 
Is  claim  as  gude's  to  be  a  ventri  t  — 
How'st  ca'd —  loquister. 

Wee],  sirs,  gude-e'en,  and  have  a  care 
The     bairns     make     fun    o'    Meg    nae 

mair; 
For  gin  they  do,  she  tells  you  fair. 

And  without  failzie. 
As  sure  as  ever  ye  sit  there. 

She'll  tell  the  Bailie. 


COWLEY'S   CATCH  AMPLIFIED. 

1824. 
For  all  our  men  were  very  very  merry. 

And  all  our  men  were  drinking; 
There  were  two  men  of  mine. 
Three  men  of  thine. 
And  three  that  belong'd  to  old  Sir  Thorn 
o'  Lyne;  — 

As  they  went  to  the  ferry 
They  were  very  very  merry, 

And  all  our  men  were  drinking. 

Jack  look'd  at  the  sun  and  cried  "  Fire ! 

fire  !  fire  !  " 
Tom   startled  his    Keffel    in    Birkendale 

mire; 

•  The  Edinburgh  Theatre. 
\  An  allusion  to  the  recent  performances  of 
Alexandre,  the  ventriloquist. 


Jem  started  a  calf  andhalloo'd  for  a  stag; 
Will  mounted  a  gate-port  instead  of  his 
nag;  — 

For  all  of  our  men  were  very  very  merry, 
And  all  our  men  were  drinking; 

There  were  three  men  of  mine. 
Three  men  of  thine. 
And  three  that  belong'd  to  old  Sir  Thorn 
o'  Lyne;  — 

As  they  went  to  the  ferry 
They  were  very  very  merry. 
For  all  our  men  were  drinking. 

Red  Gauntlet,  Letter  x. 


CONSOLATION. 
1824. 
As  lords  their  laborers'  hire  delay. 

Fate  quits  our  toil  with  hopes  to  come. 
Which,  if  far  short  of  present  pay, 
.Still  owns  a  debt  and  names  a  sum. 

Quit  not  the  pledge,  frail  sufferer,  then. 
Although  a  distant  date  be  given; 

Despair  is  treason  towards  man. 
And  blasphemy  to  Heaven. 

Redgauntlet,  chap.  ix. 


TO  J.   G.    LOCKHART,    ESQ. 

ON   THE   COMPOSITION   OF   MAIDA'S 
EPITAPH. 

1824. 

"  Maidx  Marmorea  dorniis  sub  imagine  Maida ! 
Ad  i.viuam  domini  sit  tibi  terra  levis. 

See  Li/e  of  Scott. 

"  Dear  John,  —  I  some  time  ago  wrote 
to  inform  his 

Fat  Worship  o\  jafes,  misprinted  for  dor- 
mis  ; 

But  that  several  Southrons  assured  me 

Was  a  twitch  to  Iwth  ears  of  Ass  Pris- 

cian's  cranium. 
You,    perhaps,    m.iy   oliserve    that    one 

Lionel  Bcrguer, 
In   defence   of   our   blunder   appears   a 

stout  arguer; 


520 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


But  at  length  I  have  settled,  I  hope,  all 

these  clatters. 
By  a  rowt  in  the  papers  —  fine  place  for 

such  matters. 
I   have,  therefore,  to  make  it   for  once 

my  command,  sir, 
That  my  [judeson  shall   leave  the  whole 

thing  in  my  hand,  sir. 
And  by  no  means  accomplish  what  James 

says  you  threaten, 
Some  banter  in  Blackwood  to  claim  your 

dog- Latin. 
I  have  various  reasons  of  weight,  on  my 

word,  sir. 
For  pronouncing  a  step  of  this  sort  were 

absurd,  sir.^ — - 
Firstly,   erudite  sir,   'twas    against    your 

advising 
I  adopted  the  lines  this  monstrosity  lies  in; 
For   you    modestly    hinted    my    English 

translation 
Would  become  better  far  such  a  digni- 
fied station. 
Second  —  how,  in  God's  name,  would  my 

bacon  be  saved. 
By  not  having  writ  what    I   clearly  en- 
graved ? 
On  the  contrary,  I,  on  the  whole,  think 

it  better 
To    be  whipped    as    the   thief,  than   his 

lousy  resetter. 
Thirdly  —  don't    you     perceive    that    I 

don't  care  a  boodle, 
Although  fifty  false  metres  were  flung  at 

my  noodle. 
For  my  back  is  as  broad  and  as  hard  as 

Benlomon's, 
And  I  treat  as  I  please  both  the  Greeks 

and  the  Romans; 
Whereas  the  said  heathens  might  rather 

look  serious 
At  a  kick  on  their  drum  from  the  scribe 

of  Vakrius. 
And,  fourthly  and  lastly  —  it  is  my  good 

pleasure 
To  1  ;main  the  sole  source  of   that  mur- 
derous measure. 
So  sM pro  rafiflue  7/oluntas  —  be  tractile. 
Invade  not,  I  say,  my  own  dear  little  dactyl, 
If  you    do,  you'll  occasion   a  breach  in 

our  intercourse. 
To-morrow  will  see  me  in  town  for  the 

winter-course, 


But  not  at  your  door,  at  the  usual  hour, sir, 
My  own  pye-house  daughter's  good  prog 

to  devour,  sir. 
Ergo  —  peace  !  —  on   your    duty,    your 

squeamishness  throttle. 
And  we'll  soothe  Priscian's  spleen  with 

a  canny  third  bottle. 
A  fig  for  all  dactyls,  a  fig  for  all  spondees, 
A  fig  for  all  dunces  and  dominie  Grundys; 
A   fig    for   dry  thrapples,    south,   north, 

east,  and  west,  sir, 
Speates  and  raxes*  ere  five  for  a  famish- 
ing guest,  sir; 
And  as  Fatsman  t  and  I  have  some  topics 

for  haver,  he'll 
Be    invited,    I    hope,    to    meet    me    and 

Dame  Peveril, 
Upon  whom,  to  say  nothing  of  Oury  and 

Anne,  you  a 
Dog  shall  be  deemed  if  you  fasten  your 

yatina. 


LINES. 


ADDRESSED   TO 

MONSIEUR   ALEXANDRE,  t 

THE    CELEBRATED   VENTRILOQUIST. 
1824. 

Of   yore,    in   old    England,  it  was    not 

thought  good 
To  carry  two  visages  under  one  hood; 
What  should  folk  say  Xo  you '^  who  have 

faces  such  plenty. 
That  from  under  one  hood  you  last  night 

show'd  us  twenty ! 
Stand  forth,  arch  deceiver,  and  tell  us  in 

truth. 
Are  you  handsome  or  ugly,  in  age  or  in 

youth ! 

*  See  Scott's  Essays. 

t  A  nickname  for  James  Ballantynt. 

X  "  When  Monsieur  Alexandre,  the  cele- 
brated ventriloquist,  was  in  Scotland,  in  1824, 
he  paid  a  visit  to  Abbotsford,  where  he  enter- 
tained his  distinguished  host  and  the  other 
visitors  with  his  unrivalled  imitations.  Next 
moniing,  when  he  was  about  to  depart,  Sir 
Walter  felt  a  good  deal  embarrassed  as  to  the 
sort  of  acknowledgment  he  should  offer;  but  at 
length,  resolving  that  it  would  probably  be  most 
agreeable  to  the  young  foreigner  to  be  p.iid  in 
professional  coin,  if  in  any,  he  stepped  aside  for 
a  few  minutes,  and,  on  returning,  presented  him 
wuh  this  epigram."  The  lines  were  published 
in  the  Edinburgh  Annual  Register  for  1824. 


LIFE    OF  NAPOLEON. 


521 


Man,  woman,  or  child — a  dog  or  a  mouse  ? 
Or  are  you  at  once,  each  live  thing  in 

the  house? 
Each  live  thing  did  I  ask  ?  —  each  dead 

implement,  too, 
A   workshop    in    your    person,  —  saw, 

.     chisel,  and  screw  ! 
Above  all,  are  you   one  individual?     I 

know 
You  must  be  at  least  Alexandre  and  Co. 
But  I  think  you're  a  troop  —  an  assem- 
blage —  a  mob. 
And  that  I,  as  the  Sheriff,  should  take 

up  the  job; 
And  instead  of  rehearsing  your  wonders 

in  verse, 
Must  read  you  the  Riot  Act,  and  bid  you 

disperse. 


LIFE   OF  NAPOLEON. 

June,  1825. 

"  The  rapid  accumulation  of  books  and  MSS. 
for  the  life  of  Napoleon  was  at  once  flattering 
and  alarming;  and  one  of  his  notes  to  me,  about 
the  middle  of  June,  had  these  rhymes  by  way  of 
postscript :  —  " 

When  with  Poetry  dealing 
Room  enough  in  a  shieling; 
Neither  cabin  nor  hovel 
Too  small  for  a  novel : 
Tho'  my  back  I  should  rub 
On  Diogenes'  tub, 
How  my  fancy  could  prance 
In  a  dance  of  romance  ! 
But  my  house  I  must  swap 
With  some  Brobdignag  chap. 
Ere  I   grappe,  God  bless  me !  with  Em- 
peror Nap. 

Lockhart's  Life  of  Scott. 


SOLDIER,   WAKE. 
1825. 


Soldier,  wake  —  the  day  is  peeping, 
Honor  ne'er  was  won  in  sleeping, 
Never  when  the  sunbeams  still 
Lay  unreflected  on  the  hill : 
'Tis  when  they  are  glinted  back 
From  ax  and  armor,  spear  and  jack, 


That  they  promise  future  story 
Many  a  page  of  deathless  glory. 
Shields  that  are  the  foeman's  terror. 
Ever  are  the  morning's  mirror. 


Arm  and  up  —  the  morning  beam 
Hath  call'd  the  rustic  to  his  team, 
Hath  call'd  the  falconer  to  the  lake, 
Hath  call'd  the  huntsman  to  the  brake; 
The  early  student  ponders  o'er 
His  dusty  tomes  of  ancient  lore. 
Soldier,  wake  —  thy  harvest,  fame ; 
Thy  study,  conquest;  war,  thy  game. 
Shield,  that  would  be  foeman's  terror. 
Still  should  gleam  the  morning's  mirror. 


Poor  hire  repays  the  rustic's  pain; 
More  paltry  still  the  sportsman's  gain; 
Vainest  of  all,  the  student's  theme 
Ends  in  some  metaphysic  dream : 
Yet  each  is  up,  and  each  has  toil'd 
Since  .irst  the  peep  of  dawn  has  smiled; 
And  each  is  eagerer  in  his  aim 
Than  he  who  barters  life  for  fame. 
Up,  up,  and  arm  thee,  son  of  terror ! 
Be    thy    bright    shield    the     morning's 
mirror. 

The  Betrothed,  chap.  xiv. 


SONGS  FROM  "THE  BETROTHED. 
THE  TRUTH  OF  WOMAN. 
1825. 
I. 
Woman's  faith,  and  woman's  trust  — 
Write  the  characters  in  dust; 
Stamp  them  on  the  ruiming  stream. 
Print  them  on  the  moon's  pale  beam. 
And  each  evanescent  letter 
Shall  be  clearer,  firmer,  better. 
And  more  permanent,  I  ween. 
Than  the  thing  those  letters  mean. 


I  have  strain'd  the  spider's  thread 
'Gainst  the  promise  of  a  maid; 
I  have  weigh'd  a  grain  of  sand 
'Gainst  her  plight  of  heart  and  hand; 


522 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


I  told  my  true  love  of  the  token. 

How  her  faith  proved  liyht,  and  her  word 

was  broken : 
Again  her  word  and  truth  she  plight, 
And  I  believed  them  again  ere  night. 
The  Betrothed,  chap.  xx. 


A  WELSH    LAY. 

1825. 

I  asked  of  my  harp,  "  Who  hath  injured 

thy  cords?" 
And  she  replied,  "The  crooked   finger, 

which  I  mocked  in  my  tune." 
A   blade    of   silver    may   be   bended  —  a 

blade  of  steel  abideth  — 
Kindness    fadeth    away,   but    vengeance 

endureth. 

The  sweet  taste  of  mead   passelh  from 

the  lips. 
But  they  are  long  corroded  by  the  juice 

of  wormwood : 
The  lamb  is  brought  to  the  shamljles,  but 

the  wolf  rangeth  the  mountain; 
Kindness    fadeth    away,    but   vengeance 

endureth. 

I  asked  the  red-hot  iron,  when  it  glim- 
mered on  the  anvil, 

"  Wherefore  glowest  thou  longer  than 
the  fire-brand?  "  — 

"  I  was  born  in  the  dark  mine,  and  the 
brand  in  the  pleasant  greenwood." 

Kindness  fadeth  away,  but  vengeance 
endureth. 

I  asked  the  green  oak  of  the  assembly, 
"  Wherefore  its  lioughs  were  dry  and 
seared  like  the  horns  of  the  stag?  " 

And  it  showed  me  that  a  small  worm  had 
gnawed  its  roots. 

The  boy  who  remembered  the  scourge, 
undid  the  wicket  of  the  castle  at  mid- 
night. 

Kindness  fadeth  away,  but  vengeance 
endureth. 

Lightningdestroyeth  temples,  though  their 
spires  pierce  the  clouds; 


Storms    destroy    armadas,    though    their 

sails  intercept  the  gale. 
He  that  is  in  his  glory  falleth,  and  that 

by  a  contemptible  enemy. 
Kindness    fadeth    away,    but    vengeance 

endureth. 

The  Betrothed,  chap,  xxxi.  . 


MOTTOES. 

FROM    "THE    BETROTHED." 
CHAP.  II. 

In  Madoc's  tent  the  clarion  sounds, 
With  rapid  clangor  hurried  far; 

Each  hill  and  dale  the  note  rebounds. 
But  when  return  the  sons  of  war  ! 

Thou,  lx)rn  of  stern  Necessity, 

Dull  Peace  !  the  valley  yields  to  thee, 
And  owns  thy  melancholy  sway. 

Welsh  Poem. 

CHAP.  VII. 

O,  sadly  shines  the  morning  sun 

On  leagur'd  castle  wall. 
When  Ijastion,  tower,  and  battlement, 

Seem  nodding  to  their  fall. 

Old  Ballad. 

CHAP.  XII. 

Now  all  ye  ladies  of  fair  Scotland, 

And    ladies    of    England    that    happy 
would  prove. 
Marry  never  for  houses,  nor  marry  for  land, 
Nor  marry  for  nothing  but  only  love. 
Family  Quarrels. 

CHAP.  XIII. 

Too  much  rest  is  rust. 

There's  ever  cheer  in  changing; 
We  tyne  by  too  much  trust. 

So  we'll  be  up  and  ranging. 

Old  Song. 

CHAP.  XVII. 

Ring  out  the  merry  bell,  the  bride  ap- 
proaches; 

The  blush  upon  her  cheek  has  shamed 
the  morning. 

For  that  is  dawning  palely.  Grant,  good 
saints, 

These  clouds  betoken  naught  of  evil  omen  ! 
Old  Play. 


AHRIMAN. 


523 


CHAP.    XX. 

The  king  call'd  down  his  merry  men  all 

By  one  and  by  two  and  three; 
Earl  Marshal  was  wont  to  be  the  foremost 
one. 
But  the  hindermost  man  was  he. 

Old  Ballad. 


CHAP.  XXVU. 


Gentle  sir, 


Julia. 

You  are  our  captive  —  but  we'll  use  you  so, 
That  you  shall  think  your  prison  joys  may 

match 
Whate'er    your    liberty   hath    known    of 
pleasure. 
Roderick.     No,  fairest,  we  have  trifled 
here  too  long; 
And,  lingering  to  see  your  roses  blossom, 
I've  let  my  laurels  wither. 

Old  Play. 

CHAP.    XXXI. 

Ohj  fear  not,  fear  not,  good  Lord  '^ohn, 

That  I  would  you  Ix-'lray, 
Or  sue  requital  for  a  debt. 

Which  Nature  cannot  pay. 

Bear  witness,  ail  ye  sacred  powers. 

Ye  lights  that  'gin  to  shine 
This  night  shall  prove  the  sacred  tie 

That  binds  your  faith  and  mine. 


AHRIMAN. 
1825. 
Dark  Ahriman,  whom  Irak  still 
Holds  origin  of  woe  and  ill ! 

When  bending  at  thy  shrine, 
We  view  the  world  with  troubled  eye, 
Where  see  we  'neath  the  extended  sky, 
An  empire  matching  thine? 

If  the  Benigner  Power  can  yield 
A  fountain  in  the  desert  field. 

Where  weary  pilgrims  drink; 
Thine  are  the  waves  that  lash  the  rock. 
Thine  the  tornado's  deadly  shock, 

Where  countless  navies  sink  ! 

Or,  if  He  bid  the  soil  dispense 
Balsams  to  cheer  the  sinking  sense, 
How  few  can  they  deliver 


From  lingermg  pains,  01  pang  intense. 
Red  Fever,  spotted  Pestilence, 
The  arrows  of  thy  quiver ! 

Chief  in  Man's  bosom  sits  thy  sway. 
And  frequent,  while  in  words  we  pray 

Before  another  throne, 
Whate'er  of  specious  form  be  there, 
The  secret  meaning  of  the  prayer 

Is,  Ahriman,  thine  own. 

Say,  hast  thou  feeling,  sense,  and  form. 
Thunder  thy  voice,  thy  garments  storm. 

As  Eastern  Magi  say; 
With  sentient  soul  of  hate  and  wrath. 
And  wings  to  sweep  thy  deadly  path, 

And  fangs  to  tear  thy  prey? 

Or  art  thou  mixt  in  Nature's  source. 
An  ever  operating  force. 

Converting  good  to  ill; 
An  evil  principle  innate 
Contending  with  our  better  fate, 

And,  oh  !  victorious  still  ? 

Howe'er  it  be,  dispute  is  vain. 

On  all  without  thou  hold'st  thy  reign, 

Nor  less  on  all  within; 
Each  mortal  passion's  fierce  career. 
Love,  hate,  ambition,  joy,  and  fear. 

Thou  goadest  into  sin. 

Whene'er  a  sunny  gleam  appears. 
To  brighten  up  our  vale  of  tears, 

Thou  art  not  distant  far; 
Mid  such  brief  solace  of  our  lives, 
Thou  whett'st  our  very  banquet -knives 

To  tools  of  death  and  war.  — 

Thus,  from  the  moment  of  our  birth. 
Long  as  we  linger  on  the  earth. 

Thou  rul'st  the  fate  of  men; 
Thine  are  the  pangs  of  life's  last  hour. 
And  —  who  dare  answer  ?  —  is  thy  power. 

Dark  Spirit !  ended  Then? 

The  Talisman,  chap.  iii. 


TO  THE   ARCH-DUKE  OF  AUSTRIA. 

1825. 

What  brave  chief  shall  head  the  forces, 

Where  the  red-cross  legions  gather? 


524 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Best  of  horsemen,  best  of  horses, 
Highest  head  and  fairest  feather. 

Hoch  lebe  Herzog  I^eopold ! 

Ask  not  Austria  why  mid  princes 
Still  her  banner  rises  highest; 

Ask  as  well  the  strong-wing'd  eagle 
Why  to  heaven  he  soars  the  nighest ! 
The  Talisman,  chap.  xi. 


SONG  OF  BLONDEL. -THE   BLOODY 
VEST. 

1825. 

'TvvAS  near  the  fair  city  of  Benevent, 
When  the  sun  was  setting  on  bough  and 

bent, 
And  knights  were  preparing  in  bower  and 

tent. 
On  the  eve  of  the  Baptist's  tournament; 
When  in  Lincoln  green  a  stripling  gent. 
Well  seeming  a  page  by  a  princess  sent, 
Wander'd  the  camp,  and,  still  as  he  went. 
Enquired  for  the  Englishman,  Thomas  a 

Kent. 

Far  hath  he  fared,  and  farther  must  fare. 
Till  he  finds  his  pavilion  nor  stately  nor 

rare,  — 
Little  save  iron  and  steel  was  there; 
And,  as  lacking  the  coin  to  pay  armorer's 

care, 
With  his  sinewy  arms  to  the  shoulders 

bare. 
The  good  knight  -.vith  hammer  and  file 

did  repair 
The  mail  that  to-morrow  must  see  him 

wear, 
]  or  the  honor  of  Saint  John  and  his  lady 

fair. 

"  Thus  speaks  my  lady,"  the  page  said  he, 
And  the  knight  bent  lowly  both  head  and 

knee, 
"She  is  Benevent's  Princess  so  high  in 

degree. 
And  thou  art   as  lowly  as  knight  may 

well  be  — 
He  that  would  climb  so  lofty  a  tree. 
Or  spring  such  a  gulf  as  divides  her  from 

thee, 


Must  dare  some  high  deed,  by  which  all 

men  may  see 
His  ambition  is  back'd  by  his  high  chi- 

valrie. 

"Therefore  thus  speaks  my  lady,"  the 
fair  page  he  said. 

And  the  knight  lowly  louted  with  hand 
and  with  head, 

"  Fling  aside  the  good  armor  in  which 
thou  art  clad. 

And  don  thou  this  weed  of  her  night- 
gear  instead, 

For  a  hauberk  of  steel,  a  kirtle  of 
thread : 

And  charge,  thus  attired,  in  the  tourna- 
ment dread. 

And  fight  as  thy  wont  is  where  most  blood ' 
is  shed. 

And  bring  honor  away,  or  remain  with 
the  dead." 

Untroubled  in  his  look,  and  untroubled 
in  his  breast. 

The  knight  the  weed  hath  taken,  and 
reverently  hath  kiss'd; 

"  Now  blest  be  the  moment,  the  mes- 
senger be  blest ! 

Much  honor'd  do  I  hold  me  in  my  lady's 
high  behest; 

And  say  unto  my  lady,  in  this  dear  night- 
weed  drest, 

To  the  best  arm'd  champion  I  will  not 
vail  my  crest; 

But  if  I  live  and  bear  me  well  'tis  her 
turn  to  take  the  test." 

Here,  gentles,  ends  the  foremost  fytte  of 
the  Lay  of  the  bloody  Vest. 

FYTTE    SECOND. 

The  Baptist's  fair  morrow  beheld  gallant 

feats  — • 
There  was  winning  of  honor,  and  losing 

of  seats  — 
There  was    hewing  with    falchions,  and 

splintering  of  staves. 
The   victors   won   glory,  the  vanquish'd 

won  graves. 
O,  many  a  knight  there  fought  bravely 

and  well. 
Yet    one    was    accounted     his     peers  to 

excel; 


THE   SONG    OF  BLONDE L. 


52s 


And  'twas  he  whose  sole  armor  on  body 

and  breast, 
Seem'd  the  weed  of  a  damsel  when  boune 

for  her  rest. 

There  were  some  dealt  him  wounds  that 

were  bloody  and  sore, 
But  others  respected  his  plight,  and  for- 
bore. 
"  It  is  some  oath  of  honor,"  they  said, 

"  and  I  trow 
'Twere  unknightly  to  slay  him  achieving 

his  vow." 
Then  the  Prince,  for  his  sake,  bade  the 

tournament  cease. 
He  flung  down  his  warder,  the  trumpets 

sung  peace; 
And  the  judges  declare,  and  competitors 

yield, 
That  the  Knight  of  the  Night-gear  was 

first  in  the  field. 

The  feast  it  was  nigh,  and  the  mass  it 

was  nigher, 
When  before  the  fair  Princess  low  loutod 

a  squire, 
And    deliver'd   a  garment    unseemly   to 

view, 
With    sword-cut    and    spear-thrust,    all 

hack'd  and  pierced  through; 
All  rent  and  all  tatter'd,  all  clotted  with 

blood. 
With  foam  of  the  horses,  with  dust,  and 

with  mud. 
Not  the  point  of  that  lady's  small  finger, 

I  ween. 
Could  have  rested  on  spot  was  unsullied 

and  clean. 

*  This  token  my  master.  Sir  Thomas  a 

Kent, 
Restores  to  the  Princess  of  fair  Benevent. 
He  that  climbs  the  tall  tree  has  won  right 

to  the  fruit, 
He  that  leaps  the  wide  gulf  should  pre- 
vail in  his  suit; 
Thro'  life's  utmost  peril  the  prize  I  have 

won. 
And  now  must  the  faith  of  my  mistress 

be  shown: 
For  she   who   prompts    knight   on  such 

danger  to  run, 
Much  avouch  his  true  service  in  front  of 

the  sun. 


"  '  I  restore,'  says  my  master,  '  the  gar- 
ment I've  worn, 

And  I  claim  of  the  Princess  to  don  it  in 
turn; 

For  its  stains  and  its  rents  she  should 
prize  it  the  more. 

Since  by  shame  'tis  unsullied,  tho'  crim- 
son'd  with  gore.'  " 

Then  deep  blush'd  the  Princess  —  yet 
kiss'd  she  and  prest 

The  blood-spotted  robe  to  her  lips  and 
her  breast. 

"Go  tell  my  true  knight,  church  and 
chamber  shall  show. 

If  I  value  the  blood  on  this  garment  or 
no.  " 

And  when  it  was  lime  for  the  nobles  to 

pass 
In  solemn  procession  to  minster  and  mass. 
The  first  walk'd  the  Princess  in  purple 

and  pall. 
But  the  blood-besmear'd  night-robe  she 

wore  over  all ; 
And  eke,  in  the  hall,  where  they  all  sat 

at  dine. 
When  she  knelt  to  her  father  and  prof- 

fer'd  the  wine. 
Over  all  her  rich  robes  and  state  jewels 

she  wore. 
That   wimple  unseemly   bedabbled  with 

gore. 

Then  lords  whisper'd  ladies,  as  well  you 

may  think. 
And  ladies  replied,  with  nod,  titter,  and 

wink; 
And  the  Prince,  who  in  anger  and  shame 

had  look'd  down, 
Turn'd  at   length  to  his  daughter,  and 

spoke  with  a  frown:  — 
"Now  since  thou  hast  publish'd  thy  folly 

and  guilt. 
E'en  atone  with  thy  hand  for  the  blood 

thou  has  spilt : 
Yet  sore  for  thy  boldness  you  both  will 

repent. 
When    you  wander   as  exiles    from    fair 

Benevent." 

Then  out   spoke   stout  Thomas,  in  hall 

where  he  stood. 
Exhausted  and  feeble,  but  dauntless  of 

mood :  — 


526 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


"  The  Vilood  that  I  lost  for  this  daughter 
of  thine, 

I  pour'd  forth  as  freely  as  flask  gives  its 
wine; 

And  if  for  my  sake  she  brooks  penance 
and  blame. 

Do  not  doubt  I  will  save  her  from  suffer- 
ing and  shame; 

And  light  will  she  reck  of  thy  princedom 
and  rent. 

When  I  hail  her,  in  England,  the  Countess 
of  Kent." 

The  Talisman,  chap.  xxvi. 


MOTTOES. 

FROM    "  THE    TALISMAN." 
CHAP.   VI. 

Now  change  the  scene  and  let  the  trum- 
pets sound, 
For  we  must  rouse  the  lion  from  his  lair. 
Old  Play. 

CHAP.   IX. 

This  is  the   Prince  of   Leeches;    fever, 

plague. 
Cold  rheum,  and  hot  podagra,  do  but  look 

on  him. 
And  quit  their  grasp  upon  the  tortured 

sinews. 

Ationymous. 

CHAP.  XIII. 

You  talk  of  Gayety  and  Innocence ! 

The   moment   when   the    fatal    fruit    was 
eaten. 

They  parted   ne'er  to  meet  again;   and 
Malice 

Mas  ever   since  been  playmate   to  light 
Gayety, 

From  the  first  moment  when  the  smiling 
infant 

Destroys  the  flower  or  butterfly  he  toys 
with. 

To  the  last  chuckle  of  the  dying  miser. 

Who  on  his  deathbed  laughs  his  last  to  hear 

His  wealthy  neighbor  hasljecome  a  bank- 
rupt. 

Old  Play. 

CHAP.  XVI. 

'Tis  not  her  sense  —  for  sure,  in  that 
There's  nothing  more  than  common; 


And  all  her  wit  is  only  chat. 
Like  any  other  woman. 


Song. 


CHAP.  XVII. 

Were  every  hair  upon  his  head  a  life. 
And  every  life  were  to  be  supplicated 
By  numbers  equal  to  those  hairs  quad- 
rupled. 
Life  after  life  should  out  like  waning  stars 
Before  the  daybreak  — or  as  festive  lamps, 
Which  have  lent  lustre  to  the  midnight 

revel, 
E^ch  after  each  are  quench'd  when  guests 
depart. 

Old  Play. 

CHAP.   XIX. 

Must  we  then  sheath  our  still  victorious 

sword; 
Turn  back  our  forward  step  which  ever 

trode 
O'er  foemen's  necks  the  onward  path  of 

glory; 
Unclasp  the  mail,  which  with  a  solemn 

vow, 
In  God's  own  house  we  hung  upon  our 

shoulders; 
That    vow,    as    unaccomplish'd    as    the 

promise 
Which  village  nurses  make  to  still  their 

children. 
And  after  think  no  more  of?  — 

The  Crusade,  a  Tragedy. 

CHAP.  XX. 

When  beauty  leads  the  lion  in  her  toils. 
Such  are  her  charms,  he  dare  not  raise  his 

mane, 
Far  less  expand  the  terror  of  his  fangs. 
So  great  Alcides  made  his  club  a  distaff, 
And  spun  to  please  fair  Omphale. 

Anonymous. 

CHAP.   XXIII. 

Mid    these    wild    scenes    Enchantment 

waves  her  hand. 
To  change  the  face  of  the  mysterious  land, 
Till  the  bewildering  scenes  around  us  seem 
The  vain  productions  of  a  feverish  dream. 
Astolpho,  a  Romance. 

CHAP.   XXIV. 

A  grain  of  dust 

Soiling  our  cup,  will  make  our  sense  reject 


OBEY   THE   DOOM. 


527 


Fastidiously  the  draught  which  we  did 
thirst  for; 

A  rusted  nail   placed   near  the  faithful 
compass, 

Will  sway  it  from  the  truth,  and  wreck 
the  argosy. 

Even  this  small  cause  of  anger  and  dis- 
gust 

Will  break  the  bonds  of  amity  'mongst 
princes, 

And  wreck  their  noblest  purposes. 

The  Crusade. 

CHAP.  XXVI. 
The  tears  I  shed  must  ever  fall ! 

I  weep  not  for  an  absent  swain, 
For  time  may  happier  hours  recall, 

And  parted  lovers  meet  again. 

I  weep  not  for  the  silent  dead, 

Their  pains  are  past,  their  sorrows  o'er. 

And  those  that  loved  their   steps   must 
tread 
When  death  shall  join  to  part  no  more. 

But  worse  than  absence,  worse  than  death. 
She  wept  her  lover's  sullied  fame. 

And,  fired  with  all  the  pride  of  birth. 
She  wept  a  soldier's  injured  name. 
Ballad.* 

OBEY  THE   DOOM. 
1826. 
By  pathless  march,  by  greenwood  tree. 
It  is  thy  weird  to  follow  me  — 
To  follow  me  thro'  the  ghastly  moon- 
light- 
To     fi)lIow    me    thro'    the    shadows    of 

night  — 
To    follow  me,  comrade,   still    art    thou 

bound : 
I     conjure     thee     by    the     unstanch'd 

wound  — 
I  conjure  thee  by  the  last  words  I  spoke, 
When  the  body  slept  and  the  spirit  awoke 
In    the   very  last    pangs   of    the    deadly 
stroke. 

Woodstock,  chap.  xiv. 

•  The  last  four  lines  of  this  ballad  were  writ- 
ten by  Scott ;  the  eight  preceding  are  from  "  The 
Song  of  Genius,"  by  Helen  D'Arcy  Cranstoun, 
afterwards  Mrs.  Dugaid  Stewart. 


GLEE   FOR   KING   CHARLES. 
1826. 
Bring  the  bowl  which  you  boast. 

Fill  it  up  to  the  brim; 
'Tis  to  him  we  love  most. 

And  to  all  who  love  him. 
Brave  gallants,  stand  up, 

And  avaunt,  ye  base  carles  ! 
Were  there  death  in  the  cup. 

Here's  a  health  to  King  Charles ! 

Tho'  he  wanders  thro'  dangers, 

Unaided,  unknown, 
Dependent  on  strangers, 

Estranged  from  his  own; 
Tho'  'tis  under  our  breath, 

Amidst  forfeits  and  perils, 
Here's  to  honor  and  faith. 

And  a  health  to  King  Charles ! 

Let  such  honors  abound 

As  the  time  can  afford, 
The  knee  on  the  ground, 

And  the  hand  on  the  sword; 
But  the  time  shall  come  round. 

When  mid  Lords,  Dukes,  and  Earls, 
The  loud  trumpets  shall  sound. 

Here's  a  health  to  King  Charles ! 

Woodstock,  chap.  xx. 


ONE  HOUR   WITH   THEE.t 
1826. 
An  hour  with  thee !  —  When  earliest  day 
Dapples  with  gold  the  eastern  gray, 
Oh,  what  can  frame  my  mind  to  Ijear 
The  toil  and  turmoil,  cark  and  care. 
New  griefs,  which  coming  hours  unfold, 
And  sad  remembrance  of  the  old  ? 

One  hour  with  thee  ! 

One  hour  with  thee  ! — When  burning  June 
Waves  his  red  flag  at  pitch  of  noon ; 
What  shall  repay  the  faithful  swain, 
His  labor  on  the  sultry  plain; 
And  more  than  cave  or  sheltering  bough. 
Cool  feverish  blood,  and  throbbing  brow  ? 
One  hour  with  thee  ! 

t  "  He  sung,  but  with  more  taste  than  execu- 
tion, tlie  air  of  a  French  rondelai,  to  which  some 
of  the  wits  or  sonnetteers  in  his  py  and  roving 
train  had  adapted  Kngiish  verses.  ' 


528 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


One  hour  with  thee  !  —  When  sun  is  set, 
O,  what  can  teach  me  to  forget 
The  thankless  labors  of  the  day; 
The  hopes,  the  wishes,  flung  away; 
The  increasing  wants  and  lessening  gains. 
The    master's    pride,    who    scorns    my 
pains  ? 

One  hour  with  thee ! 
Woodstock,  chap.  xxvi. 


WILDRAKE'S  TOAST. 
1826. 
Son  of  a  witch, 
Mayst  thou  die  in  a  ditch 

With    the   butchers  who   backed   thy 
quarrels; 
And  rot  above  ground. 
While  the  world  shall  resound 

A  welcome  to  Royal  King  Charles. 
Woodstock,  chap.  xxx. 


MOTTOES. 

FROM    "WOODSTOCK." 
CHAP.    II. 

Come  forth, old  man — Thy  daughter's  side 

Is  now  the  fitting  place  for  thee; 
When  timehathquel  I'd  the oak'sboldpride, 
The  youthful  tendril  yet  may  hide 
The  ruins  of  the  parent  tree. 

CHAP.    IV. 

Yon  path  of  greensward 
Winds  round  by  sparry  grot  and  gay  pa- 
vilion : 
There  is  no  flint  to  gall  thy  tender  foot; 
There's  ready  shelter  from  each  breeze  or 

shower.  — 
But  Duty  guides  not  that  way  —  see  her 

stand. 
With  wand  entwined  with  amaranth,  near 

yon  cliffs. 
Oft  where  she  leads,  thy  blood  must  mark 

thy  footsteps. 
Oft  where  she  leads,  thy  head  must  bear 

the  storm. 
And  thy  shrunk  form  endure  heat,  cold, 

and  hunger; 
But   she   will  guide   thee  up  to  noble 

heights. 


Which  he  who  gains  seems  native  of  the 

sky. 
While  earthly  things  lie  stretch'd  beneath 

his  feet, 
Diminish'd,  shrunk,  and  valueless. 

Anonymous. 

CHAP.   V. 

My  tongue  pads  slowly  under  this  new 

language. 
And  starts  and  stumbles  at  these  uncouth 

phrases. 
They  may  be  great  in  worth  and  weight, 

but  hang 
Upon  the  native  glibness  of  my  language 
Like  Saul's  plate-armor  on  the  shepherd 

boy, 
Encumbering  and  not  arming  him. 

y.B. 

CHAP.    X. 

Here  we  have  one  head 
Upon  two  bodies  —  your  two-headed  bul- 
lock 
Is  but  an  ass  to  such  a  prodigy. 
These    two    have     but    one     meaning, 

thought,  and  counsel; 
And  when  the  single  noddle  has  spoke  out. 
The  four  legs  scrape  assent  to  it. 

Old  Play. 

CHAP.    XIV. 

Deeds  are  done  on  earth 
Which    have    their  punishment   ere    the 

earth  closes 
Upon  the  perpetrators.     Be  it  the  working 
Of  the  remorse-stirr'd  fancy,  or  the  vision. 
Distinct  and  real,  of  unearthly  being. 
All  ages  witness,  that  beside  the  couch 
Of  the  fell  homicide  oft  stalks  the  ghost 
Of  him  he  slew,  and  shows  the  shadowy 

wound. 

Old  Play. 

CHAP.    XVII. 

We  do  that  in  our  zeal, 
Our  calmer  moments  are  afraid  to  answer. 
Anonymous. 

CHAP.    XXIV. 

The  deadliest  snakes  are  those  which 
twined  'mongst  flowers, 

Blend  their  bright  coloring  with  the  varied 
blossoms. 

Their  fierce  eyes  glittering  like  the  span- 
gled dewdrops. 


VERSES  FROM  SCOTT'S  JOURNAL. 


529 


In  allso  like  what  nature  has  niostharmless, 
That    sportive    inn<:>cence,  which  dreads 

no  danger, 
Is  poison' d  unawares. 

Old  Play. 

VERSES   FROM   SCOIT'S 
JOURNAL. 
1826. 
PARODY  ON    MOORE'S   "MINSTREL 
BOY." 
O  Land  of   Cakes!    said  the   Northern 
Bard, 
Tho'  all  the  world  lietrays  thee, 
One  faithful  pen  thy  rights  shall  guard, 
One  faithful  harp  shall  praise  thee. 


ON   HIS  PROCRASTINATION. 
Heighho, 
I  can't  say  no. 
But  this  piece  of   task -work    off    I  can 

stave,  O, 
For  Malachi's  *  posting  into  an  octavo; 
To  correct    the    proof   sheets  only  this 

night  I  have,  O, 
So,  Madame  Conscience,  you've  gotten 

as  good  as  you  gave,  0; 
But  to-morrow's  a  new  day,  and  we'll 

better  behave,  O, 
So  I  lay  down  the  pen,  and  your  pardon 

I  crave,  O. 

A  SWIFTIANISM. 
I  LOLL  in  my  chair. 
And  around  me  I  stare 
With  a  critical  air. 
Like  a  calf  at  a  fair; 
And,  say  I,  Mrs.  Duty, 
Good-morrow  to  your  beauty; 
I  kiss  your  sweet  shoe-tie. 
And  hope  I  can  suit  ye. 


ON  LEAVING  MRS.  BROWN'S  LODG- 
INGS. 
So  goodbye,  Mrs.  Brown, 
I  am  going  out  of  town. 
Over  dale,  over  down, 

*  The  "  Epistles  of  Malachi  Malagrowther, 
Esq.,"  for  writing  which  Scott  neglected  "  Wood- 
stock." 


Where  bugs  bite  not, 

Where  lodgers  fight  not, 

Where  below  you  chairmen  drink  not, 

Where  Ix-'side  you  gutters  stink  not; 

But  all  is  fresh  and  clean  and  gay, 

And  merry  lambkins  sport  and  play , 

And  they  toss  with  rakes  uncommonly 
short  hay. 

Which  looks  as  if  it  had  been  sown  only 
the  other  day. 

And  where  oats  are  at  twenty-five  shil- 
lings a  boll  they  say; 

But  all's  one  for  that,  since  I  must  and 
will  away. 

ON  A  DAY'S  STINT. 
And  long  ere  dinner-time  I  have 

F"ull  eight  close  pages  wrote. 
What,  Duty,  hast  thou  now  to  crave? 

Well  done.  Sir  Walter  Scott ! 


ON    HIS   SON'S  QUARTERS. 
LOUGHREA  is  a  blackguard  place. 

To  Gort  I  give  my  curse; 
Athlone  itself  is  bad  enough. 

But  Ballinrobe  is  worse. 
I  cannot  tell  which  is  the  worst. 

They're  all  so  very  bad; 
But  of  all  towns  I  ever  saw. 

Bad  luck  to  Kinnegad. 


ON 


A  PROVOCATION  FROM  JOSEPH 
HUME. 
I'm  not  a  King  nor  nae  sic  thing; 

My  word  it  may  not  stand; 
But  Joseph  may  a  buffet  bide. 

Come  he  beneath  my  brand. 


ON   HIGH    PRICES. 
And  so  'twill  be  when  I'am  gone. 
The  increasing  charge  will  still  go  on, 
And  other  bards  shall  climb  these  hills, 
And  curse  your  charge,  </<^'<jr  evening  bills  ! 


FAREWELL  TO  THE   OLD   YEAR. 
It's  useless  to  murmur  and  pout. 

There's  no  good  in  making  ado; 
'Tis  well  the  old  year  is  out, 

And  time  to  begin  a  new  ! 


530 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


MOTTO  FROM  "THE  HIGHLAND 

WIDOW." 

1827. 

CHAP.    II. 

O,  I'M  come  to  the  Low  Country, 

Och,  och,  ohonochie,  ' 
Without  a  iienny  in  my  pouch 

To  buy  a  meal  for  me. 
I  was  the  proudest  of  my  clan, 

Long,  long,  may  I  repine; 
And  Donald  was  the  liravest  man, 

And  Donald  he  was  mine. 

Old  Song. 

MOTTO   FROM    "THE  TWO 

DROVERS." 

1827. 

CHAP.    II. 

Were  ever  two  such  loving  friends !  — 

How  could  they  disagree? 
O  thus  it  was,  he  loved  him  dear, 

And  thought  how  to  requite  him; 
And  having  no  friend  left  but  he. 

He  did  resolve  to  fight  him. 

Duke  upon  Duke. 


VERSES  FROM  SCOTT'S 

JOURNAL. 

1827. 

ON   HIS  WORK. 

He   walk'd    and    wrought,    poor    soul! 

What  then? 
Why,  then  he  walk'd  and  wrought  again. 


AFTER  MORNING  VISITORS. 
I  GROW  vaporish  and  odd, 
And  would  not  do  the  least  right  thing. 
Neither  for  goddess  nor  for  god. 
Nor  paint  nor  jest  nor  laugh  nor  sing. 


THE   DEATH    OF   KEELDAR. 

These  stanzas  were  written  for  Hood's 
"Gem,"  1828,  and  accompanied  an  engraving 
from  Cooper's  painting  of  the  Death  of  Keeldar. 

Up  rose  the  sun  o'er  moor  and  mead; 
Up  with  the  sun  rose  Percy  Rede; 


Brave  Keeldar,  from  his  couples  freed, 

Career'd  along  the  lea; 
The  palfrey  sprung  with  sprightly  bound, 
As  if  to  match  the  gamesome  hound; 
His  horn  the  gallant  huntsman  wound: 

They  were  a  jovial  three ! 

Man,  hound,  or  horse,  of  higher  fame, 
To  wake  the  wild  deer  never  came. 
Since  Alnwick's  Earl  pursued  the  game 

On  Cheviot's  rueful  day; 
Keeldar  was  matchless  in  his  speed. 
Than  Tarras,  ne'er  was  stauncher  steed, 
A  peerless  archer,  Percy  Rede, 

And  right  dear  friends  were  they. 

The  chase  engross'd  their  joys  and  woes. 
Together  at  the  dawn  they  rose, 
Together  shared  the  noon's  repose. 

By  fountain  or  by  stream; 
And  oft,  when  evening  skies  were  red, 
The  heather  was  their  common  bed. 
Where  each,  as  wildering  fancy  led, 

Still  hunted  in  his  dream. 

Now  is  the  thrilling  moment  near, 
Of  sylvan  hope,  and  sylvan  fear, 
Yon  thicket  holds  the  harbor'd  deer, 

The  signs  the  hunters  know;  — 
With  eyes  of  flame,  and  quivering  ears, 
The  brake  sagacious  Keeldar  nears; 
The  restless  palfrey  paws  and  rears; 

The  archer  strings  his  bow. 

The  game's  afoot !  —  Halloo !  Halloo ! 
Hunter,  and  horse,  and  hound  pursue: — 
But  woe  the  shaft  that  erring  flew  — 

That  e'er  it  left  the  siring ! 
And  ill  betide  the  faithless  yew! 
The  stag  bounds  scathless  o'er  the  dew, 
And  gallant  Keeldar's  life-blood  true 

Has  drench'd  the  gray  goose  wing. 

The  noble  hound  —  he  dies,  he  dies, 
Death,  death  has  glazed  his  fixed  eyes, 
Stiff  on  the  bloody  heath  he  lies. 

Without  a  groan  or  quiver. 
Now  day  may  break  and  bugle  soimd, 
And  whoop  and  halloo  ring  around, 
And  o'er  his  couch  the  stag  may  bound. 

But  Keeldar  sleeps  forever. 


MOTTO  FROM  '^MY  AUNT  MARGARET'S  MIRROR."       531 


Dilated  nostrils,  staring  eyes, 

Mark  the  poor  palfrey's  mute  surprise. 

He  knows  not  that  his  comrade  dies, 

Nor  what  is  death  —  but  still 
His  aspect  hath  expression  drear 
Of  grief  and  wonder,  mix'd  with  fear, 
Like  startled  children  when  they  hear 

Some  mystic  tale  of  ill. 

But  he  that  bent  the  fatal  bow, 
Can  well  the  sun  of  evil  know, 
And  o'er  his  favorite,  bending  low. 

In  speechless  grief  recline; 
Can  think  he  hears  the  senseless  clay 
In  unreproachful  accents  say  :  — 
"  The  hand  that  took  my  life  away, 

Dear  master,  was  it  thine? 

"  And  if  it  be,  the  shaft  be  blest. 
Which  sure  some  erring  aim  addrest. 
Since  in  your  service  prized,  carest 

I  in  your  service  die; 
And  you  may  have  a  fleeter  hound. 
To  match  the  dun-deer's  merry  bound. 
But  by  your  couch  wilt  ne'er  be  found 

So  true  a  guard  as  I." 

And  to  his  last  stout  Percy  rued 
The  fatal  chance;  for  when  he  stood 
'Gainst  fearful  odds  in  deadly  feud, 

And  fell  amid  the  fray. 
E'en  with  his  dying  voice  he  cried, 
"  Had  Keeldar  but  been  at  my  side, 
Your  treacherous  ambush  had  been  spied, 

I  had  not  died  to-day !  ' ' 

Remembrance  of  the  erring  bow 

Long  since  had  joined  the  tideswhich  flow, 

Conveying  human  bliss  and  woe 

Down  dark  oblivion's  river; 
But  Art  can  Time's  stern  doom  arrest, 
And  snatch  his  spoil  from  Lethe's  breast. 
And,  in  her  Cooper's  colors  drest. 

The  scene  shall  live  forever. 


MOTTO   FROM  "MY  AUNT   MAR- 
GARET'S  MIRROR." 
1828. 
There  are  times 
When  Fancy  plays  her  gambols,  in  despite 
Even  of  our  watchful  senses,  when  in  sooth 
Substance  seems   shadow,  shadow  sub- 
stance seems. 


When  the  broad,  palpable,  and  mark'd 

partition, 
'Twixt  that  which  is  and  is  not,  seems 

dissolved. 
As  if    the  mental  eye  gain'd  power  to 

gaze 
Beyond  the  limits  of  the  existing  world. 
Such  hours  of  shadowy  dreams  I  better 

love 
Than  all  the  gross  realities  of  life. 

Anonymous. 

MOTTOES. 

FROM   "THE   FAIR   MAID   OF   PERTH." 

1828. 

CHAP.    I. 

"  Behold  the  Tiber !  "  the  vain  Roman 

cried. 
Viewing  the  ampleTay  from  Baiglie's  side; 
But    where's    the    Scot    that  would    the 

vaunt  repay. 
And  hail  the  puny  Tiber  for  the  Tay? 
Anonymous. 
CHAP.  vni. 
Within  the  bounds  of  Annandale, 

The  gentle  Johnstones  ride; 
They  have  been  there  a  thousand  years, 
A  thousand  more  they'll  bide. 

Old  Ballad. 
CHAP.  XI. 
Fair  is  the  damsel,  passing  fair, — 

Sunny  at  distance  gleams  her  smile; 
Approach  —  the  cloud  of  woeful  care 
Hangs  trembling  in  her  eye  the  while. 
Lucinda,  a  Ballad. 
CHAP.  XXXIU. 
The  hour  is  nigh:  now  hearts  beat  high; 

E^ch  sword  is  sharpened  well; 
And  who  dares  die,  who  stoops  to  fly. 
To-morrow's  light  shall  tell. 

Sir  Edwald. 


THE   LAY  OF   POOR  LOUISB. 
1828. 
Ah,  poor  Louise  !     The  livelong  day 
She  roams  from  cot  to  castle  gay; 
And  still  her  voice  and  viol  say. 
Ah,  maids,  beware  the  woodland  way, 
Think  on  Louise ' 


532 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Ah,  poor  Louise !     The  sun  was  high, 
It  smirch'd  her  check,  it  dimm'd  her  eye. 
The  woodland  walk  was  cool  and  nigh, 
Where  birds  with  chiming  streamlets  vie 
To  cheer  Louise. 

Ah,  poor  Louise !     The  savage  bear 
Made  ne'er  that  lovely  grove  his  lair; 
The  wolves  molest  not  paths  so  fair  — 
But  better  far  had  such  been  there 

For  poor  Louise. 

Ah,  poor  Louise !     In  woody  wold 
She  met  a  huntsman  fair  and  bold; 
His  baldric  was  of  silk  and  gold. 
And  many  a  witching  tale  he  told 

To  poor  Louise. 

Ah,  poor  Louise !     Small  cause  to  pine 
Hast  thou  for  treasures  of  the  mine; 
For  peace  of  mind,  that  gift  divine. 
And  spotless  innocence,  were  thine, 

Ah,  poor  Louise ! 

Ah,  poor  Louise!     Thy  treasure's  reft! 
I  know  not  if  by  force  or  theft. 
Or  part  by  violence,  part  by  gift; 
But  misery  is  all  that's  left 

To  poor  Louise. 

Let  poor  Louise  some  succor  have ! 
She  will  not  long  your  bounty  crave. 
Or  tire  the  gay  with  warning  stave  — 
For  Heaven  has  grace,  and  earth  a  grave 
For  poor  Louise. 
Fair  AI aid  of  Perth,  chap,  x. 


OLIVER  PROUDFUTE'S  GLEE. 
1828. 
My  dog  and  I  we  have  a  trick 
To  visit  maids  when  they  are  sick; 
When  they  are  sick  and  like  to  die, 
O  thither  do  come  my  dog  and  I ! 

And  when  I  die,  as  needs  must  hap, 
Then  bury  me  under  the  good  ale-tap; 
With  folded  hands  there  let  me  lie. 
Cheek  for  jowl,  my  dog  and  I. 

Fair  Maid  of  Perth,  chap.  xvi. 


CHANT   OVER  THE   DEAD. 
1828. 
Viewless  Essence,  thin  and  bare. 
Well-nigh  melted  into  air; 
Still  with  fondness  hovering  near 
The  earthly  form  thou  once  didst  wear. 

Pause  upon  thy  pinion's  flight, 
Be  thy  course  to  left  or  right; 
Be  thou  doom'd  to  soar  or  sink, 
Pause  upon  the  awful  brink. 

To  avenge  the  deed  expelling 
Thee  untimely  from  thy  dwelling, 
Mystic  force  thou  shalt  retain 
O'er  the  blood  and  o'er  the  brain. 

When  the  form  thou  shalt  espy 
That  darken'd  on  thy  closing  eye, 
When  the  footstep  thou  shalt  hear, 
That  thrill'd  upon  thy  dying  ear; 

Then  strange  sympathies  shall  wake, 
The   flesh   shall   thrill,  the   nerves   shall 

quake; 
The  wounds  renew  their  clotter'd  flood, 
And  every  drop  cry  blood  for  blood. 
F^air  Maid  of  Perth,  chap.  xxii. 


A  DIRGE. 
1828. 
Yes,  thou  mayst  sigh. 
And  look  once  more  at  all  around, 
At  stream  and  bank,  and  sky  and  ground. 
Thy  life  its  final  course  has  found. 
And  thou  must  die. 

Yes,  lay  thee  down, 
And  while  thy  struggling  pulses  flutter, 
Bid  the  gray  monk  his  soul  mass  mutter. 
And  the  deep  bell  its  death-tone  utter  — 

Thy  life  is  gone. 

Be  not  afraid. 
'Tis  but  a  pang,  and  then  a  thrill, 
A  fever  fit,  and  then  a  chill; 
And  then  an  end  of  human  ill. 

For  thou  art  dead. 
Fair  Maid  of  Perth,  chap.  xxx. 


VERSE  FROM  SCOTT'S  JOURNAL. 


533 


VERSE  FROM  SCOTT'S  JOURNAL. 
1828. 
ON  THE  COLNE. 
For  the  Colne 
Is  black  and  swollen. 

Snake-like  he  winds  his  way, 
Unlike  the  burns 
From  Highland  urns 

That  dance  by  crag  and  brae. 


GLENGARRY'S   DEATH-SONG.* 

1828. 
I^AND  of  the  Gael,  thy  glory  has  flown ! 
For  the  star  of  the  North  from  its  orbit 

is  thrown; 
Dark,  dark  is  thy  sorrow,  and  hopeless 

thy  pain. 
For  no  star  e'er  shall  beam  with  its  lustre 

again. 

Glengarry  —  Glengarry  is  gone  ever- 
more. 

Glengarry  —  Glengarry  we'll  ever  de- 
plore. 

O  tell  of  the  warrior  who  never  did  yield, 
O  tell  of  the  chief  who  was  falchion  and 

shield, 
O  think  of  the  patriot,  most  ardent  and 

kind; 
Then  sigh   for  Glengarry,  in   whom  all 

were  joined. 

The  chieftains  may  gather  —  the  com- 
batants call. 

One  champion  is  absent  —  that  champion 
was  all; 

The  bright;  eye  of  genius  and  valor  may 
flame, 

But  who  now  shall  light  it  to  honor  and 
fame. 

•  Miss  Macdonell  wrote  from 
"  Mavis  Bank,  Rothesay, 

on  the  l^th  of  April,  1893  :  — 

"  My  father  died  in  January,  1828,  and  my 
mother  came  to  Merchiston  Castle,  Edinburgh, 
where  she  lived  from  May,  1828,  to  May,  1830. 
It  was  there  I  first  saw  the  "  Death-Song,"  and 
was  told  by  mother  that  Sir  Walter  Scott  had 
written  it  and  sent  it  to  her.  I  believe  she  got  it 
soon  after  we  all  came  South  in  May  1S28,  and 
it  has  always  been  in  whatever  houses  we  lived 
tver  since 


lys 


See   the   light    bark    how   toss'd!   she's 

wreck 'd  on  the  wave  ! 
See  dauntless  Glengarry  on  the  verge  of 

the  grave ! 
See  his  leap  —  see  that  gash,  and  that  eye 

now  so  dim ! 
And  thy  heart  must  be  steel'd,  if  it  bleed 

not  for  him. 

Arise,  thou  young  branch  of  so  noble  a 

stem, 
Obscurity  marks  not  the  worth  of  a  gem; 
O  hear  the  last  wish  of  thy  father  for  thee : 
"  Be  all  to  thy  country.  Glengarry  should 

be." 

Why  sounds  the  loud  pibroch,  why  tolls 
the  death  bell. 

Why  crowd  our  bold  clansmen  to  Garry's 
green  vale? 

'Tis  to  mourn  for  their  chief  —  for  Glen- 
garry the  brave, 

Tis  to  tell  that  a  hero  is  laid  in  his  grave. 

O !  heard  ye  that  anthem,  slow,  pealing 

on  high ! 
The  shades  of  the  valiant  are  come  from 

the  sky, 
And  the  Genii  of  Gaejdoch  are  first  in 

the  throng, 
O  list  to  the  theme  of  their  aerial  song. 

It's  "  Welcome  Glengarry,  thy  clans- 
men's fast  friend." 

It's  "Welcome  to  joys  that  shall  ne'er 
have  an  end. 

The  halls  of  great  Odin  are  open  to  thee, 

O  welcome  Glengarry,  the  gallant  and 
free." 


THE   SECRET  TRIBUNAL.     -- 
1829. 
The  Initiated. 
Measurers  of  good  and  evil, 
Bring  the  square,  the  line,  the  level,  — 
Rear  the  altar,  dig  the  trench. 
Blood  both  stone  and  ditch  shall  drench, 
Cubits  six,  from  end  to  end. 
Must  the  fatal  bench  extend, — 
Cubits  six,  from  side  to  side, 
Judge  and  culprit  must  divide. 


534 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


On  the  east  the  Court  assembles, 
On  the  west  the  Accused  trembles  — 
Answer,  brethren,  all  and  one, 
Is  the  ritual  rightly  done? 

Answer. 
On  life  and  soul,  on  blood  and  bone, 
One  for  all,  and  all  for  one, 
We  warrant  this  is  rightly  done. 

Judges. 
How  wears  the  night?  —  Doth  morning 

shine 
In  early  radiance  on  the  Rhine? 
What  music  floats  upon  his  tide? 
Do  birds  the  tardy  morning  chide  ? 
Brethren,  look  out  from  hill  and  height. 
And  answer  true,  How  wears  the  night  ? 

Answer. 
The    night    is    old;    on    Rhine's   broad 

breast 
Glance  drowsy  stars  which  long  to  rest. 

No  beams  are  twinkling  in  the  east. 
There  is  a  voice  upon  the  flood. 
The  stern  still  call  of  blood  for  blood : 

'Tis  time  we  listen  the  behest. 

Chorus. 
Up,  then,  up  !     When  day's  at  rest, 

Tis  time  that  such  as  we  are  watchers : 
Rise  to  judgment,  brethren,  rise! 
Vengeance  knows  not  sleepy  eyes. 
He  and  night  are  matchers. 

Anne  of  Geierstcin,  chap.  xx. 


MOTTOES. 

FROM    ANNE    OF   GEIERSTEIN. 

1829. 

CHAP.   V. 

I  WAS  one 
Who  loved  the  greenwood  bank  and  low- 
ing herd. 
The  russet  prize,  the  lowly  peasant's  life, 
Season'd  with  sweet  content,  more  than 

the  halls 
Where    revellers    feast    to    fever-height. 

Believe  me. 
There  ne'er  was  poison   mixt  in  maple 
bowl, 

AnonymotK, 


CHAP.  vni. 
They  saw  that  city  welcoming  the  Rhine, 
As  from  his  mountain  heritage  he  bursts, 
As  purposed  proud  Orgetorix  of  yore, 
Leaving  the  desert  region  of  the  hills. 
To  lord  it  o'er  the  fertile  plains  of  Gaul. 
Helvetia. 
CHAP.  X. 
We  know  not  when  we  sleep  nor  when 

we  wake. 
Visions  distinct  and  perfect  cross  our  eye. 
Which  to  the  slumberer  seem  realities; 
And  while  they  waked,  some  men  have 

seen  such  sights 
As  set  at  naught  the  evidence  of  sense. 
And  left  them  well  persuaded  they  were 

dreaming. 

Anonymous. 
CHAP.  XI. 
These  be  the  adept's  doctrines  —  every 

element 
Is  peopled  with  its  separate  race  of  spirits. 
The  airy  Sylphs  on  the  blue  ether  float; 
Deep  in  the    earthy   cavern    skulks  the 

Gnome ; 
The   sea-green    Naiad    skims   the   ocean 

billow, 
And  the  fierce  fire  is  yet  a  friendly  home 
To  its  peculiar  sprite  —  the  Salamander. 
Anonymous. 

CHAP.  XXH. 

Tell  me  not  of  it  —  I  could  ne'er  abide 

The  mummery  of  all  that  forced  civility. 

"  Pray,  seat  yourself,  my  lord,"  with 
cringing  hams 

The  speech  is  spoken,  and,  with  bended 
knee. 

Heard  by  the  smiling  courtier.  —  "  Be- 
fore you,  sir? 

It  must  be  on  the  earth  then."  Hang  it 
all! 

The  pride  which  cloaks  itself  in  such  poor 
fashion 

Is  scarcely  fit  to  swell  a  beggar's  bosom. 
Old  Play. 

^  CHAP.   XXIX. 

A  mirthful  man  he  was  —  the  snows  of 

age 
Fell,  but  they  did  not  chill  him.     Gaiety, 
Even  in  life's  closing,  touched  his  teeming 

brain 


VERSES  FROM  SCOTT'S  JOURNAL. 


S35 


With  such  wild  visions  as  the  setting  sun 
Raises  in  front  of  some  hoar  glacier, 
Painting  the  bleak  ice  with  a  thousand 
hues. 

Old  Play. 

CHAP.  XXX. 

Ay,  this  is  he  who  wears  the  wreath  of  bays 
Wove  by  Apollo  and  the  Sisters  Nine, 
Which  Jove's  dread  lightning  scathes  not. 

He  hath  doft 
The  cumbrous  helm  of  steel,  and  flung 

aside 
The  yet  more  galling  diadem  of  gold : 
While,  with  a  leafy  circlet  round  his  brows. 
He  reigns  the  King  of  Lovers  and  of  Poets. 

CHAP.    XXXI. 

Want  you  a  man 

Experienced  in  the  world  and  its  affarrs? 
Here  he  is  for  your  purpose.  He's  a  monk. 
He  hath  forsworn  the  world  and  all  its 

work  — 
The  rather  that  he  knows  it  passing  well. 
Special  the  worst  of  it;   for  he's  a  monk. 
Old  Play. 

CHAP.   XXXIU. 

Toll,  toll  the  bell ! 
Greatness  is  o'er, 
The  heart  has  broke. 
To  ache  no  more; 
An  unsubstantial  pageant  all  — 
Drop  o'er  the  scene  the  funeral  pall. 
Old  Poem. 

CHAP.   XXXV. 

Here's  a  weapon  now, 

Shall  shake  a  conquering  general  in  his 

tent, 
A   monarch    on   his   throne,    or  reach   a 

prelate, 
However  holy  be  his  offices. 
E'en  while  he  serves  the  altar. 

Old  Play. 


fERSES   FROM    SCOTT'S 
JOURNAL. 

1829. 
LATE    FRIENDSHIP. 
No  after  friendships  e'er  can  raise 
The  endearments  of  our  early  days. 


ON   THE   CATASTROPHE   TO  "ANNE 

OF  GEIERSTEIN." 
It  sticks  like  a  pistol  half  out  of  its  holster, 
Or  rather  indeed  like  an  obstinate  bolster, 
Which  I  think  I  have  seen  you  attempt- 
ing, my  dear. 
In  vain  to  cram  into  a  small  pillow-beer. 


JOY   AND   WEALTH. 
Give  me  the  joy  that  sickens  not  the  heart. 
Give  me  the  wealth  that  has  no  wings  to  fly. 


A   MORAL. 
So  there  ends  the  tale 
With  a  hey,  with  a  hoy, 
So  there  ends  the  tale 

With  a  ho ! 
There  is  a  moral.     If  you  fail 
To  seize  it  by  the  tale. 
Its  import  will  exhale, 

You  must  know. 


ON  FAILING  TO  HEAR   MADAME  CA- 
RADORI  SING  JOCK  OF  HAZELDEAN. 

However,  Madame  Caradori, 

To  miss  you  I  am  very  sorry; 

I  should  have  taken  it  for  glory 

To  have  heard  you  sing  my  Border  story. 


LOCALITIES  AT   BLAIR-ADAM. 
LOCHORNIE  and  Lochornie  Moss, 
The  Louting  Stane  and  Dodgell's  Cross, 
Craigen  Cat  and  Craigen  Crow, 
Craigg.avcral,  the  King's  Cross,  and  Dun- 
glow. 


INSCRIPTION 

FOR   THE    MONUMENT   OF    THE    REV. 

GEORGE    SCOTT. 

1830. 

To  youth,  to  age,  alike,  this  t.ablet  pale 
Tells  the  brief  moral  of  its  tr.igic  tale. 
Art  thoua  parent  ? — Reverence  this  bier  — 
The  parents'  fondest  hopes  lie  buried  here. 


536 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Art  thou  a  youth,  prepared  on  life  to  start, 
With  opening  talents  and  agenerousheart, 
Fair  hopes   and   flattering  prospects  all 

thine  own? 
I^ !  here  their  end  —  a  monumental  stone  ! 
But  let  submission  tame  each  sorrowing 

thought, 
Heaven   crown 'd  its    champion  ere  the 

fight  was  fought. 


THE  FORAY. 

1830. 
The  last  of  our  steers  on  our  board  has 

been  spread, 
And  the  last  flask  of  wine  in  our  goblet 

is  red; 
Up  !  up,  my  brave  kinsmen  !  belt  swords, 

and  begone !  — 
There  are  dangers  to  dare,  and  there's 

spoil  to  be  won. 

The  eyes,  that  so  lately  mixf  glances  with 

ours, 
For  a  space  must  be  dim,  as  they  gaze 

from  the  towers. 
And  strive  to  distinguish,  thro'  tempest 

and  gloom. 
The  prance  of  the  steed,  and  the  toss  of 

the  plume. 

The  rain  is  descending,  the  wind  rises 

loud. 
And  the  moon  her  red  beacon  has  veil'd 

with  a  cloud; 
' Tis  the  better,  my  mates !  for  the  warder's 

dull  eye 
Shall  in  confidence  slumber,  nor  dream 

we  are  nigh. 

Our  steeds  are  impatient !  I  hear  my 
blithe  Gray ! 

There  is  life  in  his  hoof-clang,  and  hope 
in  his  neigh; 

Like  the  flash  of  a  meteor,  the  glance  of 
his  mane 

Shall  marshal  your  match  thro'  the  dark- 
ness and  rain. 

The  drawbridge  has  dropped,  the  bugle 

has  blown; 
One  pledge  is  to  quaff  yet  —  then  mount 

and  begone !  — 


To  their  honor  and  peace,  that  shall  rest 

with  the  slain ! 
To  their  health  and  their  glee,  that  see 

Teviot  again ! 


MOTTOES. 

FROM  "  COUNT  ROBERT  OF  PARIS." 

183I. 

CHAP.  II. 

Othus.    This  superb  successor 

Of  the  earth's  mistress,  as  thou  vainly 

speakcst. 
Stands  midst  these  ages  as,  on  the  wide 

ocean. 
The  last  spared  fragment  of  a  spacious 

land. 
That  in  some  grand  and  awful  ministration 
Of  mighty  nature  has  engulfed  been. 
Doth  lift  aloft  its  dark  and  rocky  cliffs 
O'er  the  wild  waste  around,  and  sadly 

frowns 
In  lonely  majesty. 

Constantine  Paleologus,  scene  ». 

CHAP.  III. 
Here,  youth,  thy  foot  unbrace, 

Here,  youth,  thy  brow  unbraid, 
Each  tribute  that  may  grace 

The  threshold  here  bo  paid. 
Walk  with  the  stealthy  pace 

Which  Nature  teaches  deer, 
When,  echoing  in  the  chase. 

The  hunter's  horn  they  hear. 

7'//^  Court. 

CHAP.  V. 

The    storm    increases  —  'tis    no    sunny 

shower. 
Fostered  in  the  moist  breast  of  March  or 

April, 
Or  such  as  parched  Summer  cools  his  lip 

with: 
Heaven's  windows  are  flung  wide;   the 

inmost  deeps 
Call  in  hoarse  greeting  one  upon  another; 
On  comes  the   flood  in  all  its  foaming 

horrors. 
And  where's  the  dike  shall  stop  it? 

7'/4<  Deluge,  a  Poem. 


MOTTOES  FROM  "  COUNT  ROBERT  OF  PARIS: 


537 


CHAP.  VI. 

Vain  man,  thou  may'st  esteem  thy  love 

as  fair 
As  fond  hyperboles  suffice  to  raise. 
She  may  be  all  that's  matchless  in  her 

person. 
And  all-divine  in  soul  to  match  her  body; 
But  lake  this  fioni  me  —  thou  shalt  never 

call  her 
Superior  to  her  sex,  while  one  survives, 
And  I  am  her  true  votary. 

Old  Play. 

CHAP.   IX. 

Between  the  foaming  jaws  of  the  white 

torrent. 
The  skilful  artist  draws  a  sudden  mound; 
By  level  long  he  subdivides  their  strength. 
Stealing    the    waters    from    their    rocky 

bed, 
First  to  diminish  what  he  means  to  con- 
quer ; 
Then,  for  the  residue  he  forms  a  road. 
Easy  to  keep,  and  painful  to  desert. 
And  guiding  to  the  end  the  planner  aim'd 
at. 

The  Engineer. 

CHAP.  X. 

These  were  wild  times  —  the  antipodes 
of  ours: 

Ladies  weie  there,  who  oftener  saw  them- 
selves 

In  the  broad  lustre  of  a  foeman's  shield 

Than  in  a  mirror,  and  who  rather  sought 

To  match   themselves  in   battle  than  in 
dalliance 

To  meet  a  lover's  onset.  —  But  though 
Nature 

Was  outraged  thus,  she  was  not  over- 
come. 

Feudal  Times. 

CHAP.  XI. 

Without  a  ruin,  broken,  tangled,  cum- 
brous. 

Within  it  was  a  little  paradise. 

Where  Taste   had  made  her   dwelling 
Statuary, 

First-born  of  human  art,   moulded  her 
images. 

And  bade  men  mark  and  worship. 

Anonymous. 


CHAP.   XII. 

The  parties  met.    The  wily,  wordy  Greek, 

Weighing  each  word,  and  canvassing  each 
syllable; 

Evading,  arguing,  equivocating. 

And  the  stern  Frank  came  with  his  two- 
hand  sword, 

Watchmg  to  see  which  way  the  balance 
sways. 

That  he  may  throw  it  in,  and  turn  the 
scales. 

Palestine. 

CHAP.  XVI. 

Strange  ape  ol  man !  who  loathes  thee 

while  he  scorns  thee; 
Half  a  reproach  to  us  and  half  a  jest. 
What  fancies  can   be  ours  ere  we   have 

pleasure 
In  viewmg  our  own  form,  our  pride  and 

passions. 
Reflected  in  a  shape  grotesque  as  thine ! 
Ancnyviotts. 

CHAP.    XVII. 

'Tis  strange  that,  in  the  dark  sulphureous 
mine, 

Where  wild  ambition  piles  its  ripening 
stores 

Of  slumbering  thunder.  Love  will  inter- 
pose 

His  tiny  torch,  and  cause  the  stern  ex- 
plosion 

To  burst,  when  the  deviser's  least  aware. 
Anonymous. 

CHAP.    XX. 

She  comes  !  she  comes !  in  all  the  charms 

of  youth, 
Unequall'd  love,  and  unsuspected  truth. 

CHAP.  XXIV. 

All   is  prepared  —  the  chamliers  of   the 

mine 
Arc    crammed    with    the    combustible, 

which,  harmless 
While  yet  unkindled,  as  the  sable  sand. 
Needs  but  a  spark  to  change  its  nature  so, 
That  he  who  wakes  it  from  its  slumbrous 

mood, 
Dreads  scarce  the  explosion  less  than  he 

who  knows 
That  'tis  his  towers  which  meet  its  fury. 
Anonymotti. 


538 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


CHAP.    XXV. 

Heaven  knows  its  time;    the  bullet  has 
its  billet, 

Arrow  and  javelin  each  its  destined  pur- 
pose; 

The  fated  beasts  of  Nature's  lower  strain 

Have  each  their  separate  task. 

Old  Play. 

CHAP.    XXVI. 

Will  you  hear  of  a  Spanish  Lady, 

How  she  woo'd  an  Englishman? 
Garments  gay,  as  rich  as  may  be, 
Deck'd  with  jewels,  she  had  on. 
Of  a  comely  countenance  and  grace  was 

she. 
And  birth  and  parentage  of  high  degree. 
Old  Ballad. 


MOTTOES. 

FROM    "  CASTLE    DANGEROUS." 

183I. 

CHAP.  V. 

A  TALE  of  sorrow,  for  your  eyes  may  weep; 
A  tale  of  horror,  for  your  flesh  may  tingle ; 
A  tale  of  wonder,  for  the  eyebrows  arch, 
And  the  flesh  curdles  if  you  read  it  rightly. 
Old  Play. 

CHAP.    XI. 

Where  is  he?     Has  the  deep  earth  swal- 
lowed him? 
Or  hath  he  melted  like  some  airy  phantom 
That  shuns  the  approach  of  morn  and  the 

young  sun? 
Or  hath  he  wrapped  him  in  Cimmerian 

darkness. 
And  pass'd  beyond  the  circuit  of  the  sight 
With  things  of  the  night's  shadows? 

Anonymous. 


CHAP.    XIV. 
The  way  is  long,  my  children,  long  and 

rough  — 
The  moors  are  dreary,  and  the  woods  are 

dark ; 
But   he    that    creeps  from  cradle  on  to 

grave, 
Unskill'd    save    in   the  velvet  course   of 

fortune, 
Hath    missed    the    discipline    of    noble 

hearts. 

Old  Play. 

CHAP.    XVIII. 

His  talk  was  of  another  world  —  his  bode- 

ments 
Strange,  doubtful,  and  mysterious;  those 

who  heard  him 
Listen'd  as  to  a  man  in  feverish  dreams, 
Who  speaks  of   other  objects  than  the 

present. 
And   mutters   like    to  him   who   sees   a 

vision. 

Old  Play. 

CHAP.  XX. 

Cry  the  wild  war-note,  let  the  champions 
pass. 

Do  bravely  each,   and  God   defend  the 
right; 

Upon  Saint  Andrew  thrice  can  they  thus 
cry, 

And  thrice  they  shout  on  height. 

And  then  marked  them  on  the  English- 
men, 

As  I  have  told  you  right. 

Saint  George  the  bright,  our  ladics'knight, 

To  name  they  were  full  fain; 

Our  Englishmen  they  cried  on  height, 

And  thrice  they  shout  again. 

Old  Ballad. 


FRAGMENTS. 

OF  VERY  EARLY  DATE. 


BOTH  WELL   CASTLE. 
1799. 

When  fruitful  Clydesdale's  apple  bowers 

Are  mellowing  in  the  noon; 
When   sighs   round    Pembroke's   ruin'd 
towers 

The  sultry  breath  of  June; 

When  Clyde,  despite  his  sheltering  wood, 

Must  leaVe  his  channel  dry; 
And  vainly  o'er  the  limpid  flood 

The  angler  guides  his  fly; 

If  chance  by  Bothwell's  lovely  braes 

A  wanderer  thou  hast  been, 
Or  hid  thee  from  the  summer's  blaze 

In  Blantyre's  bowers  of  green. 

Full  where  the  copsewood  opens  wild 

Thy  pilgrim  step  hath  staid, 
Where  Bothwell's  towers,  in  ruin  piled, 

O'erlook  the  verdant  glade; 

And  many  a  tale  of  love  and  fear 
Hath  mingled  with  the  scene  — 

Of  Bothwell's  banks  that  bloom'd  so  dear. 
And  Bothwell's  bonny  Jean. 

O,  if  with  rugged  minstrel  lays 

Unsated  be  thy  ear, 
And  thou  of  deeds  of  other  days 

Another  tale  wilt  hear,  — 

Then  all  beneath  the  spreading  beech. 

Flung  careless  on  the  lea, 
The  Gothic  muse  the  tale  shall  teach 

Of  Bothwell's  sisters  three. 


Wight  Wallace  stood  on  Deckmont  head, 

He  blew  his  bugle  round. 
Till  the  wild  bull  in  Cadyow  wood 

Has  started  at  the  sound. 

St.  George's  cross,  o'er  Bothwell  hung, 

Was  waving  far  and  wide, 
And  from  the  lofty  turret  flung 

Its  crimson  blaze  on^Clyde; 

And  rising  at  the  bugle  blast 
That  mark'd  the  Scottish  foe. 

Old  England's  yeomen  muster 'd  fast, 
And  bent  the  Norman  bow. 

Tall  in  the  midst  Sir  Aylmer  rose, 

Proud  Pembroke's  Earl  was  he  — 
While ****»»* 


THE  SHEPHERD'S  TALE. 
1799. 

And  ne'er  but  once,  my  son,  he  says. 

Was  yon  sad  cavern  trod. 
In  persecution's  iron  days. 

When  the  land  was  left  by  God. 

From  Bewlie  bog,  with  slaughter  red, 

A  wanderer  hither  drew, 
And  oft  he  stopt  and  turn'd  his  head. 

As  by  fits  the  night  wind  blew; 

For  trampling  round  by  Cheviot  edge 
Were  heard  the  troopers  keen, 

And  frequent  from  the  Whitelaw  ridge 
The  death-shot  flash'd  between. 


S39 


Jf/SCEZZJJVffeCS  /WElfS. 


OiBSM* 


ifc*; 


r^bMM 


'iMim  iteaa— ■gi— iHiB«3aBiKa>, 
JkaiowlidhtiaiiallKdtaKt!"  — 


A  %^  «as  soea  to  aiiae. 


w  4at  ti^er^  Inc. 
I  Ac  ciiMJia  o\3r; 
iHt  toOK  4eri|y  Uk  was  dbe  2|ha9%  k> 
Of  1b  c]CB  «ha  ihe  tipor  boK. 


<tf*el    If  i.1      I  I. 


CBasni  Sis  fae^ 


Be  liii  <M  ks  hoii  ai  koMl  Hke  lead. 
As  hcny.  fok^jM^  oMz — 

B  Aykistf  fcefinaadlHidL 


Oh 


-My! 


r'd: 


:sa-iMHr^ 


KJUiaidiGbnaarlMraf  pdlr^ 


Isl 
O 


rUiAe. 
bortofidi. 


-  Aari  a  «y  paws  caa  ipoea  dK  i 

TkoB  he  Ac  fate.  fcoM  k^gc  aiai  pof. 
ToiErdtf 


He  &nnK  laakd  Uto  to  Ae  far- 
Jtoi  1^  calor  fled  wiA  ^eei:  — 

M  Kar  ai^    ^^Bili  wBg     ■■£■& 

fee 
To  B*fc  dy  wad  aari  deed. 

«laa«aciadai»a*eaEagPA 

Ihe 


Kta. 


THE  SHBPHERB'S  TALE. 


S** 


'  A  wadbdk  Inml  Ae  vonkr  wa. 

Sk  IGkhicl  ScBtt  ky  BMC, 

"i  the 


Ike 


'  For  JOS 
Thr  wanaoB's  Imhks  kai 

Sr  Bfidhad  Soott  vass 


.ladfetkAc 


At  Ike  foot  of  cadk  Stocd, 
Ifekcsid, 


542 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


From  Forth  to  Tees,  from  seas  to  seas, 

The  awful  bugle  rung; 
On  Carlisle  wall,  and  Berwick  withal, 

To  arms  the  warders  sprung. 

With  clank  and  clang  the  cavern  rang, 
The  steeds  did  stamp  and  neigh; 

And  loud  was  the  yell  as  each  warrior  fell 
Sterte  up  with  whoop  and  cry. 

"  Woe,  woe,"   they  cried,  "  thou  caitiff 
coward, 

That  ever  thou  wert  born  ! 
Why  drew  ye  not  the  knightly  sword 

Before  ye  blew  the  horn?  " 

The  morning  on  the  mountain  shone. 

And  on  the  bloody  ground, 
Hurl'd  from  the  cave  with  shiver'd  bone, 

The  mangled  wretch  was  found. 

And  still  beneath  the  cavern  dread. 

Among  the  glidders  gray, 
A  shapeless  stone  with  lichens  spread, 

Marks  where  the  wanderer  lay. 


CHEVIOT. 

1799. 

Go  sit  old  Cheviot's  crest  below, 
And  pensive  mark  the  lingering  snow 

In  all  his  scaurs  abide. 
And  slow  dissolving  from  the  hill 
In  many  a  sightless,  soundless  rill, 

Feed  sparkling  Bowmont's  tide. 

Fair  shines  the  stream  by  bank  and  lea, 
As  wimpling  to  the  eastern  sea 

She  seeks  Till's  sullen  bed. 
Indenting  deep  the  fatal  plain, 
Where  Scotland's  noblest,  brave  in  vain, 

Around  their  monarch  bled. 

And  westward  hills  on  hills  you  see. 
Even  as  old  Ocean's  mightiest  sea 

Heaves  high  her  waves  of  foam. 
Dark   and   snow-ridged   from   Cutsfeld's 

wold 
To  the  proud  foot  of  Cheviot  roll'd. 

Earth's  mountain  billows  come. 


THE   PAGE'S   SONG. 
1799. 

It  was  a  little  naughty  page. 

Ha!  ha! 
Would  catch  a  bird  was  clos'd  in  cagCj 

Sa !  sa ! 

Ha!  ha! 

Sa !  sa ! 

He  seiz'd  the  cage,  the  latch  did  draw, 

Ha!  ha! 
And  in  he  thrust  his  knavish  paw, 

Sa !  sa ! 

Ha!  ha! 

Sa !  sa ! 

The  bird  dash'd  out  and  gain'd  the  thorn, 

Ha!  ha! 
And  laugh'd  the  silly  fool  to  scorn, 

Sa !  sa ! 

Ha !  ha ! 

Sa !  sa ! 
Goetz  of  Berlichingcn,  act  iii.  sc.  xix. 


THE   REIVER'S  WEDDING. 
1802. 

O  WILL  ye  hear  a  myrthful  bourd.? 

Or  will  ye  hear  of  courtesie? 
Or  will  ye  hear  how  a  gallant  lord 

Was  wedded  to  a  gay  ladye? 

"  Ca'  out  the  kyc,"  quo'  the  village  hertf, 

.AlS  he  stood  on  the  knowe, 
"  Ca'  this  ane's  nine  and  that  anc's  ten, 

And  bauld  Lord  William's  cow."  — 

"  .'Vh  !  by  my  sooth,"  quoth  William  then, 
"  And  stands  it  that  way  now, 

When  knave  and  churl  have  nine  and  ten. 
That  the  lord  has  but  his  cow? 

"  I  swear  by  the  light  of  the  Michaelmas 
moon. 

And  the  might  of  Mary  high. 
And  by  the  edge  of  my  braidsword  brown, 

They  shall  soon  say  Harden's  kye." 

He  took  a  bugle  frae  his  side. 

With  names  carv'd  o'er  and  o'er  — 


THE  REIVER'S    WEDDING. 


543 


Full  many  a  chief  of  meikle  pride 
That  Border  bugle  bore  — 

He  blew  a  note  baith  sharp  and  hie, 
Till  rock  and  water  rang  around  — 

Threescore  of  moss-troopers  and  thrte 
Have  mounted  at  that  bugle  sound. 

The  Michaelmas  moon  had  enter'd  then, 

And  ere  she  wan  the  kill, 
Ye   might   see   by   her   light   in    Harden 
Glen 

A  bow  o'  kye  and  a  bassen'd  bull. 

And  loud  and  loud  in  Harden  tower 
The  quaigh  gaed  round  wi'  meikle  glee; 

For    the    English   beef    was  broughf  in 
bower. 
And  the  English  ale  flow'd  merrilie. 

And  mony  a  guest  from  Teviotside 
And  Yarrow's  Braes  was  there; 

Was  never  a  lord  in  Scotland  wide 
That  made  more  dainty  fare. 

They  ate,  they  laugh'd,  they  sang,   and 
quaff'd, 
Till  naught  on  board  was  seen. 
When  knight  and  squire  were  boune  to 
dine. 
But  a  spur  of  silver  sheen. 

Lord  William  has  ta'en  his  berry  brown 
steed  — 

A  sore  shent  man  was  he; 
"  Wait  ye,  my  guests,  a  little  speed  — 

Weel  feasted  ye  shall  be." 

He  rode  him  down  by  Falsehope  burn. 

His  cousin  dear  to  see. 
With  him  to  take  a  riding  turn  — 

Wat-draw-the-sword  was  he. 

And  when  he  came  to  Falsehope  glen 

Beneath  the  trysting-tree, 
On  the  smooth  green  was  carved  plain, 

"To  Lochwood  bound  are  we." 

"O,  if  they  be  gane  to  dark  Lochwood 

To  drive  the  Warden's  gear, 
Betwixt    our    names,    I    ween,    there's 
feud; 

I'll  go  and  have  my  share: 


"  For  little  reck  I  for  Johnstone's  feud, 
The  Warden  though  he  be." 

So  Lord  William  is  away  to  dark  Loch- 
wood, 
With  riders  barely  three. 

The   Warden's  daughters  in   Lochwood 
sate. 

Were  all  both  fair  and  gay, 
All  save  the  Lady  Margaret, 

And  she  was  wan  and  wae.  ■ 

The  sister,  Jean,  had  a  full  fair  skin, 
And  Grace  was  bauld  and  braw; 

But  the  leal-fast  heart  her  breast  within. 
It  weel  was  worth  them  a'. 

Her  father's  pranked  her  sisters  twa 

With  meikle  joy  and  pride; 
But  Margaret  maun  seek  Dundrennan's 
w<i'  — 

She  ne'er  can  be  a  bride. 

On  spear  and  casque  by  gallants  gent 
Her  sisters'  scarfs  were  borne. 

But  never  at  tilt  or  tournament 
Were  Margaret's  colors  worn. 

Her  sisters  rode  to  Thirlstane  bower. 

But  she  was  left  at  hame 
To  wander  round  the  gloomy  tower. 

And  sigh  young  Harden's  name. 

"Of  all  the  knights,  the  knight  most  fair. 

From  Yarrow  to  the  Tyne," 
Soft  sigh'd  the  maid,  "  is  Harden's  heir, 

But  ne'er  can  he  be  mine; 

"Of  all  the  maids,  the  foulest  maid 

From  Teviot  to  the  Dee, 
Ah  !  "  sighing  sad,  that  lady  said, 

"  Can  ne'er  young  Harden's  be." 

She  looked  up  the  briery  glen, 

And  up  the  mossy  brae, 
And  she  saw  a  score  of  her  father's  men 

Yclad  in  the  Johnstone  gray. 

O  fast  and  fast  they  downwards  sped 

The  moss  and  briers  among. 
And  in  the  midst  the  troopers  led 

A  shackled  knight  along. 


DRAMATIC  PIECES, 


HALIDON    HILL; 

A    DRAMATIC    SKETCH    FROM    SCOTTISH    HISTORY. 


PREFACE. 


The  subject  is  to  be  found  in  Scottish  history  ;  but  not  to  overload  so  slight  a  publica- 
tion with  antiquarian  research,  or  quotations  from  obscure  chronicles,  it  may  ba  sufficient 
to  refer  the  reader  to  Pinkerton's  History  of  Scotland,  vol.  i.  p.  72. 

The  Regent  of  the  sketch  is  a  character  purely  imaginary.  The  tradition  of  the  Swinton 
family,  which  still  survives  in  a  lineal  descent,  and  to  which  the  author  has  the  honor  to  Ix; 
related,  avers  that  the  Swinton  who  fell  at  Homildon  had  slain  Gordon's  father ;  which 
seems  sufficient  ground  for  adopting  that  circumstance  into  the  following  dramatic  sketch, 
though  it  is  rendered  improbable  by  other  authorities. 

If  any  reader  will  take  the  trouble  of  looking  at  Froissart,  Fordun,  or  other  historians 
of  the  period,  he  will  find  that  the  character  of  the  Lord  of  Swinton,  for  strength,  courage, 
and  conduct,  is  by  no  means  exaggerated. 

Abbotsford,  1822.  W.  S. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONyE. 

SCOTTISH. 

The  Regent  of  Scotland. 

Gordon, 

Swinton, 

Lennox, 

Sutherland, 

Ross, 

Maxwell, 

Johnston, 

LiNDESAY, 


Scottish  chiefs  and 
Nobles. 


Adam  De  Vipont,  a  Knight  Templar. 

The  Prior  of  Maison-Dieu. 

Reynald,  Swinton'' s  Squire. 

Hob  Hattely,  a  Border  Moss-Trooper. 

Heralds. 

ENGLISH. 
King  Edward  III. 


Chandos, 

Percy, 

Ribaumont 

The  Abbot  of  Walthamstow 


J 


English  and  A^orman 
A'ohles. 


ACT  I.  — Scene  I. 
The  northern  side  of  the  eminence  of 
Halidon.  The  back  Scene  represents 
the  summit  of  the  ascent,  occupied  by 
the  Rear-guard  of  the  Scottish  army. 
Bodies  of  armed  Men  appear  as  ad- 
vancing from  different  points,  to  join 
the  main  Body. 

544 


Enter  De  Vipont   and  t/u  Prior  of 

Maison-Dieu. 
ViP.     No  farther.  Father  —  here  I  need 

no  guidance  — 
I  have  already  brought  your  peaceful  step 
Too  near  the  verge  of  battle. 

Pri.     Fain  would  I  see  you  join  some 
Baron's  banner. 


Scene  I. 


HALIDON  HILL. 


545 


Before  I  say  farewell.  The  honor'd  sword 

That  fought  so  well  in  Syria,  should  not 
wave 

Amid  the  ignoble  crowd. 

ViP.     Each   spot  is  noble  in  a  pitched 
field, 

So  that  a  man  has  room  to  fight  and  fall 
on't. 

But  I  shall  find  out  friends.     'Tis  scarce 
twelve  years 

Since  I  left  Scotland  for  the  wars  of  Pa- 
lestine, 

And  then  the  flower  of  all  the  Scottish 
nobles 

Were  known  to  me;  and  I,  in  my  degree, 

Not  all  unknown  to  them. 

Pri.     Alas !  there  have  been  changes 
since  that  time  ! 

The  Royal  Bruce,  with  Randolph,  Doug- 
las, Grahame, 

Then  shook  in  field  the  banners  which 
now  moulder 

Over  their  graves  i'  the  chancel. 
ViP.     And  thence  comes  it. 

That  while  I  look'd  on  many  a  well-known 
crest 

And  blazon'd  shield,  as  hitherward  we 
came, 

The  faces  of  the  Barons  who  display'd 
them 

Were  all  unknown  to  me.     Brave  youths 
they  seem'd; 

Yet,  surely,  fitter  to  adorn  the  tilt-yard, 

Than  to  be  leaders  of  a  war.     Their  fol- 
lowers. 

Young  like  themselves,  seem  like  them- 
selves unpractised  — 

Look  at  their  battle-rank. 

Pri.    I  cannot  gaze  on't  with  undazzled 
eye, 

So  thick  the  rays  dart  back  from  shield 
and  helmet, 

And  sword  and  battle-ax,  and  spear  and 
pennon. 

Sure,  'tis  a  gallant   show !     The   Bruce 

himself 
Hath  often    conquer'd    at  the    head    of 
fewer 

And  worse  appointed  followers. 

ViP.     Ay,  but   'twas    Bruce    that    led 
them.     Reverend  Father, 
'Tis  not  the  falchion's  weight  decides  a 
combat; 


It  is  the  strong  and   skilful  hand   that 

wields  it. 
Ill  fate,  that  we  should  lack  the  noble 

King, 
And  all  his  champions  now  !     Time  call'd 

them  not. 
For  when  I  parted  hence  for  Palestine, 
The  brows  of  most  were  free  from  grizzl'd 

hair. 
Pri.     Too  true,  alas!     But  well  you 

know,  in  Scotland 
Few   hairs   are   silver'd    underneath   the 

helmet; 
'Tis  cowls  like  mine  which  hide  them. 

'Mongst  the  laity, 
War's  the  rash  reaper,  who  thrusts  in  his 

sickle 
Before  the  grain  is  white.     In  threescore 

years 
And  ten,  which  I  have  seen,  I  have  out- 
lived 
Well-nigh  two  generations  of  our  nobles. 
The  race  which  holds  yon  summit  is  the 

third. 
Vip.     Thou  mayst  outlive  them  also. 
Pri.  Heaven  forfend ! 

My  prayer   shall    be,  that    Heaven  will 

close  my  eyes, 
Before  they  look  upon  the  wrath  to  come. 
ViP.     Retire,  retire,  good  Father !  — 

Pray  for  Scotland  — 
Think  not  on  me.    Here  comes  an  ancient 

friend, 
Brother  in  arms,  with  whom  to-day  I'll 

join  me. 
Back    to  your  choir,  assemble    all  your 

brotherhood. 
And    weary    Heaven    with    prayers    for 

victory. 
Pri.     Heaven's  blessing  rest  with  thee, 
Champion  of  Heaven,  and  of  thy  suffer- 
ing country ! 

[Exii  Prior.  Vipont  draws  a 
little  aside  and  lets  down  tht 
beaver  of  his  helmet. 

Enter   Swinton,  followed  by  Reynai.d 

and  others,  to  whom  he  speaks  as  he 

enters. 

Swi.    Halt  here,  and  plant  my  pennon, 
till  the  Regent 
Assign  our  band  its  station  in  the  host. 

Rev.     That  must  be  by  the  Standard. 


546 


DRAMATIC  PIECES. 


Act  I. 


We  have  had 
That  right  since  good  Saint  David's  reign 

at  least. 
Fain  would  I  see  the  Marcher  would  dis- 
pute it. 
Swi.     Peace,    Reynald !     Where    the 

general  plants  the  soldier, 
There  is  his  place  of  honor,  and  there  only 
His  valor  can"  win  worship.     Thou'rt  of 

those 
Who  would  have  war's  deep  art  bear  the 

wild  semblance 
Of  sonic  disorder'd  hunting,  whore,  pell 

mell, 
Each  trusting  to  the  swiftness  of  his  horse, 
Gallants  press  on  to  see  the  quarry  fall. 
Yon  steel-clad  Southrons,  Reynald,   are 

no  deer; 
And  England's  Edward  is  no  stag  at  bay. 
ViP.  i^advancing^.    There  needed  not, 

to  blazon  forth  the  Swinton, 
His  ancient  burgonet,  the  sable  Boar 
Chain'd  to  the  gnarled  oak,*  —  nor  his 

proud  step. 
Nor  giant  stature,  nor  the  pondrous  mace, 
Which  only  he,  of  Scotland's  realm,  can 

wield; 
His    discipline    and    wisdom    mark    the 

leader. 
As  doth  his  frame  the  champion.     Hail, 

brave  Swinton ! 
Swi.     Brave  Templar,  thanks  !     Such 

your  cross'd  shoulder  speaks  you; 
But  the  closed  visor,  which  conceals  your 

features, 
Forbids  more   knowledge.     Umfraville, 

perhaps  — 
ViP.  {unclosing his heltnef) .     No;  one 

less  worthy  of  our  sacred  Order. 
Yet,  unless  Syrian  suns    have    scorch'd 

my  features 
Swart  as  my  sable  visor,  Alan  Swinton 
Will  welcome  Symon  Vipont. 

Swi.  {embracing  him).     As  the  blithe 

reaper 
Welcomes    a  practised   mate,  when   the 

ripe  harvest 

*  "The  armorial  bearings  of  the  ancient  family 
of  Swinton  are  sahle,  a  chevron,  or  between 
three  boars'  heads  erased  arf^ent.  Crest,  a  boar 
chaintd  to  a  tree,  and  above,  on  a  %cxa\\,J''esptre. 
Supporters — two  boars  standing  on  a  compart- 
ment whereon  are  the  words  Je  pense."  —  Dim/B- 
ias's Baronage. 


Lies  deep  before  him,  and  the  sun  is  high ! 
Thou 'It  follow  yon  old  pennon,  wilt  thou 

not? 
'Tis  tatter'd  since  thou  saw'st  it,  and  the 

Boar-heads 
Look  as  if  brought  from  off  some  Christ- 
mas board, 
Where  knives  had  notch'd  them  deeply. 
Vip.     Have  with  them,  ne'ertheless. 

The  Stuart's  Chequer, 
The    bloody  Heart    of    Douglas,  Ross's 

Lymphads, 
Sutherland's    Wild-cats,    nor   the    royal 

Lion, 
Rampant   in  golden    treasure,  wins   me 

from  them. 
We'll  back  the    Boar-heads  bravely.     I 

see  round  them 
A  chosen   band  of  lances  —  some  well- 
known  to  me. 
Where's  the  main  body  of  thy  followers? 
Swi.     Symon    de    Vipont,    thou    dost 

see  them  all 
That  Swinton's  bugle-horn   can  call  to 

battle, 
However  loud  it  rings.     There's  not  a 

Ixjy 
Left  in  my  halls,  whose  arm  has  strength 

enough 
To  bear   a   sword  —  there's   not    a    man 

behind, 
However  old,  who  moves  without  a  staff. 
Striplings  and  graybeards,  every  one  is 

here. 
And  here  all  should  Ix;  —  Scotland  needs 

them  all, 
And  more  and  better  men,  were  each  a 

Hercules, 
And  yonder  handful  centupled. 

Vip.     a   thousand    followers — such, 

with  friends  and  kinsmen. 
Allies  and  vassals,   thou   wert  wont   to 

lead  — 
A    thousand    followers    shrunk    to    sixty 

lances 
In  twelve  years'  space? — And  thy  brave 

sons,  Sir  Alan? 
Alas !  I  fear  to  ask. 

Swi.     All  slain,  De  Vipont.     In   my 

empty  home 
A  puny  babe  lisps  to  a  widow'd  mother :  — 
"Where  is  my  grandsire?  wherefore  do 

you  weep?  " 


Scene  I. 


HALIDON  HILL. 


547 


But  for  that  prattler,  Lyulph's  house  is 

heirless. 
I'm  an  old  oak,  from  which  the  foresters 
Have    hew'd    four   goodly  boughs,  and 

left  beside  me 
Only  a  sapling  which  the  fawn  may  crush 
As  he  springs  over  it. 
ViP.    All  slain  ?  —  alas ! 
Swi.     Ay,  all,  De  Vipont.     And  their 

attributes, 
John  with  the  Long  Spear  —  Archibald 

with  the  Ax  — 
Richard  the   Ready  —  and   my  youngest 

darling, 
My  Fair-hair'd  William  —  do   but    now 

survive 
In  measures  which  the  gray-hair'd  min- 
strels sing 
When  they  make  maidens  weep. 

Vip.     These  wars  with  England  they 

have  rooted  out 
The  flowers  of  Christendom.     Knights, 

who  might  win 
The  sepulchre  of   Christ  from  the  rude 

heathen, 
Fall  in  unholy  warfare  ! 

Swi.     Unholy  warfare?   ay,  well   hast 

thou  named  it; 
But  not  with  England  —  would  her  cloth- 
yard  shafts 
Had  bored  their  cuirasses !     Their  lives 

had  been 
Lost  like  their  grandsire's,  in  the  bold 

defence 
Of  their  dear  country;— but  in  private  feud 
With  the  proud  Gordon,  fell  my  Long- 

spear'd  John, 
He  with  the  Ax,  and  he  men  call'd  the 

Ready, 
Ay,  and  my  fair-hair'd  Will  —the  Gor- 
don's wrath 
Devour'd  my  gallant  issue. 

Vip.  Since  thou  dost  weep,  their  death 

is  unavenged? 
Swi.  Templar,  what  think'st  thou  me? 

—  See  yonder  rock. 
From  which  the  fountain  gushes — is  it  less 
Compact  of   adamant,  tho'   waters   flow 

from  it? 
Firm  hearts  have  moister  eyes.  —  They 

arr  nvrnf^ed; 
I  wept  not  till  they  were — till  the  proud 

Gordon 


Had  with  his  life-blood  dyed  my  father's 

sword. 
In  guerdon  that  he  thinn'd  my  father's 

lineage. 
And  then  I  wept  my  sons;   and,  as  the 

Gordon 
Lay  at  my  feet,  there  was  a  tear  for  him, 
Which  mingled  with  the  rest.     We  had 

been  friends, 
Had  shared  the  banquet  and  the  chase 

together. 
Fought  side  by  side,  —  and  our  first  cause 

of  strife. 
Woe  to  the  pride  of  both,  was  but  a  light 

one! 
Vip,  You  are  at  feud,  then,  with  the 

mighty  Gordon? 
Swi.  At  deadly  feud.     Here  in  this 

Borderland, 
Where  the  sire's  quarrels  descend  upon 

the  son, 
As  due  a  part  of  his  inheritance. 
As  the  strong  castle  and  the  ancient  blazon, 
Where  private  Vengeance  holds  the  scales 

of  justice,  [lously 

Weighing  each  drop  of  blood  as  scrupu- 
Asjews  or  Lombards  balance  silver  pence. 
Not  in  this  land,  'twixt  Solway  and  Saint 

Abb's, 
Rages  a  bitterer  feud  than  mine  and  theirs. 
The  Swinton  and  the  Gordon. 

ViP.  You,  with  some  threescore  lances 

—  and  the  Gordon 
Leading  a  thousand  followers. 

Swi.  You  rate  him  far  too  low.     Since 

you  sought  Palestine, 
He  hath  had  grants  of  baronies  and  lord- 
ships 
In  the  far-distant  North.  A  thousand  horse 
His  southern  friends  and  vassals  always 

number'd. 
Add   Badenoch  kerne,  and   horse   from 

Dey  and  Spey, 
He'll   count   a   thousand    more.  —  And 

now,  De  Vipont, 
If  the  Boar -heads  seem  in  your  eyes  less 

worthy 
For  lack  of  followers  —  seek  yonder  stand- 
ard — 
The  bounding   Stag,  with  a  brave   host 

around  it; 
There  the  young  Gordon  makes  his  earli- 
est field, 


548 


DRAMATIC  PIECES. 


Act  I. 


And  pants  to  win  his  spurs.     His  father's 

friend, 
As  well  as  mine,  thou  wert  —  go,  join  his 

pennon, 
And  grace  him  with  thy  presence. 

ViP.   When  you  were  friends,  I  was  the 

friend  of  both. 
And  now  I  can  be  enemy  to  neither; 
But  my  poor  person,  tho'  but  slight  the 

aid. 
Joins  on  this  field  the  banner  of  the  two 
Which  hath  the  smnjlest  following. 
Swi.   Spoke  like  the  generous  Knight, 

who  gave  up  all, 
Leading  and  lordship,  in  a  heathen  land 
To   fight,  a  Christian    soldier!     Vet,   in 

earnest, 
I  pray,  De  Vipont,  you  would  join  the 

Gordon 
In  this  high  battle.     Tis  a  noble  youth,  — 
So    fame    doth    vouch    him, — amorous, 

quick,  and  valiant; 
Takes    knighthood,    too,    this    day,    and 

well  may  use 
His  spurs  too  rashly  in  the  wish  to  win 

them. 
A  friend  like  thee  beside  him  in  the  fight. 
Were  worth  a  hundred  spears,  to  rein  his 

valor 
And  temper  it  with  prudence:  —  'tis  the 

aged  eagle 
Teaches  his  brood  to  gaze  upon  the  sun. 
With  eye  undazzled. 

ViP.   Alas!   brave  Swi nton  !    Would'st 

thou  train  the  hunter 
That  soon  must  bring  thee  to  the  bay? 

Your  custom. 
Your  most  unchristian,  savage,  fiend-like 

custom. 
Binds    Ciordon     to  avenge     his     father's 

death. 
Swi.   Why,  be  it  so  !      I  look  for  noth- 
ing else; 
My  part  was  acted  when  I  slew  his  father. 
Avenging  my  four   sons.  —  Young  Gor- 
don's sword. 
If   it   should    find   my    heart,    can    ne'er 

inflict  there 
A  pang  so  poignant  as  his  father's  did. 
But  I  would  perish  by  a  noble  hand, 
And   such    will    his   he    if  he    bear    him 

nobly. 
Nobly  and  wisely  on  this  field  of  Halidon. 


Enter  a  Pursuivant. 
Pur.  Sir   Knights,  to  council !  —  'tis 

the  Regent's  order, 
That  knights  and  men  of  leading  meet 

him  instantly 
Before  the  royal  standard.   Edward's  army 
Is  seen  from  the  hill  summit. 

Svvi.   Say  to  the   Regent,  we  obey  his 

orders.  \^Exit  Pursuivant. 

[  I'o  Revnald.  ]   Hold  thou  my  casque, 

and  furl  my  pennon  up 
Close  to  the  staff.     I  will  not  show  my 

crest. 
Nor  standard,  till  the  common  foe  shall 

challenge  them. 
I'll  wake  no  civil  strife,  nor  tempt  the 

Gordon 
With  aught  that's  like  defiance. 

ViP.  Will  he  not  know  your  features? 
Swi.      He  never  saw  me.     In  the  dis- 
tant North, 
Against  his  will,  'tis  said,  his  friends  de- 

tain'd  him 
During  his  nurture  — caring  not,  belike. 
To  trust  a  pledge  so  precious  near  the 

Boar-tusks. 
It  was  a  natural  but  needless  caution; 
I  wage  no  war  with  children,  for  I  think 
Too  deeply  on  mine  own. 

ViP.   I  have  thought  on  it,  and  will  see 

the  Gordon 
As  we  go  hence  to  council.     I  do  bear 
A  cross,  which   binds  me  to  be  Christian 

priest 
As    well    as    Christian    champion.     God 

may  grant 
That  I,   at  once  his  father's  friend  and 

yours. 
May  make  some  peace  betwixt  you. 
Swi.   When  that  your  priestly  zeal  and 

knightly  valor 
Shall   force  the  grave  to  render  up  the 

dead.  [/s'.n'Mw/  severally. 

Scene  II. 

The  summit  of  HaliJon  Hill,  before  the 
Regent^ s  tent.  The  royal  standard  of 
Scotland  is  seen  in  the  background, 
■loith  the  Pennons  and  Banners  of  the 
principal  A'obles  around  it. 

Council  of  Scottish  Nobles  and  Chiefs. 
Sutherland,  Ross,  Lennox,  Max- 
well, and  other  nobles  of  the  highest 


Scene  II. 


HA  LI  DON  HILL. 


549 


rank,  are  close  to  the  Regent's/^ a j<;«, 
and  in  the  act  of  keen  debate.  ViPONT 
with  Gordon  and  others  remain 
grouped  at  some  distance  on  the  right 
hand  of  the  Stage.  On  the  left,  stand- 
ing also  apart,  is  SwiNTON,  alone  and 
bareheaded.  The  A'obles  are  dressed 
in  Highland  or  Lowland  habits,  as 
historical  costume  requires.  Trum- 
pets, Heralds,  etc.,  are  in  attendance. 

Len.   Nay,   Ltirdings,   put  no  shame 

upon  my  counsels. 
I  did  but  say,  if  we  retired  a  little, 
We  should  have  fairer  field  and  better 

vantage. 
I've  seen  King  Rolx.Tt  —  ay,  the  Bruce 

himself  — 
Retreat  six  leagues  in  length,  and  think 

no  shame  on't. 
Reg.  Ay,   but   King    Edward   sent  a 

haughty  message. 
Defying  us  to  battle  on  this  field. 
This  very  hill  of  Halidon;    if  we  leave 

it 
Unfought  withal,  it  squares  not  with  our 

honor. 
Swi.  {apart).   A  perilous  honor  that 

allows  the  enemy. 
And  such  an  enemy  as  this  same  Edward, 
To  choose  our  field  of  battle  !     He  knows 

how 
To  make  our  Scottish  pride  betray  its 

master 
Into  the  pitfall. 

[During  this  speech  the  debate  among 

the  N^ohles  is  continued."] 

SUTH.  (aloud).  We  will  not  back  one 
furlong  —  not  one  yard. 

No,  nor  one  inch;    where'er  we  find  the 
foe.. 

Or  where  Vhe  foe  finds  us,  there  will  we 
fight  him. 

Retreat  will   dull   tlie   spirit  of   our  fol- 
lowers. 

Who  now  stand  prompt  for  battle. 

Ross.  My  Lords,  methinks  great  Mor- 
archat  *  has  doubts, 

That,  if  his  Northern  clans  once  turn  the 
seam 

•  Morarchate  in  the  ancient  Gaelic  designa- 
tion of  the  Earls  of  Sutherland. 


Of  their  check 'd  hose  behind,  it  will  be 

hard 
To  halt  and  rally  them. 

SuTH.    Say'st   thou,    MacDonnell?  — 

Add  another  falsehood, 
And  name  when  Morarchat  was  coward 

or  traitor? 
Thine  island  race,  as  chronicles  can  tell. 
Were  oft  affianced  to  the  Southron  cause; 
Loving  the  weight  and  temper  of  their 

gold. 
More  than  the  weight  and  temper  of  their 

steel. 
Reg.  Peace,  my  lords,  ho. 
Ross  (thro7oing  do7vn  his  glove).  Mac- 
Donnell will  not  peace  !     There  lies  my 

pledge. 
Proud  Morarchat,  to  witness  thee  a  liar. 
Max.  Brought  I  all  Nithsdale  from  the 

Western  Border; 
Left    I   my  towers  exposed  to   foraying 

Erigland, 
And    thieving   Annandale,   to    see    such 

misrule? 
Johnstone.  Who  speaks  of   Annan- 
dale? 
Dare  Maxwell  slander 
The  gentle  House  of  Lochwood?t 
Reg.    Peace,    Lordings,    once    again. 

We  represent 
The  Majesty  of  Scotland  — in  our  presence 
Brawling  is  treason. 

SuTH.  Were  it  in  presence  of  the  King 

himself. 
What  should  prevent  my  saying 

ILnter  LiNDESAY. 
LiN.    You   must    determine    quickly. 

Scarce  a  mile 
Parts  our  vanguard  from  Edward's.     On 

the  plain 
Bright  gleams  of  armor  flash  thro'  clouds 

of  dust. 
Like  stars  thro'  frost-mist  —  steeds  neigh, 

and  weapons  clash  — 
And  arrows  soon  will  whistle  —  the  worst 

sound 
That  waits  on  English  war.  —  You  must 

determine. 
Reg.  We   are  determined.     We  will 

spare  proud  Edward 

t  Lochwood  Castle  was  the  ancient  seat  •(  lh« 
Johnstones,  Lords  of  Annandale. 


5SO 


DRAMATIC  PIECES. 


Act  I. 


Half  of  the  ground  that  parts  us.  —  On- 
ward, Lords; 

Saint  Andrew  strike  for  Scotland  !     We 
will  lead 

The   middle  ward  ourselves,  the   Royal 
Standard 

Display 'd   beside    us;    and    beneath   its 
shadow 

Shall  the  young  gallants,  whom  we  knight 
this  day, 

Fight  for  their  golden  spurs.  —  Lennox, 
thou'rt  wise, 

And  wilt  obey  command  —  lead  thou  the 
rear. 
Len.    The   rear  ?  —  why  I    the    rear  ? 
The  van  were  fitter 

For  him  who  fought  abreast  with  Robert 
Bruce. 
Swi.    («/«/-/).    Discretion   hath    for- 
saken Lennox  too ! 

The  wisdom  he  was  forty  years  in  gathering 

Has  left  him  in  an  instant.     'Tis  con- 
tagious 

Even  to  witness  frenzy. 

SuTH.     The  Regent  hath  determined 
well.     The  rear 

Suits  him  the  best  who  counsell'd  our  re- 
treat. 
Len.   Proud  Northern  Thane,  the  van 
were  soon  the  rear, 

Were   thy  disorder'd   followers    planted 
there. 
SuTH.    Then,   for    that   very   word    I 
make  a  vow. 

By  my  broad  Earldom  and  my  father's 
soul. 

That,  if  I  have  not  leading  of  the  van, 

I  will  not  fight  to-day ! 

Ross.   Morarchat !  thou  the  leading  of 
the  van ! 

Not  whilst  MacDonnell  lives. 

Swi.  {apart).  Nay,  then  a  stone  would 
speak. 

[Addresses  the  Regent.]    May't  please 
your  Grace, 

And   you,  great   Lords,  to  hear  an  old 
man's  counsel. 

That  hath  seen  fights  enow.     These  open 
bickerings 

Dishearten  all  our  host.     If  that    your 
Grace 

With  these  great  Earls  and  Lords  must 
needs  debate, 


Let  the  closed  tent  conceal  your  disagree- 
ment; 

Else  'twill  be  said,  ill  fares  it  with  the 
flock. 

If  shepherds  wrangle  when  the  wolf  is 
nigh. 
Reg.  The  old  Knight  counsels  well. 
Let  every  Lord 

Or  Chief,  who  leads  five  hundred  men 
or  more. 

Follow  to  council — others  are  excluded — 

We'll   have  no  vulgar  censurers  of  our 
conduct  —      [  Looking  at  SwiNTON. 

Young  Gordon,  your  high  rank  and  nu- 
merous following 

Give  you  a  seat  with  us,   tho'   yet   un- 
knighted. 
Gordon.   I  pray  you,  pardon  me.    My 
youth's  unfit 

To  sit  in  council,  when  that  Knight's  gray 
hairs 

And  wisdom  wait  without. 

Reg.  Do  as  you  will;   we  deign  not 
bid  you  twice. 

[  The  Regent,  Ross,  Sutherland, 
Lennox,  Maxwell,  etc.,  enter  the 
Tent.      The  rest  I'emain  grouped 
about  the  Stage. 
GOR.  {^observing  Svvi).  That   helmet- 
less  old  Knight,  his  giant  stature. 
His  awful  accents  of  rebuke  and  wisdom. 
Have  caught  my  fancy  strangely.     He 

doth  seem 
Like  to  some  vision'd  form  which  I  have 

dream'd  of. 
But  never  saw  with  waking  eyes  till  now. 
I  will  accost  him. 

ViP.   Pray  you,  do  not  so; 
Anon  I'll  give  you  reason  why  you  should 
not. 

There's  other  work  in  hand 

GoR.   I  will  but  ask  his  name.    There's 
in  his  presence 
Something  that  works   upon  me  like  a 

spell. 
Or  like  the  feeling  made  my  childish  ear 
Dote  upon  tales  of  superstitious  dread. 
Attracting  while  they  chill'd  my  heart 

with  fear. 
Now,  born  the  Gordon,  I  do  feel  right  well 
I'm  bound  to  fear  naught  earthly  —  and 
I  fear  naught. 


Scene  II. 


HALIDON  HILL. 


55» 


I'll  know  who  this  man  is 

\_Accosts  SWINTON. 
Sir  Knight,  I  pray  you,  of  your  gentle 

courtesy, 
To  tell  your  honor'd  name.   I  am  ashamed, 
Being  unknown  in  arms,  to  say  that  mine 
Is  Adam  Gordon. 

SwiNTON  i^sho'ws  emotion,  but  instantly 
subdues  if).    It  is  a  name  that  sound- 
eth  in  my  ear 
Like  to  a  death-knell  —  ay,  and  like  the 

call 
Of  the  shrill  trumpet  to  the  mortal  lists; 
Yet,  'tis  a  name  which  ne'er  hath  been 

dishonor'd; 
And  never  will,  1  trust  — most  surely  never 
By  such  a  youth  as  thou. 

GoR.  There's  a  mysterious  courtesy  in 
this, 
And  yet  it  yields  no  answer  to  my  question. 
I  trust  you  hold  the  Gordon  not  unworthy 
To  know  the  name  he  asks? 

Swi.   Worthy  of  all  that  openness  and 
honor 
May  show  to  friend  or  foe  —  but,  for  my 

name, 
Vipont  will  show  it  you;  and,  if  it  sounds 
Harsh    in    your    ear,    remember    that    it 

knells  there 
But  at  your  own  request.     This  day,  at 

least, 
Tho'  seldom  wont  to  keep  it  in  conceal- 
ment. 
As  there's  no  cause  I  should,  you  had 
not  heard  it. 
GoR.   This  strange  — 
Vip.  The  mystery  is  needful.     Follow 
me.    [  They  retire   behind  the  side 
scene.  ] 
Swi.  {looking after  them').   "Tisabrave 
youth.    How  blush'd  his  noble  cheek. 
While  youthful  modesty,  and  the  embar- 
rassment 
Of  curiosity,  combined  with  wonder, 
And  half  suspicionof  someslightintended, 
All  mingled  in  the  flush;  but  soon  'twill 

deepen 
Into  revenge's  glow.  How  slow  is  Vipont ! 
I  wait  the  issue,  as  I've  seen  spectators 
Suspend  the  motion  even  of  the  eyelids, 
When  the  slow  gunner,  with  his  lighted 

match, 
Approach'd  the  charged  cannon,  in  the  act 


To  waken  its  dread  slumbers.  —  Now  'tis 

out; 
He  draws  his  sword,  and  rushes  towards 

me. 
Who  will  not  seek  nor  shun  him. 

Enter  Gordon,  withheld  by  ViPONT. 
Vip.  Hold,  for  the  sake  of  Heaven  !  — 

O,  for  the  sake 
Of  your  dear  country,  hold !  —  Has  Swin- 

ton  slain  your  father, 
And  must  you,  therefore,  be  yourself  a 

parricide, 
And  stand  recorded  as  the  selfish  traitor. 
Who  in  her  hour  of  need,  his  country's 

cause 
Deserts,  that  he   may  wreak  a  private 

wrong  ? 
Look  to  yon  banner  —  that  is  Scotland's 

standard; 
Look  to  the  Regent  —  he  is  Scotland's 

general ; 
Look  to  the  English  —  they  are  Scotland's 

foemen ! 
Bethink  thee,   then,   thou  art  a  son  of 

Scotland, 
And  think  on  naught  Ixjside. 

GOR.  He  hath  come  here  to  brave  me ! 

—  Off !  unhand  me  !  — 
Thou  canst  not  be  my  f  ather'sancient  friend, 
That  stand'st  'twixt  me  and  him  who  slew 

my  father. 
Vip.  You  know  not  Swinton.     Scarce 

one  passing  thought 
Of  his  high  mind  was  with  you;  now,  his 

soul 
Is  fix'd  on  this  day's  battle.     You  might 

slay  him 
At  unawares,  before  he  saw  your  blade 

drawn,  — 
Stand  still,  and  watch  him  close. 

Enter  Maxwell /row  the  tent. 
Swi.  How  go  our  councils.  Maxwell, 

may  I  ask? 
Max.  As  wild,   as  if  the  very  wind 
and  sea 
With  every  breeze  and  every  billow  battled 
For  their  precedence. 

Swi.  Most   sure   they  are   possess'd ! 
Some  evil  spirit. 
To  mock  their  valor,  robs  them  of  dis* 
cretion. 


552 


DRAMATIC  PIECES. 


Act  I. 


Fie,  fie  upon  't ! —  O,  that  Dunfermline's 

tomb 
Could  render  up  The  Bruce  !  that  Spain's 

red  shore 
Could  give  us  back  the  good  Lord  James 

of  Douglas ! 
Or  that  fierce  Randolph,  with  his  voice 

of  terror. 
Were  here,  to  awe  these  brawlers  to  sub- 
mission ! 
Vip.  (/o  Gor).  Thou  hast  perused  him 

at  more  leisure  now. 
GoR.  I  see  the  giant  form  which  all 

men  speak  of. 
The  stately  port  —  but  not  the  sullen  eye. 
Not   the  bloodthirsty  look,  that  should 

belong 
To  him  that  made  me  orphan.     I  shall 

need 
To  name  my  father  twice  ere  I  can  strike 
At  such  gray  hairs,  and  face  of  such  com- 
mand; 
Yet  my  hand  clenches  on  my  falchion  hilt, 
In  token  he  shall  die. 

Vip.  Need  I  again  remind  you,  that 

the  place 
Permits  not  private  quarrel? 

GoR.   I'm   calm.     I   will    not   seek  — 

nay,  I  will  shun  it  — 
And  yet  methinks  that  such  debate's  the 

fashion. 
You've    heard   how    taunts,   reproaches, 

and  the  lie, 
The  lie  itself,  have  flown  from  mouth  to 

mouth ; 
As  if  a  band  of  peasants  were  disputing 
Alwut    a    foot-ball    match,    rather    than 

Chiefs 
Were  ordering  a  battle.     I  am  young, 
And  lack  experience;    tell  me,  brave  De 

Vipont, 
Is  such  the  fashion  of  your  wars  in  Pales- 
tine? 
Vip.  Such  it  at  times  hath  been;   and 

then  the  Cross 
Hath  sunk  before  the  Crescent.    Heaven's 

cause 
Won  us  not  victory  where  wisdom  was 

not.  — 
Behold  yon  English  host  come  slowly  on. 
With  equal  front,  rank  marshall'd  upon 

rank, 
As  if  one  spirit  ruled  one  moving  body; 


The  leaders,  in  their  places,  each  prepared 
To  charge,   support,   and   rally,  as  the 

fortune 
Of  changeful  battle  needs;   then  look  on 

ours. 
Broken,  disjointed,  as  the  tumbling  surges 
Which  the  winds  wake  at  random.     Look 

on  both, 
And  dread  the  issue;  yet  there  might  be 

succor. 
GoR.  We're  fearfully  o'ermatched  in 

discipline; 
So  even  my  inexperienced  eye  can  judge. 
What  succor  save  in  Heaven? 

Vip.  Heaven   acts  by  human   means. 

The  artist's  skill 
Supplies  in  war,  as  in  mechanic  crafts. 
Deficiency    of   tools.     There's   courage, 

wisdom. 
And  skill  enough,  live  in  one  leader  here. 
As,  flung  into  the  balance,  might  avail 
To  counterpoise  the  odds  'twixt  that  ruled 

host 
And  our  wild  multitude.  —  I  must   not 

name  him. 
GOR.   I   guess,   but    dare    not   ask.  — 

What  band  is  yonder. 
Arranged  as  closely  as  the  English  dis- 
cipline 
Hath  marshall'd  their  best  files? 

ViP.  Know'st  thou  not  the  pennon? 
One  day,  perhaps,  thou'lt  see  it  all  too 

closely;  — ■ 
It  is  Sir  Alan  Swinton's. 

GoR.  These,  then,  are  his,  —  the  relics 

of  his  power; 
Yet  worth  an  host  of  ordinary  men.  — 
And   I    must    slay    my  country's   sagest 

leader. 
And  crush  by  numbers  that  determined 

handful. 
When  most  my  country  needs  their  prac- 
tised aid. 
Or  men  will  say,  "  There  goes  degenerate 

Gordon ; 
His  father's  blood  is  on  the  Swinton's 

sword. 
And  his  is  in  his  scabbard!  "        [Muses. 
Vip.  {(ipiiri).   High  blood  and  mettle, 

mix'd  with  early  wisdom, 
Sparkle  in  this  brave  youth.    If  he  survive 
This  evil-omen'd  day,  I  pawn  my  word, 
That,  in  the  ruin  which  I  now  forebode, 


Scene  II. 


HALIDON  HILL. 


553 


Scotland  has  treasure  left.  —  How  close 

he  eyes 
Each  look  and  step  of  Swinton !     Is  it 

hate, 
Or  is  it  admiration,  or  are  both 
Commingled  strangely  in  that  steady  gaze? 

[SwiNTON  and  Maxwell  return 

from  the  bottom  of  the  stage. 
Max.    The    storm   is   laid   at   length 
amongst  these  counsellors; 
See,  they  come  forth. 

Swi.  And  it  is  more  than  time; 
For  I  can  mark  the  vanguard  archery 
Handling  their  quivers — bending  up  their 
bows. 

Enter  the  Regent  and  Scottish  Lords. 
Reg.  Thus  shall  it  be,  then,  since  we 
may  no  better; 
And,  since  no  Lord  will  yield  one  jot  of 

way 
To  this  high  urgency,  or  give  the  vanguard 
Up  to  another's  guidance,  we  will  abide 

them 
Even  on  this  bent;  and  as  our  troops  are 

rank'd. 
So  shall  they  meet  the  foe.     Chief,  nor 

Thane, 
Nor  Noble,  can  complain  of  the  preced- 
ence 
Which  chance  has  thus  assigned  him. 
Swi.  (a/art).  O,  sage  discipline, 
That  leaves  to  chance  tlie  marshalling  of 
a  battle  ! 
GoK.  Move  him  to  speech,  De  Vifront. 
V'ic.  Move  him  !  —  Move  whom? 
GoR.   Even  him,  whom,  but  brief  space 
since, 
My  hand  did  burn  to  put  to  utter  silence. 
ViP.   I'll  move  it  to  him.  —  Swinton, 
speak  U>  them, 
They  lack  thy  counsel  sorely. 

Swi.   Had  I  the  thousand  spears  which 
once  I  led, 
I  had  not  thus  been  silent.     But  men's 

wisdom 
Is  rated  by  their  means.     From  the  poor 

leader 
Of  sixtylances,whoseekswordsof  weight ! 
GOR.  (^steps forward).  Swinton,  there's 
that  of  wisdom  on  thy  brow. 
And  valor  in  thine  eye,  and  that  of  peril 


In  this  most  urgent  hour,  that  bids  me 

say,  — 
Bids  me,  thy  mortal  foe,  say,  —  Swinton, 

speak, 
For  King  and  Country's  sake. 

Swi.  Nay,  if  that  voice  commands  me, 
speak  I  will; 
It  sounds  as  if  the  dead  lays  charge  on  me. 
Reg.  {to  Lennox,  with  whom  he  has 
been    consulting).    'Tis   better    than 
you  think.     This  broad  hillside 
Affords  fair  compass  for  our  power's  dis- 
play. 
Rank  above  rank  rising  in  seemly  tiers; 
So  that  the  rearward  stands  as  fair  and 
open  — 
Swi.     As  e'er  stood  mark  before  an 

English  archer. 
Reg.     Who  dares  to  say  so  ?  —  Who 
is't  dare  impeach 
Our  rule  of  discipline  ? 

Swi.  a  poor  Knight  of  these  Marches, 
good  my  Lord; 
Alan  of  Swinton,  who  hath  kept  a  house 

here. 
He  and  his  ancestry,  since  the  old  days 
Of  Malcolm,  called  the  Maiden. 

Reg.   Vou    have    brought    here,  even 
to  this  pitched  field, 
In  which  the  Royal  Banner  is  display 'd, 
I  think  some  sixty  sjjcars,  Sir  Knight  of 

Swinton; 
Our  musters  name  no  more. 

Swi.  I  brought  each  man  I  had;   and; 
Chief,  or  Earl, 
Thane,   Duke,    or    dignitary,   brings    no 

more : 
And  with  them  brought  I  what  may  here 

be  useful  — 
An  aged  eye;  which,  what  in  England, 

Scotland, 
Spain,  France,  and  Flanders,  hath  seen 

fifty  battles. 
And   ta'en  some  judgment  of    them;    a 

stark  hand  too. 
Which  plays  as  with   a  straw  with  this 

same  mace,  — 
Which   if  a  young  arm    here   can  wield 

more  lightly, 
I  never  more  will  offer  word  of  counsel. 
Len.   Hear  him,  my  Lord;    it  is  the 
noble  Swinton  — 
He  hath  had  high  experience. 


554 


DRAMATIC  PIECES. 


Act  I. 


Max.  He  is  noted 

The  wisest  warrior  'twixt  the  Tweed  and 

Solway,  —  • 

I  do  beseech  you,  hear  him. 
Johnstone.  Ay,  hear  the  Swinton  — 

hear  stout  old  Sir  Alan; 
Maxwell  and  Johnstone  both  agree   for 

once. 
Reg.  Where's  your  impatience  now? 
Late  you  were  all  for  battle,  would  not 

hear 
Ourself   pronounce    a  word  —  and  now 

you  gaze 
On  yon  old  warrior,  in  his  antique  armor. 
As  if  he  were  arisen  from  the  dead. 
To  bring  us  Bruce's  counsel  for  the  battle. 
Swi.   'Tis  a  proud  word  to  speak;  but 

he  who  fought 
Long  under  Robert  Bruce,  may  something 

guess. 
Without  communication  with  the  dead. 
At    what   he    would    have    cousell'd.  — 

Bruce  had  bidden  ye 
Review    your     battle-order,    marshall'd 

broadly 
Here  on  the  bare   hillside,  and  bidden 

you  mark 
Yon  clouds  of  Southron  archers,  bearing 

down 
To  the  green  meadow-lands  which  stretch 

beneath;  — 
The  Bruce  had  warn'd  you,  not  a  shaft 

to-day 
But  shall  find   mark   within    a    Scottish 

bosom. 
If  thus  our  field  be  order'd.     The  callow 

boys, 
Who  draw  but  four-foot  bows,  shall  gall 

our  front, 
While  on  our  mainward,  and  upon  the 

rear, 
The  cloth-yard  shafts  shall  fall  like  death's 

own  darts, 
And,  tho'  blind  men  discharge  them,  find 

a  mark. 
Thus  shall  we  die  the  death  of  slaughter'd 

deer, 
Which,  driven  into  the  toils,  are  shot  at 

ease 
By  boys    and    women,   while    they    toss 

aloft 
All  idly  and  in  vain  their  branchy  horns. 
As  we  shall  shake  our  unavailing  spears. 


Reg.  Tush,  tell  not  me !  if  their  shot 

fall  like  hail. 
Our  men  have  Milan  coats  to  bear  it  out. 
Swi.  Never  did  armorer  temper  steel 

on  stithy 
That  made  sure  fence  against  an  English 

arrow; 

A  cobweb  gossamer  were  guard  as  good       I 
Against  a  wasp-sting.  j 

Reg.   Who  fears  a  wasp-sting  ?  I 

Swi.  I,  my  Lord,  fear  none; 

Yet  should  a  wise  man  brush  the  insect 

off. 
Or  he  may  smart  for  it. 

Reg.   We'll  keep  the  hill;    it   is    the 

vantage  ground 
When  the  main  battle  joins. 

Swi.   It    ne'er    will    join,  while    their 

light  archery 
Can   foil  our  spearmen  and   our  barbed      J 

horse.  \ 

To  hope  Plantagenet  would  seek   close 

combat 
When  he  can  conquer  riskless,  is  to  deem 
Sagacious  Edward  simpler  than  a  babe 
In  battle  knowledge.      Keep  the  hill,  my 

Lord, 
With  the  main  body,  if  it  is  your  pleasure; 
But  let  a  body  of  your  chosen  horse 
Make  execution  on  yon  waspish  archers. 
I've  done  such  work  before,  and  love  it 

well; 
If  'tis  your  pleasure  to  give  me  the  leading, 
The  dames  of  Sherwood,  Inglewood,  and 

Weardale, 
Shall  sit  in  widowhood  and  long  for  veni- 
son. 
And  long  in  vain.     Whoe'er  remembers 

Bannockburn,  — 
And  when  shall   Scotsman,  till  the  last 

loud  trumpet, 
Forget  that  stirring  word! — knows  that 

great  battle 
Even  thus  was  fought  and  won. 

Len.  This   is    the    shortest    road    to 

bandy  blows; 
For  when  the  bills  step  forth  and  bows 

go  back, 
Then  is  the  moment  that  our  hardy  spear- 
men. 
With  their  strong  bodies,  and  their  stub- 
born hearts. 
And  limbs  well  knit  by  mountain  exercise, 


Scene  II. 


HALIDON  HILL. 


555 


At  the   close   tug   shall  foil    the   short- 
breath'd  Southron. 
Swi.   I  do  not  say  the  field  will  thus 
be  won; 
The  English  host  is  numerous,  brave,  and 

loyal; 
ITieir  Monarch  most  accomplish'd  in  war's 

art, 
Skill'd,  resolute,  and  wary  — 

Reg.  And  if  your  scheme  secure  not 
victory, 
What  does  it  promise  us? 

Swi.  This  much  at  least,  — 

Darkling  we  shall  not  die:  the  peasant's 

shaft, 
I^osen'd  perchance  without   an  aim  or 

purpose, 
Shall  not  drink  up  the  life-blood  we  deiive 
From  those  famed  ancestors,  who  made 

their  breasts 
This    frontier's    barrier    for    a    thousand 

years. 
We'll  meet  these  Southron  bravely  hand 

to  hand. 
And   eye   to   eye,   and  weapon   against 

weapon; 
Each  man  who  falls  shall  see  the  foe  who 

strikes  him. 
While  our  good  blades  are  faithful  to  the 

hilts, 
And  our  good  hands  to  these  good  blades 

are  faithful. 
Blow  shall  meet  blow,  and  none  fall  un- 
avenged — 
We  shall  not  bleed  alone. 

Reg.  And  this  is  all 

Your  wisdom  hath  devised  ? 

Swi.     Not  all;    for  I  would  pray  you, 
noble  Lords, 
(If    one,     among    the    guilty    guiltiest, 

might,) 
For  this  one  day  to  charm  to  ten  hours' 

rest 
The  never-dying  worm  of  deadly  feud. 
The  gnaws  our  vexed  hearts  —  think  no 

one  foe 
Save  Edward  and  his  host :  —  days  will 

remain. 
Ay,  days  by  far  too  many  will  remain. 
To  avenge  old  feuds  or  struggle  for  pre- 
cedence; — 
Let  this  one  day  be   Scotland's. — For 
myself. 


If  there  is  any  here  may  claim  from  mc 
(As  well   may  chance)  a  debt  of  blood 

and  hatred, 
My  life  is  his  to-morrow  unresisting. 
So  he  to-day  will  let  me  do  the  best 
That   my  old  arm  may  achieve    for  the 

dear  country 
That's  mother  to  us  both. 

[Gordon  shmvs  much  etnolton 
Juting  llm  and  the  ptetediHg 
speech  of  SwiNTON. 

Reg.     It  is  a  dieam — a  vision  !  —  if 
one  troop 
Rush  down   upon   the   archers,  all  will 

follow, 
And  order  is  destroy'd —  we'll  keep  the 

battle-rank 
Our  fathers  wont  to  do.     No  more  on't. 

—  Ho! 
Where  be  those  youths  seek  knighthood 
from  our  sword? 
Her.     Here  are  the  Gordon,  Somer- 
ville,  and  Hay, 
And  Hepburn,  with  a  score  of  gallants 
more. 
Reg.     Gordon,  stand  forth. 
GoR.     I  pray  your  Grace  forgive  me. 
Reg.     How  !  seek  you  not  for  knight- 
hood? 
GoR.  I  do  thirst  for't. 

But,  pardon  me  —  'lis  from  another  sword. 
Reg.   It  is  your  Sovereign's  —  seek  you 

for  a  worthier? 
GoR.  Who  would  drink  purely,  seeks 
the  secret  fountain, 
How    small    soever  —  not    the    general 

stream, 
TTio'  it  be  deep  and  wide.    My  lord,  I  seek 
The  boon  of  knighthood  from  the  honor'd 

weapon 
Of  the  best   knight,  and  of  the  sagest 

leader, 
That  ever  graced  a  ring  of  chivalry. 
—  Therefore.  I  beg  the  boon  on  bended' 

knee, 
Even  from  Sir  Alan  Swinton.      [Kneels. 
Reg.  Degenerate  boy  I    Abject  atonce 
and  insolent !  — 
See,  Lords,  he  kneels  to  him  that  slew 
his  father ! 
GOR.  (^sfartiiig  up).  Shame  be  on  him 
who  speaks  such  shameful  word ! 


556 


DRAMATIC  PIECES. 


Act  I. 


Shame  be  on  him,  whose  tongue  would 

sow  dissension, 
When  most  the  time  demands  that  native 

Scotsmen 
Forget  each  private  wrong  ! 
Swi.  (^interruftifig him).  Youth,  since 

you  crave  me 
Fo  be  your  sire  in  chivalry,  I  remind  you 
War  has  its  duties.  Office  has  its  reverence; 
Who  governs  in  the  Sovereign's  name  is 

Sovereign ; 
^rave  the  Lord  Regent's  pardon. 
GoR.  You  task  me  justly,  and  I  crave 

his  pardon.      [Bows  to  the  Regent. 
His  and  these  noble   Lords';   and  pray 

them  all 
Bear  witness  to  my  words.  —  Ye  noble 

presence, 
[iere  I  remit  unto  the  Knight  of  Swin- 

ton 
\11  bitter  memory  of  my  father's  slaughter, 
\11  thoughts  of  malice,  hatred,  and  re- 
venge; 
By  no  base  fear  or  composition  moved, 
But  by  the  thought,  that  in  our  country's 

battle 
Ml  hearts  should  be  as  one,     I  do  for- 
give him 
\s  freely  as  I  pray  to  be  forgiven. 
\nd  once  more  kneel  to  him  to  sue  \ux 

knighthood. 
Swi .  ( affcdt'd and dra-wing his  rMord'). 
\las  !  brave  youth,  'tis  I  should  kneel  to 

you, 
\nd,  tendering  thee  the  hilt  of  the  fell 

sword 
rhat  made  thee  fatherless,  bid  thee  use 

the  point 
\fter    thine    own    discretion.      For    thy 

boon  — 
Frumpets,  be  ready —  in  the  Holiest  name 
^nd  in  our  Lady's  and  Saint  Andrew's 

name, 
[  Touching  his  shoulder  with  his  srvord. 
[  dub  thee  knight !  —  Arise,  Sir  Adam 

Gordon  ! 
Be  faithful,  brave,  and  O,  be  fortunate, 
Should  this  ill  hour  permit ! 

[  The  trumpets  sound  ;  the  Heralds 
cry  "  Largesse,"  and  the  attend- 
ants shout  "A  Gordon!  A  Gor- 
don !  " 


Rexj.  Beggars  and  flatterers !     Peace, 

peace,  I  say ! 
We'll  to  the  Standard;  knights  shall  there 

be  made 
Who  will  with  better  reason  crave  your 

clamor. 
Len.  What  of  Swinton's  counsel? 
Here's  Maxwell  and  myself  think  it  worth 

noting. 
Reg.  (joith  concentrated  indignation'). 
Let  the  best  knight,  and  let  the  sagest 

leader  — 
So  Gordon  quotes  the  man  who  slew  his 

father, — 
With  his  old  pedigree  and  heavy  mace. 
Essay  the  adventure  if  it  pleases  him. 
With  his  fair  threescore  horse.     As  for 

ourselves, 
We  will  not  peril  aught  upon  the  measure. 
GoR.   Lord  Regent,  you  mistake;    for 

if  Sir  Alan 
Shall  venture  such  attack,  each  man  who 

calls 
The  Gordon  Chief,  and   hopes  or  fears 

from  him 
Or  good  or  evil,  follows  Swinton's  banner 
In  this  achievement. 

Reg.  Why,  God  ha'  mercy !     This  is 

of  a  piece. 
Let  young  and  old  e'en  follow  their  own 

counsel, 
Since  none  will  list  to  mine. 

Ro.ss.   The  Border  cockerel  fain  would 

be  on  horseback; 
'Tis  safe  to  be  prepared  for  fight  or  flight. 
And   this  conies  of   it  to  give  Northern 

lands 
To  the  false  Norman  blood. 

GOK.   Hearken,  proud  Cliief  of  Isles! 

Within  my  stalls 
I  have  two  hundred  horse;   two  hundred 

riders 
Mount  guard  upon  my  castle,  who  would 

tread 
Into  the  dust  a  thousand  of  your  Red- 
shanks, 
Nor  count  it  a  day's  service. 

Swi.  Hear  I  this 

P'rom  thee,  young  man,  and  on  the  day 

of  battle? 
And  to  the  brave  MacDonnell  ? 

GoR.   'Twas  he  that  urged  me;    but  I 

am  rebuked. 


Scene  II. 


HALIDON  HILL. 


557 


Reg.   He  crouches  like  a  leash-hound 

to  his  master  !  * 
Swi.    Each   hound    must    do   so   that 
would  head  the  deer  -=- 
'Tis  mongrel  curs  that  snatch  at  mate  or 
master. 
Reg.  Too  much  of  this.     Sirs,  to  the 
Royal  Standard ! 
I   bid  you,   in  the   name   of  good  King 

David. 
Sound  trumpets  —  sound  for  Scotland  and 
King  David ! 

[  The  Regent  and  ihe  rest  go  off, 
and  the  Scene  closes.  Maneut 
Gordon,  Swinton,  and  Vi- 
PONT,  -wilh  Reynald  and  fol- 
lo-Mcrs.  Lennox  follozvs  the 
Regent;  but  returns,  and  ad- 
dresses Swinton. 

Len.  O,  were  my  western  horsemen 
but  come  up, 
I  would  take  part  with  you ! 

Swi.  Better  that  you  remain; 

They  lack  discretion;    such  gray  head  as 

yours 
May  best  supply  that  want. 
Lennox,  mine  ancient  friend,  and  honor'd 

lord. 
Farewell,  I  think,  forever! 

Len.   Farewell,    brave    friend! — and 
farewell,  noble  Gordon, 
Whose  sun  will  be  eclipsed  even  as  it 

rises !  — 
The  Regent  will  not  aid  you. 

Swi.  We  will  so  bear  us,  that  as  soon 
the  bloodhound 
Shall  halt,  and  take  no  part,  what  time 

his  comrade 
Is  grappling  with  the  deer,  as  he  stand  still. 
And  see  us  overniatch'd. 

Len.  Alas !  thou  dost  not  know  how 
mean  his  pride  is, 
How  strong  his  envy. 

Swi.  Then  we  will  die,  and  leave  the 

shame  with  him.        [Exit  Lennox. 

ViP.  {to   Gordon).    What    ails   thee, 

noble    youth?      What    means    this 

pause  ? 

Thou  dost  not  rue  thy  generosity  ? 

*  The  laws  of  chivalr>'  demanded  this  submis- 
sion to  a  father  in  chivalry. 


Gor.  I  have  been  hurried  on  by  strong 
impulse. 

Like  to  a  bark  that  scuds  before  the  storm. 

Till  driven  upon  some  strange  and  distant 
coast. 

Which  never  pilot  dream'd  of.  —  Have 
I  not  forgiven? 

And  am  I  not  still  fatherless? 

Swi.  Gordon,  no; 

For  while  we  live  I  am  a  father  to  thee. 
Gor.    Thou,    Swinton? — no!  —  that 

cannot,  cannot  be. 
Swi.  Then  change  the  phrase,  and  say, 
that  while  we  live, 

Gordon  shall  be  my  son.     If  thou  art 
fatherless. 

Am  I  not  childless  too?     Bethink  thee, 
Gordon, 

Our  death-feud  was  not  like  the  house- 
hold fire. 

Which  the  poor  peasant  hides  among  its 
embers. 

To  smoulder  on,  and  wait  a  time  for  wak- 
ing. 

Ours  was  the  conflagration  of  the  forest. 

Which,  in  its  fury,  spares  nor  sprout  nor 
stem. 

Hoar  oak,  nor  sapling —  not  to  be  extin- 
guish'd, 

Till  Heaven,  in  mercy,  sends  down  all 
her  waters; 

But,  once  suMued,  its  flame  is  quench'd 
forever; 

And  spring  shall  hide  the  tract  of  devas- 
tation. 

With   foliage   and  with   flowers.  —  Give 
me  thy  hand. 
Gor.  My  hand  and  heart !  —  And  freely 

now  !  —  to  fight ! 
ViP.  How  will  you  act?    [  7Vj  Swin- 
ton.]   The  Gordon's  band  and  thine 

Are    in    the    rearward    left,    I   think,   in 
scorn  — 

111  post  for  them  who  wish  to  charge  the 
foremost : 
Swi.  We'll  turn  the  scorn  to  vantage, 
and  descend 

Sidelong  the  hill  —  some  winding  path 
there  must  be  — 

O,  for  a  well-skill'd  guide! 

[Hob  Hattely  starts  uf  from 
a  thicket. 


558 


DRAMATIC  PIECES. 


Act  II. 


Hob.  So  here  he  stands.  —  An  ancient 

friend,  Sir  Alan. 
Hob  Hattely,  or,  if  you  like  it  lx;tter, 
Hob  of  the  Heron   Plume,  here  stands 

your  guide. 
Swi.  An    ancient    friend?  —  a    most 

notorious  knave, 
Whose  throat  I've  destin'd  to  the  dod- 
der'd  oak 
Before  my  castle,  these  ten  months  and 

more. 
Was  it  not  you  who  drove   from  Sim- 
prim-mains, 
And    Swinton-quarter,    sixty    head     of 

cattle? 
Hob.     What  then,  if  now  I  lead  your 

sixty  lances 
Upon   the    English   flank,  where   they'll 

find  spoil 
Is  worth  six  hundred  beeves? 

Swi.     Why,  thou  canst  do  it,  knave. 

I  would  not  trust  thee 
With  one  poor  bullock;  yet  would  risk 

my  life, 
And  all  my  followers,  on  thine  honest 

guidance. 
Hob.  There  is  a  dingle,  and  a  most 

discreet  one 
(I've  trod  each  step  by  starlight),   that 

sweeps  round 
The   rearward    of    this    hill,    and    opens 

secretly 
Upon  the  archers'  flank.  —  Will  not  that 

serve 
Your  present  turn,  Sir  Alan? 

Swi.  Bravely,  bravely ! 

GoR.  Mount,  sirs,  and  cry  my  slogan  : 

Let   all   who   love    the   Gordon    follow 

me ! 
Swi.  Ay,  let  all  follow  —  but  in  silence 

follow. 
Scare  not  the  hare  that's  couchant  on  her 

form  — 
The  cushat  from  her  nest  —  brush  not,  if 

possible, 
The  dew-drop  from  the  spray  — 
Let     no     one    whisper,    until     I     cry, 

"Havoc!" 
Then  shout  as  loud's  ye  will.  — On,  on, 

brave  Hob; 
On,  thou  false  thief,  but  yet  most  faith- 
ful Scotsman ! 

[  Exeunt. 


ACT  II.  — Scene  I. 

A  rising  Ground  immediately  in  front 
of  the  Position  of  the  English  Main 
Body.  Percy,  Chandos,  Ribaumont, 
and  other  English  and  Norman  Nobles, 
are  grouped  on  the  Stage. 

Per.  The  Scots  still  keep  the  hill  — 
the  sun  grows  high; 
Would  that  the  charge  would  sound. 
Cha.  Thou    scent'st    the     slaughter, 
Percy.  —  Who  comes  here? 

{Enter  the  Abbot  of  Wai.thamstow.) 

Now,  by  my  life,  the  holy  priest  of  Wal- 

thamstow, 
Like  to  a  lamb  among  a  herd  of  wolves ! 
See,  he's  about  to  bleat. 

Ab.  The   King,  methinks,  delays  the 

onset  long. 
Cha.     Your  general.  Father,  like  your 

rat-catcher. 
Pauses  to  bait  his  traps,  and  set  his  snares. 
Ab.  The  metaphor  is  decent. 
Cha.  Reverend  sir, 

I  will  uphold  it  just.     Our  good   King 

Edward 
Will  presently  come  to  this  battlc-fielfl, 
And  speak  to)-ou  of  the  last  tilting  match. 
Or  of  some  feat  he  did  a  twenty  years 

since; 
But  not  a  word  of  the  day's  work  before 

him.  .   • 

Even  as  the  artist,  sir,  whose  name  offends 

you, 
Sits  prosing  o'er  his  can,  until  the  trap 

fall, 
Announcing  that  the  vermin  are  secured. 
And  then  'tis  u]i,  and  on  them. 

Per.  Chandos,  you  give  your  tongue 

too  bold  a  license. 
Cha.   Percy,  I  am  a  necessary  evil. 
King  Edward  would  not  want  me,  if  hr 

could. 
And  could  not,  if  he  would.     I  know  my 

value. 
My  heavy  hand  excuses  my  light  tongue. 
So   men  wear  weighty  swords   in   their 

defence, 
Although  they  may  offend  the  tender  shin, 
When  the  steel-boot  is  doff'd. 

Ab.  My  Lord  of  Chandos, 

This  is  but  idle  speech  on  brink  of  battle, 


Scene  I. 


HALIDON  HILL. 


559 


When  Christian  men  should  think  upon 

their  sins; 
For  as  the  tree  falls,  so  the  trunk  must 

lie, 
Be  it  for  good  or  evil.     Lord,  bethink 

thee. 
Thou  hast  witheld  from  our  most  reverend 

house 
The  tithes  of  Everingham  and  Settleton; 
Wilt  thou  make  satisfaction  to  the  Church, 
Before  her  thunders  strike  thee?     I  do 

warn  thee 
In  most  paternal  sort. 

Cha.   I  thank  you,  Father,  filially; 
Though  but  a  truant  son  of  Holy  Church, 
I  would  not  choose  to  undergo  her  cen- 
sures. 
When  Scottish  blades  are  waving  at  my 

throat. 
I'll  make  fair  composition. 

Ab.  No  composition;  I'll  have  all,  or 

none. 
Cha.  None,  then  —  'tis  soonest  spoke. 

I'll  take  my  chance, 
And  trust   my  sinful  soul  to   Heaven's 

mercy, 
Rather  than  risk  my  worldly  goods  with 

thee  — 
My  hour  may  not  be  come. 
Ab.    Impious  —  impenitent  — 
Per.   Hush  !  —  the  King  —  the  King ! 

Enter  King  Edward,  attended  by 
Baliol  a7id  otliers. 

King  {apart  to  Cha.).     Hark  hither, 
Chandos !  —  Have    the    Yorkshire 
archers 
Yet  join'd  the  vanguard? 

Cha.  They  are  marching  thither. 

K.    Ed.    Bid   them   make    haste,    for 
shame  — send  a  quick  rider. 
The  loitering  knaves  I  were  it  to  steal  my 

venison. 
Their  steps  were  hght  enough.  —  How 

now.  Sir  Abbot? 
Say,  is  your  reverence    come   to   study 

with  us 
TTie  princely  art  of  war? 

Ab.  I've  had  a  lecture  from  my  Lord 
of  Chandos, 
In  which  he  term'd  your  Grace   a  rat- 
catcher. 
K.  Ed.  Chandos,  how's  this? 


Cha.  O,  I  will  prove  it,  Sir  !  —  These 
skipping  Scots 
Have  changed  a  dozen  times  'twixt  Bruce 

and  Baliol, 
Quitting  each  House  when  it  began  to 

totter; 
They're  fierce  and  cunning,  treacherous, 

too,  as  rats. 
And  we,  as  such,  will  smoke  them  in 
their  fastnesses. 
K.  Ed.   These   rats   have   seen   your 
back,  my  Lord  of  Chandos, 
And  noble  Percy's  too. 

Per.  Ay ;  but  the  mass  which  now  lies 
weltering 
On  yon  hill-side,  like  a  Leviathan 
That's  stranded  on   the   shallows,  then 

had  soul  in't. 
Order  and  discipline,  and  power  of  action. 
Now  'tis  a  heedless  corpse,  which  only 

shows. 
By  wild  convulsions,  that  some  life  re- 
mains in't. 
K.  Ed.  True,  they  had  once  a  head; 
and  'twas  a  wise, 
Altho'  a  rebel  head. 

Ab.  {ficnvin^  to  t/ie  King).     Would  he 
were  here !  we  should  find  one  to 
match  him. 
K.  Ed.  There's  something  in  that  wish 
which  wakes  an  echo 
Within  my  bosom.     Yet  it  is  as  well. 
Or  Ijetter,  that  the  Bruce  is  in  his  grave. 
We  have  enough  of  powerful  foes  on  earth, 
No  need  to  summon   them   from  other 
worlds. 
Per.  Your  Grace  ne'er  met  the  Bruce? 
K.    Ed.    Never   himself;    but   in   my 
earliest  field 
I  did  encounter  with  his  famous  captains, 
Douglas   and    Randolph.      Faith!    they 
press  d  me  hard. 
Ab.  My  Liege,  if    I   might   urge  you 
with  a  question. 
Will  the  Scots  fight  to-day? 

K.  Ed.  {sharply').     Go  look  your  bre- 
viary. 
Cha.  {apart).     The  Abbot  has  it  — 
Edward  will  not  answer 
On  that  nice  point.     We  must  observe 
his  humor.  —  [Addresses  the  KlNG.] 
Your  first  campaign,  my  Liege?  —  That^ 
was  in  Weardale, 


i;6o 


DRAMATIC  PIECES. 


Act  II. 


When  Douglas  gave  our  camp  yon  mid- 
night ruffle, 
And  turn'd  men's  beds  to  biers. 

K.  Ed.  Ay,    by    Saint    Edward !  —  I 

escaped  right  nearly. 
I  was  a  soldier  then  for  holidays, 
And  slept  not  in  mine  armor;  my  safe  rest 
Was    startled   by  the   cry  of  "Douglas! 

Douglas!  " 
And  by  my  couch,  a  grisly  chamberlain, 
Stood   Alan    Swinton,  with    his   bloody 

mace ; 
It  was  a  churchman  saved  me  —  my  stout 

chaplain, 
Heaven  quit  his  spirit !  caught  a  weapon 

up. 
And   grappled  with    the    giant.  —  How 

now,  Louis ! 

Enter  an  Officer,  who  whispers  the  King. 

K.    Ed.    Say    to    him,  —  thus  —  and 
thus  — 

[  Whispers. 
Ab.  That   Swinton's    dead.      A  monk 
of  ours  reported, 
Bound  homeward  from  St.   Ninian's  pil- 
grimage, 
The  Lord  of  Gordon  slew  him. 

Per.   Father,  and  if  your  house  stood 
on  our  borders. 
You  might  have  cause  to  know  that  Swin- 
ton lives, 
And  is  on  horseback  yet. 

Cha.  He  slew  the  Gordon, 

That's  all  the  difference  —  a  very  trifle. 
Ab.  Trifling  to  those  who  wage  a  war 
more  noble 
Than  with  the  arm  of  flesh. 

Cha.    {apiirt).     The    Abbot's    vex'd, 
I'll  rub  the  sore  for  him.  — 
{Aloud).     I  have  seen  priests  that  used 

that  arm  of  flesh. 
And  used  it   sturdily.  —  Most  reverend 

Father, 
What  say  you  to  the  chaplain's  deed  of 

arms 
In  the  King's  tent  at  Weardale? 

Ab.  It  was  most  sinful,  being  against 
the  canon 
Prohibiting  all  churchmen  to  bear  wea- 
pons; 
And  as  he  fell  in  that  unseemly  guise. 
Perchance  his  soul  may  rue  it. 


K.  Ed.    (^overhearing  the  last  words'). 
Who  may  rue? 
And  what  is  to  l)e  rued? 

Cha.   (apart).     I'll  match  his  Rever- 
ence for  the  tithes  of  Everingham. 
—  The  Abbot  says,  my  Liege,  the  deed 

was  sinful. 
By  which  your  chaplain,  wielding  secular 

weapons, 
Secured  your  Grace's  life  and  liberty. 
And  that  he  suffers  for  't  in  purgatory. 
K.  Ei).  {to  ///d' Abbot).     Say'st  thou 

my  chaplain  is  in  purgatory? 
Ab.   It  is  the  canon  speaks  it,  good  my 

Liege. 
K.  Ed.   In  purgatory !  thou  shalt  pray 
him  out  on't. 
Or  I  will  make  thee  wish  thyself  beside 
him. 
Ab.   My  Lord,  perchance   his  soul  is 
past  the  aid 
Of  all  the  Church  may  do;  —  there  is  a 

place 
From  which  there's  no  redemption. 
K.  Ed.  And  if  I  thought  my  faithful 
chaplain  there, 
Thou  shouldst  there  join  him,  priest !  — 

Go,  watch,  fast,  pray. 
And   let    me   have   such  prayers  as  will 

storm  Heaven  — 
None  of  your  maim'd  and  mutter'd  hunt- 
ing masses. 
Ab.  (apart  to  Cha.).     For  God's  sake 

take  him  off. 
Cha.  Wilt  thou  compound,  then. 
The  tithes  of  Everingham? 

K.  Ed.  I  tell  thee,  if  thou  bear'st  the 
keys  of  Heaven, 
Abbot,  thou  shalt  not  turn  a  bolt  with 

them 
'Gainst  any  well-deserving  English  sub- 
ject. 
Ab.  (to  Cha.).    We  will  compound  and 
grant  thee,  too,  a  share 
r  the  next  indulgence.     Thou  dost  need 

it  much, 
And  greatly  'twill  avail  thee. 

Cha.    Enough  —  we're    friends,    and 
when  occasion  serves, 

I  will  strike  in. 

[Aooi-s  as  if  towards  the  Scottish  Army. 
K.  Ed.  Answer,  proud  Abbot;   is  my 
chaplain's  soul. 


Scene  II. 


HALIDON  HILL. 


561 


If  thou  knowest  aught  on't,  in  the  evil 
place? 
Cha.  My.  Liege,  the  Yorkshire    men 
have  gain'd  the  meadow. 
I  see  the  pennon  green  of  merry  Sher- 
wood. 
K.  Ed.  Then  give  the  signal  instant ! 
We  have  lost 
But  too  much  time  already. 

Ab.   My  Liege,  your    holy  chaplain's 

blessed  soid  — 
K.  Ed.  To  hell  with  it  and  thee !     Is 
this  a  time 
To  speak  of  monks  and  chaplains? 

[Flourish  of  'I'r  tan  pets  answered 
by  a  distant  sound  of  Bugles. 
See,  Chandos,  Percy —  Ha,  Saint  George  ! 

Saint  Edward ! 
See   it   descending   now,  the  fatal   hail- 
shower, 
The  storm  of    England's  wrath  —  sure, 

swift,  resistless, 
Which  no  mail-coat  can  brook.  —  Brave 

English  hearts ! 
How  close  they  shoot  together  !  —  as  one 

eye 
Had  aim'd  five  thousands  shafts  —  as  if 

one  hand 
Had  loosed  five  thousand  bow-strings ! 
Per.  The  thick  volley 

Darkens  the  air,  and  hides  the  sun  from 
us. 
K.  Ed.  It  falls  on  those  shall  see  the 
sun  no  more. 
The  winged,  the  resistless  plague  is  with 

them . 
How  their  vex'd  host  is  reeling  to  and 

fro. 
Like  the  chafed  whale  with  fifty  lances 

in  him. 
They  do  not  see,   and  cannot  shun  the 

wound. 
The   storm   is  viewless  as  death's  sable 

wing. 
Unerring  as  his  scythe. 

Per.  Horses  and  riders  are  going  down 
together. 
'Tis  almost  pity  to  see  nobles  fall. 
And  by  a  peasant's  arrow.  1 

Bal.  I  could  weep  them, 

Altho'  they  are  my  rebels. 
Cha.  {aside  to  Per.).     His  conquerors, 
he  means,  who  cast  him  out 


From  4iis  usurped  kingdom. — {Aloud.') 

'Tis  the  worst  of  it, 
That  knights  can  claim  small  honor  in 

the  field 
Which    archers   win,    unaided    by    our 
lances. 
K.  Ed.  The  battle  is  not  ended. 

[Looks  toT.vards  the  field. 
Not    ended?  —  scarce     begun!       What 

horse  are  these, 
Rush  from  the  thicket  underneath  the  hill  ? 
Per.  They're  Hainaulters,  the  follow- 

lowers  of  Queen  Isabel. 
K.  Ed.  {hastily').    Hainaulters  !  —  thou 
art  blind  —  wear  Hainaulters 
Saint  Andrew's  silver  cross?  —  or  would 

they  charge 
Full  on  our  archers,  and  make  havoc  of 

them?  — 
Bruce     is     alive     again  —  ho,     rescue ! 

rescue !  — 
Who  was't  survey'd  the  ground? 
RiBA.   Most  loyal  Liege  — 
K.  Ed.   a  rose  hath  fallen  from    thy 

chaplet,*  Ribaumont. 

RiBA.  I'll  win  it  back,  or  lay  my  head 

beside  it.  [Exit. 

K.  Ed.  Saint  George  !  Saint  Edward  ! 

Gentlemen,  to  horse. 

And   to   the  rescue  !  —  Percy,  lead  the 

billmen; 
Chandos,  do  thou  bring  up  the  men-at- 
arms.  — 
If  yonder  numerous  host  should  now  bear 

down 
Bold  as  their  vanguard  {to  the  Abbot), 

thou  mayst  pray  for  us. 
We   may   need  good   men's   prayers.  — 

To  the  rescue. 
Lords,  to  the  rescue !  ha.  Saint  George ! 
Saint  Edward  !  [Exeunt, 

Scene  II. 

A  part  of  the  Field  oj  Battle  l>etivtxt  tht 

tiuo  Main  Armies.      Tumults  oehina 

the   scenei  ,•     alarums,    and    cries   of 

"Gordon*,  a  Gordon  !  "  "Swinton!" 


*  The  well-known  expression  by  which  Robert 
rtruce  censured  the  negligence  of  Randolph,  for 
permiuing  an  English  body  of  cavalry  to  pass 
his  flank  on  the  day  preceding  the  battle  of 
Bannockbum. 


S62 


DRAMATIC  PIECES. 


Act  II. 


I  Enter,  as  victorious  over  the  English  van- 
guard, ViPONT,  Reynald,  and  others. 

ViP.  'Tis  sweet  to  hear  these  war-cries 

sound  together,  — 
Gordon  and  Swinton. 

Rey.   'Tis    passing    pleasant,    yet  'tis 

strange  withal. 
Faith,  when  at  first  I  heard  the  Gordon's 

slogan 
Sounded  so  near  me,  I  had  nigh  struck 

down 
The  knave  who  cried  it. 

Enter  SwiNTON  «W(/ Gordon. 

Swi.   Pitch   down   my  pennon   in  yon 

holly  bush. 
GOR.  Mine  in  the  thorn  beside  it;    let 

them  wave. 
As  fought  this  morn  their  masters,  side 

by  side. 
Swi.  Let  the  men  rally,  and   restore 

their  ranks 
Here  in  this  vantage-ground  —  disorder'd 

chase 
Leads  to  disorder'd  flight;  we  have  done 

our  part. 
And  if  we're  succor'd  now,  Plantagenet 
Must  turn  his  bridle  southward.  — 
Reynald,  spur  to  the  Regent  with  the 

basnet 
Of  stout  De  Grey,  the  leader  of  their  van- 
guard ; 
Say,  that  in  battle-front  the  Gordon  slew 

him. 
And  by  that  token  bid  him  send  us  suc- 
cor. 
GoR.  And  tell  him  that  when  Selby's 

headlong  charge 
Had  well-nigh  borne  me  down.  Sir  Alan 

smote  him. 
I  cannot  send  his  helmet,  never  nutshell 
Went    to    so    many    shivers.  —  Harkye, 

grooms  !  [  To  those  behind  the  scenes. 
Why  do  you  let   my  noble  steed   stand 

stiffening 
After  so  hot  a  course? 

Swi.  Ay,  breathe  your  horses,  they'll 

have  work  anon. 
For  Edward's  men-at-arms  will  soon  be 

on  us, 
The  flower   of    England,  Gascony,  and 

Flanders; 


But  with  swift  succor  we  will  bide  them 

bravely.  — 
De  Vipont,  thou  look'st  sad. 

ViP.   It  is  because  I  hold  a  Templar's 

sword 
Wet  to  the   crossed  hilt  with   Christian 

blood. 
Swi.  The  blood  of  English  archers  — 

what  can  gild 
A  Scottish  blade  more  bravely? 

ViP.   Even  therefore  grieve  I  for  those 

gallant  yeomen, 
England's  peculiar  and  appropriate  sons, 
Known  in  no  other  land.     Each  boasts 

his  hearth 
And  field  as  free  as  the    best  lord  his 

barony, 
Owing  subjection  to  no  human  vassalage. 
Save  to  their  King  and  law.     Hence  are 

they  resolute, 
Leading  the  van  on  every  day  of  battle, 
As  men  who   know  the   blessings   they 

defend. 
Hence   are   they  frank  and  generous   in 

peace. 
As  men  who  have  their  portion    in  its 

plenty. 
No  other  kingdom  shows  such  worth  and 

happiness 
Veil'd  in  such  low  estate  —  therefore  I 

mourn  them. 
Swi.   I'll  keep  my  sorrow  for  our  native 

Scots, 
Who,  spite  of  hardship,  poverty,  oppres- 
sion. 
Still  follow  to  the  field  their  Chieftain's 

banner, 
And  die  in  the  defence  on't. 

GoR.  And  if  I  live  and  see  my  halls 

again. 
They  shall  have  portion  in  the  good  they 

fight  for. 
Each  hardy  follower  shall  have  his  field. 
His  household  hearth  and  sod-built  home 

as  free 
As  ever  Southron  had.     They  shall  be 

happy ! — 
And  my  Elizabeth  shall  smile  to  see  it !  — 
I  have  betray 'd  myself. 

Swi.  Do  not  l)elieve  it.  — 

Vipont,  do  thou  look  out   from  yonder 

height. 
And  see  what  motion  in  the  Scottish  host, 


Scene  II. 


HALIDON  HILL. 


563 


And  in  King  Edward's.     [^jtzVVipont. 

Now  will  I  counsel  thee; 
The  Templar's  ear  is  for  no  tale  of  love, 
Being  wedded  to  his  Order.     But  I  tell 

thee, 
The  brave  young    knight   that   hath    no 

lady-love 
Is  like  a  lamp  unlighted;  his  brave  deeds, 
And  its  rich  painting,  do  seem  then  most 

glorious, 
When    the    pure    ray   gleams    through 

them.  — 
Hath  thy  Elizabeth  no  other  name? 
GoR.   Must  I  then  speak  of  her  to  you. 

Sir  Alan? 
The  thought  of  thee,  and  of  thy  matchless 

strength. 
Hath  conjured  phantoms  up  amongst  her 

dreams. 
The  name   of  Swinton  hath  been  spell 

sufficient 
To  chase  the  rich  blood  from  her  lovely 

cheek. 
And  wouklst  thou  know  hers? 

Swi.  I  would,  nay  must. 

Thy  father  in  the  paths  of  chivalry. 
Should  know  the  load-star  thou  dost  rule 

thy  course  by. 
GoR.  Nay,  then,  her  name  is  —  hark  — 
^Whispers. 
Swi.    I    know    it    well,    that    ancient 

northern  house. 
GoR.  O,  thou  shalt  see  its  fairest  grace 

and  honor 
In  my  Elizabeth.     And   if  music  touch 

thee  — 
Swi.   It  did,  before  disasters  had  un- 
tuned me. 
GoR.  O,  her  notes 
Shall  hush  each  sad  remembrance  to  ob- 
livion, 
Or  melt  them  to  such  gentleness  of  feel- 
ing 
That  grief  shall  have  its  sweetness.    Who, 

but  she, 
Knows  the  wild  harpings  of   our  native 

land? 
Whether   they  lull  the  shepherd  on  his 

hill. 
Or  wake  the  knight  to  battle;    rouse  to 

merriment, 
Or  soothe  to  sadness;  she  can  touch  each 

mood. 


Princes  and  statesmen,  chiefs  renown'd 

in  arms, 
And   gray-hair'd  bards,  contend   which 

shall  the  first 
And  choicest  homage  render  to  the  en- 
chantress. 
Svvi.  You  speak  her  talent  bravely. 
GoR.  Tho'  you  smile, 

I  do  not  speak  it  half.      Her  gift  creative. 
New   measures    adds   to  every   air   she 

wakes; 
Varying  and  gracing  it  with  liquid  sweet- 
ness. 
Like  the  wild  modulation  of  the  lark; 
Now  leaving,  now  returning  to  the  strain  ! 
To  listen  to  her,  is  to  seem  to  wander 
In  some  enchanted  labyrinth  of  romance. 
Whence    nothing   but   the   lovely  fairy's 

will. 
Who  wove  the  spell,  can  extricate  the 

wanderer. 
Methinks  I  hear  her  now  !  — 

Swi.  Bless'd  privilege 

Of  youth  !     There's  scarce  three  minutes 

to  decide 
'Twixt  death  and  life,  'twixt  triumph  and 

defeat. 
Yet   all    his  thoughts  are   in   his    lady's 

bower, 
List'ning  her  harping  !    \I'.nter  VlPONT. 

Where  are  thine,  De  Vipont? 
ViP.  On    death  —  on   judgment  —  on 

eternity ! 
For  time  is  over  with  us. 

Swi.  There  moves  not,  then,  one  pen- 
non to  our  aid, 
Of  all  that  flutter  yonder  ! 

ViP.  From  the  main  English  host  come 

rushing  forward 
Pennons    enow  —  ay,    and    their    Royal 

Standard. 
But  ours  stand  rooted,  as  for  crows  to 

roost  on. 
Swi.   (/£>  himself).     I'll  rescue  him  at 

least.  —  Young  Lord  of  Gordon, 
Spur  to  the    Regent  —  show  the  instant 

need 

GoR.  I  penetrate  thy  purpose;  but  I 

go  not. 
Swi.  Not  at  my  bidding?     I  thy  sire 

in  chivalry? 
Thy  leader  in  the  battle  ?  —  I  command 

thee! 


S64 


DRAMATIC  PIECES. 


Act  II. 


GOR.  No,  thou  wilt  not  command  me 

seek  my  safety  — 
For  such  is  thy  kind  meaning  —  at  the 

expense 
Of  the  last  hope  which  Heaven  reserves 

for  Scotland. 
While  I  abide  no  follower  of  mine 
Will   turn  his  rein  for   life;    Init  were  I 

gone, 
What    power   can  stay  them?    and,   our 

band  dispersed. 
What  sword  shall  for  an  instant  stem  yon 

host. 
And  save  the  latest  chance  for  victory? 
ViP.  The    noble  youth   speaks  truth; 

and  were  he  gone. 
There  will  not  twenty  spears  be  left  with 

us. 
GOR.   No,  bravely  as  we  have  begun 

the  field. 
So  let  us  fight  it  out.     The  Regent's  eyes, 
More  certain  than  a  thousand  messages, 
Shall  see  us  stand,  the  barrier  of  his  host 
Against  yon  blustering  storm.      If  not  for 

honor, 
If  not  for  warlike  rule,  for  shame  at  least 
He  must  bear  down  to  aid  us. 

Svvi.  Must  it  be  so? 

And  I  am  forced  to  yield  the  sad  consent. 
Devoting   thy  young    life?     O,  Gordon, 

Gordon  1 
I  do  it  as  the  patriarch  doom 'd  his  issue: 
I  at  my  country's,  he  at  Heaven's  com- 
mand ; 
But  I  seek  vainly  some  atoning  sacrifice. 
Rather  than  such  a  victim  !  — (  J'runtpe/s.) 

Hark,  they  come  ! 
That  music  sounds  not  like  thy  lady's  lute. 
GOR.   Yet  shall   my  lady's  name   mix 

with  it  gayly.  — 
Mount,  vassals,  couch  your  lances,   and 

cry,  "  Gordon  ! 
Gordon  for  Scotland  and  Elizabeth  !  " 

[  Exeunt.     Loud  Alariiins. 

Scene  III. 

Another  part  of  the  Field  of  Battle,  adja- 
cent to  the  former  Scene. 

Alarums.      Enter  Sw I STO'S,  follo7iied 

l>}'  Hob  Hattely. 
Swi.     Stand  to  it  yet !     The  man  who 
flies  to-day. 


May  bastards  warm  them  at  his  household 
hearth  ! 
Hob.  That  ne'er  shall   be  my  curse. 
My  Magdalen 
Is  trusty  as  my  broadsword, 

Swi.  Ha,  thou  knave, 

Art  thou  dismounted  too? 

Hob.  I  know.  Sir  Alan, 

You  want  no  homeward  guide;  so  threw 

my  reins 
Upon   my  palfrey's  neck,   and    let    him 

loose. 

Within  an  hour  he  stands  before  my  gate ; 

And  Magdalen  will  need  no  other  token 

To  l^id   the  Melrose    Monks  say  masses 

for  me. 

.Swi.  Thou  art  resolved  to  cheat  the 

halter,  then? 
Hob.  It  is  my  purpose. 

Having  lived  a  thief,  to  die  a  brave  man's 

death, 
And  never  had  I  a  more  glorious  chance 
for't. 
Swi.    Here  lies  the  way  to  it,  knave.  — 
Make  in,  make  in, 
And  aid  young  Gordon ! 

[  Exeunt.  Loud  and  long  Alar- 
ums. After  which  the  back 
Scene  rises,  and  discovers  SvviN- 
TON  on  the  ground,  GORDON 
supporting  him,  both  much 
wounded. 

Swi.  All  are  cut  down — the  reapers 

have  pass'd  o'er  us. 
And  hie  to  distant  harvest.  —  My  toil's 

over; 
There    lies    my    sickle.      (^Dropping  his 

s7iiord.)     Hand  of  mine  again 
Shall  never,  never  wield  it ! 

GOR.  O  valiant  leader,  is  thy  light  ex- 

tinguish'd? 
That  only  beacon-flame  which  promised 

safety 
In  this  day's  deadly  wrack  ! 

Swi.  My  lamp  hath   long  been  dim ! 

But  thine,  young  Gordon, 
Just  kindled,  to  be  quench'd  so  suddenly. 
Ere  Scotland  saw  its  splendor  !  — 

GoR.   Five  thousand  horse  hung  idly 

on  yon  hill, 
Saw  us  o'erpowered,  and  no  one  stirr'd 

to  aid  us ! 


Scene  III. 


HALIDON  HILL. 


565 


Swi.    It   was   the    Regent's   envy.  — 
Out !  —  alas ! 
Why  blame   I  him  !  —  It  was    our  civil 

discord, 
Our  selfish  vanity,  our  jealous  hatred, 
Which   framed  this  day  of  dole  for  our 

poor  country.  — 
Had  thy  brave  father  held  yon  leading 

staff. 
As  well  his  rank  and  valor  might  have 

claim'd  it. 
We  had  not   falFn   unaided. — How,  O 

how 
Is   he    to    answer    it,  whose    deed    pre- 
vented — 
GOR.  Alas !   alas !   the  author  of    the 
death-feud, 
He  has  his  reckoning  too !  for  had  your 

sons 
And  num'rous  vassals  lived,  we  had  lack'd 
no  aid. 
Swi.   May  God  assoil   the   dead,  and 
him  who  follows ! 
We've  drank  the  poison'd  beverage  which 

we  brew'd ! 
Have    sown    the   wind,   and   reap'd  the 

tenfold  whirlwind  !  — 
But  thou,  brave  youth,  whose  nobleness 

of  heart 
Pour'd  oil  upon  the  wounds  our  hate  in- 
flicted; 
Thou,  who  hast  done  no  wrong,  need'st 

no  forgiveness,  — 
Why  should'st    thou   share  our  punish- 
ment ? 
GoR.  All  need  forgiveness — (tiislant 
alarums.')  —  Hark,  in  yonder  shout, 
Did  the  main  battles  counter  ! 

Swi.   Look  on  the  field,  brave  Gordon, 
if  thou  canst, 
And  tell  me  how  the  day  goes.  —  But  I 

guess. 
Too  surely  do  I  guess  — 

GoR.  All's  lost!    all's  lost! — Of  the 
main  Scottish  host, 
Some  wildly  fly,  and  some   rush  wildly 

forward; 
And  some  there  are  who  seem  to  turn 

their  spears 
Against  their  countrymen. 

Swi.  Rashness,    and   cowardice,    and 
secret  treason 
Combine  to  ruin  us;    and  our  hot  valor. 


Devoid     of     discipline,     is     madmen's 

strength. 
More  fatal  unto  friends  than  enemies ! 
I'm  glad  that  these  dim  eyes  shall  see  no 

more  on't.  — 
Let  thy  hands  close  them,  Gordon  —  I 

will  dream 
My  fair-hair'd  William  renders  me  that 

office !  \^Dies. 

GoR.  And,  Swinton,  I  will  think  I  do 

that  duty 
To  my  dead  father. 

Enter  De  Vipont. 

ViP.    Fly,  fly,  brave  youth  !  —  A  hand- 
ful of  thy  followers, 
The  scatter'd  gleaning  of  this  desperate 

day, 
Still  hover  yonder  to  essay  thy  rescue  — 
O   linger    not!  —  I'll  be  your  guide   to 
them. 
GoR.  Look  there,  and  bid  me  fly !  — 
The  oak  has  fall'n; 
And  the  young  ivy  bush,  which  learn'd 

to  climb 
By  its  support,  must  needs  partake  its 
fall. 
Vip.  Swinton?     Alas!    the   best,  the 
bravest,  strongest, 
And  sagest  of  our  Scottish  chivalry ! 
Forgive   one   moment,   if    to   save    the 

living. 
My  tongue  should  wrong   the  dead.  — 

Gordon,  bethink  thee. 
Thou  dost   but  stay  to   perish  with   the 

corpse 
Of  him  who  slew  thy  father. 

GoR.    Ay,    but    he    was    my   sire    in 
chivalry ! 
He  taught  my  youth  to  soar  alx)vc  the 

promptings 
Of  mean  and  selfish  vengeance;  gave  my 

youth 
A  name  that  shall  not  die  even  on  this 

death-spot. 
Records  shall  tell  this  field  had  not  been 

lost. 
Had  all  men  fought  like  Swinton  and 
like  Gordon.  [  Trumpets. 

Save    thee,    De   Vipont.  —  Hark !    the 
Southron  trumpets. 
Vip.  Nay,  without  thee  I  stir  not. 


566 


DRAMATIC  PIECES. 


Enter  Edward,  Chandos,  Percy, 
Baliol,  6^<r. 

GoR.  Ay,  they  come  on  — The  Tyrant 

and  the  traitor, 
Workman    and    tool,    Plantagenet    and 

Baliol.— 
O  for  a  moment's  strength  in  this  poor 

arm. 
To  do  one  glorious  deed  ! 

\^He  ?-ushes  on  the  English,  but  is 
made  prisoner  with  V I  PONT. 

K.    Ed.   Disarm   them  —  harm    them 
not;    though  it  was  they 
Made  havoc  on  the  archers  of  our  van- 
guard. 
They  and  that  bulky  champion.     Where 
is  he? 
Cha.   Here   lies   the    giant !     Say  his 

name,  young  Knight? 
GoR.  Let  it  suffice,  he  was  a  man  this 

morning. 
Cha.   I  question'd  thee  in  sport.     I  do 
not  need 
Thy  information,  youth.     Who  that   has 

fought 
Thro'  all  these  Scottish  wars,  but  knows 

his  crest  ? 
The  sable  boar  chained  to  the  leafy  oak. 
And  that  huge  mace  still  seen  where  war 
was  wildest ! 
K.  Ed.   'Tis  Alan  Swinton  ! 
Grim  Chamberlain,   who   in   my   tent  at 

Weardale, 
Stood  by  my  startled  couch  with    torch 

and  mace, 
When  the  Black  Douglas'  war-cry  waked 
my  camp. 
GOR.   {sinking  do7vn).      If    thus  thou 
know'st  him. 
Thou  wilt  respect  his  corpse. 

K.  Ed.  As  belted  Knight  and  crowned 

King,  I  will. 
GOR.  And  let  mine 


Sleep  at  his  side,  in  token  that  our  death 
Ended  the  feud  of  Swinton  and  of  Gor- 
don. 
K.  Ed.   It  is  the  Gordon  !  —  Is  there 
aught  beside 
Edward  can  do  to  honor  bravery, 
Even  in  an  enemy? 

GOR.   Nothing  but  this; 
Let   not   base  Baliol,  with  his  touch  or 

look, 
Profane  my  corpse  or  Swinton's.     I've 

some  breath  still. 
Enough  to  say  —  Scotland  —  Elizabeth  ! 

[Dies. 
Cha.  Baliol,  I  would  not  brook  such 
dying  looks. 
To  buy  the  crown  you  aim  at. 

K.   Ed.  (/oVip.).  Vipont,  thy  crossed 
shield  shows  ill  in  warfare 
Against  a  Christian  King. 

ViP.  That    Christian  King   is  warring 
upon  Scotland. 
I  was  a  Scotsman  ere  I  was  a  Templar, 
Sworn    to   my  country  ere    I    knew  my 
Order. 
K.  Ed.   I    will    l)ut    know   thee   as    a 
Christian  champion. 
And  set  thee  free  unransom'd. 

Enter  Abbot  of  Walthamstow. 

Ab.   Heaven  grant  your  Majesty 
Many    such    glorious    days    as   this    has 

been  ! 
K.  Ed.  It  is  a  day  of  much  and  high 

advantage; 
Glorious  it  might  have  been,  had  all  our 

foes 
l*"(juglit  like  these  two  brave  champions. 

—  Strike  the  drums, 
Sound  trumpets,  and  pursue  the  fugitives. 
Till   the    Tweed's    eddies  whelm    them. 

Berwick's  render'd  — 
These  wars,  I  trust,  will  soon  find  lasting 

close. 


MACDUFF'S   CROSS. 


INTRODUCTION. 


These  few  scenes  had  the  honor  to  be  included  in  a  Miscellany,  published  in  the  year 
1823,  by  Mrs.  Joanna  Baillie,  and  are  here  reprinted,  to  unite  them  with  the  trifles  of  the 
same  kind  which  owe  their  birth  to  the  author.  The  singular  history  of  the  Gross  and 
Law  of  Clan  MacDuff  is  given,  at  length  enough  to  satisfy  the  keenest  antiquary,  in  The 
Minstrelsy  of  the  Scottish  Border.  It  is  here  only  necessary  to  state,  that  the  Cross  was 
a  place  of  refuge  to  any  person  related  to  MacDuft,  within  the  ninth  degree,  who,  having 
committed  homicide  in  sudden  quarrel,  should  reach  this  place,  prove  his  descent  from 
the  Thane  of  Fife,  and  pay  a  certain  penalty. 

The  shaft  of  the  Cross  was  destroj'ed  at  the  Reformation.  The  huge  block  of  stone 
which  served  for  its  pedestal  is  still  in  existence  near  the  town  of  Newburgh,  on  a  kind  of 
pass  which  commands  the  county  of  Fife  to  the  southward,  and  to  the  north  the  windings 
of  the  magnificent  Tay  and  fertile  country  of  Angusshire.  The  Cross  bore  an  inscription, 
which  is  transmitted  to  us  in  an  unintelligible  form  by  Sir  Robert  Sibbald. 

ABBOTSFORD,/fl««arj',  1S30. 


MRS.  JOANNA    BAILLIE, 

AUTHORESS  OF 

THE   PLAYS   ON  THE   PASSIONS." 


PRELUDE. 


Nay,  smile  not,  Lady,  when  I  speak  of 

witchcraft, 
And  say  that  still  there  lurks  amongst  our 

glens 
Some  touch  of  strange  enchantment.  — 

Mark  that  fragment, 
I  mean  that  rough-hewn  block  of  massive 

stone. 
Placed  on  the  summit  of  this  mountain 

pass. 
Commanding  prospect  wide  o'er  field  and 

fell. 
And  peopled  village  and  extended  moor- 
land. 
And  the  wide  ocean  and  majestic  Tay, 
To  the  far  distant  Grampians.  —  Do  not 

deem  it 
A  loosen'd  portion    of    the  neighboring 

rock, 
Detach'd  by  storm  and  thunder,  —  'twas 

the  pedestal 


On  which,  in  ancient  times,  a  Cross  was 

rear'd, 
Carved  o'er  with  words  which  foil'd  phi- 
lologists; 
And  the  events  it  did  commemorate 
Were  dark,  remote,  and  undistinguishable. 
As  were  the  mystic  characters  it  bore. 
But,  mark, — a  wizard,  born  on  Avon's 

bank. 
Tuned  but  his  harp  to  this  wild  northern 

theme. 
And,  lo !  the  scene  is  hallow'd.     None 

shall  pass. 
Now,  or  in  after  days,  lieside  that  stone, 
But  he  shall  have  strange  visions ;  thoughts 

and  words. 
That  shake,  or  rouse,  or  thrill  the  human 

heart. 
Shall  rush  upon  his  memory  when  he  hears 
The    spirit-stirring    name    of    this    rude 

symbol  ;  — 


567 


568 


DKAMATIC  PIECES. 


Oblivious  ages,  at  that  simple  spell, 
Shall  render  back  their  terrors  with  their 

woes, 
Alas !    and  with  their  crimes  —  and  the 

proud  phantoms 
Shall  move  with  step  familiar  to  his  eye. 
And  accents  which,  once  heard,  the  ear 

forgets  not, 
Though  ne'er  again  to  list  them.    Siddons, 

thine. 
Thou  matchless  Siddons  !  thrill  upon  our 

ear; 
And  on  our  eye  thy  lofty  Brother's  form 
Rises  as  Scotland's  monarch.  —  But,  to 

thee, 


Joanna,  why  to  thee  speak  of  such  visions  ? 
Thine  own  wild  wand  can  raise  them. 

Yet  since  thou  wilt  an  idle  tale  of  mine, 
Take   one    which   scarcely   is   of    worth 

enough 
To    give    or    to    withhold.  —  Our    time 

creeps  on. 
Fancy  grows  colder  as  the  silvery  hair 
Tells  the  advancing  winter  of  our  life. 
But  if  it  be  of  worth  enough  to  please, 
That  work   it  owes   to  her  who  set  the 

task; 
If    otherwise,    the    fault    rests    with    the 

author. 


DRAMA  TIS  PERSOALE. 


\  Movki  of  IJndores. 


NiNIAN, 

Waldhave 

LlNDESAV,  1 

Maurice  Berkeley,      j 


Scottish  Barons. 


Scene. 

The  summit  of  a  Rocky  Pass  near  to 
Netvburgh,  about  two  miles  from  the 
ancient  Abbey  of  I.iuiiores,  in  Fife.  In 
the  centre  is  AlacDuffs  Cross,  an  an- 
tique Monument  :  and  at  a  small  dis- 
tance, on  one  side,  a  Chapel  with  a 
lamp  burning. 

Enter,  as  hainng  ascended  the  Pass, 
NiNiAN  and  Waldhavk,  Monks  of 
Lindorcs.  Ninian  crosses  himself  and 
seems  to  recite  his  diTotions.  Wald- 
HAVE  stands  gazing  on  the  prospect,  as 
if  in  deep  contemplation. 

NlN.  Here  stands  the  Cross,  good  brother, 
consecrated 

By  the  bold  Thane  unto  his  patron  saint 

Magridius,  once  a  brother  of  our  house. 

Canst  thou  not  spare  an  ave  or  a  creed? 

Or  hath  the  steep  ascent  exhausted  you? 

You    trode  it  stoutly,  tho'    'twas    rough 
and  toilsome. 
Wal.   I  have  trode  a  rougher. 
NiN.  On  the  Highland  hills  — 

Scarcely  within  our  sea-girt  province  here. 

Unless  upon  the  Lomonds  or  Bennarty. 


Wal.  I  spoke  not  of  the  literal  path, 
good  father. 

But  of  the  road  of  life  which  I  have 
travell'd. 

Ere  I  assumed  this  habit;  it  was  bounded, 

Hedged  in,  and  limited  Vjy  earthly  pros- 
pects. 

As  ours  beneath  was  closed  by  dell  and 
thicket. 

Here  we  see  wide  and  far,  and  the  broad 

With  wide  horizon,  opens  full  around, 
While  earthly  objects  dwindle.     Brother 

Ninian, 
Fain  would  I  hope  that  mental  elevation 
Could    raise    me    equally    o'er    worldly 

thoughts, 
And  place  nie  nearer  heaven. 

NiN.   'Tisgood  morality.  —  But  yet  for- 
get not. 
That  tho'  we  look  on  heaven  from  this 

high  eminence, 
Yet  doth  the  Prince  of  all  the  airy  space. 
Arch-foe  of  man,  possess  the  realms  be- 
tween. 
Wal.    Most  true,  good   Ijrother;    and 
men  may  be  farther 


MA  CD  UFF '  5   CR  OSS. 


569 


From  the  bright  heaven  they  aim  at,  even 

because 
They  deem  themselves  secure  on't. 

NiN.   (iijtcr  a  pause').     You  do  gaze  — 
Strangers  are  wont  to  do  so  - — -  on  the  pros- 
pect . 
Yon  is  the  Tay  roll'd  down  from  Highland 

hills, 
That  rests  his  waves,  after  so  rude  a  race. 
In  the   fair   plains  of    Gowrie; — farther 

westward. 
Proud  Stirling  rises;  —  yonder  to  the  east, 
Dundee,  the  gift  of  God,  and  fair  Mont- 
rose, 
And  still  more  northward  lie  the  ancient 

towers  — 
Wal.  Of  Edzell. 
NiN.  How?  know  you  the 

towers  of  Edzell? 
Wal.   I've  heard  of  them. 
NiN.  Then  have  you 

heard  a  tale. 
Which  when  he  tells,  the  peasant  shakes 

his  head. 
And  shuns  the  mouldering  and  deserted 

walls? 
Wal.  Why,  and  by  whom  deserted? 
NiN.  Long  the  tale  — 

Enough    to    say  that    the    last    Lord  of 

Edzell, 
Bold  Louis  Lindesay,  had   a  wife,  and 

found 

Wal.  Enough  is  said,  indeed  —  since 

a  weak  woman, 
Ay,  and  a  tempting  fiend,  lost  Paradise, 
When  man  was  innocent. 

NiN.  They  fell  at  strife, 

Men  say,  on  slight  occasion :   that  fierce 

Lindesay 
Did  bend  his  sword  against  De  Berkeley's 

breast, 
And  that  the  lady  threw  herself  between : 
That  then  De  Berkeley  dealt  the  Baron's 

death-wound. 
Enough,  that  from  that  time  De  Berkeley 

bore 
A  spear  in  foreign  wars.     But,  it  is  said. 
He  hath  return'd  of  late;  and,  therefore, 

brother. 
The  Prior  hath  ordain'd  our  vigil  here. 
To  watch  the  privilege  of  the  sanctuary. 
And  rights  of  Clan  MacDuff. 

Wal.  What  rights  are  these  ? 


NiN.   Most   true;    you   are  but   newly 
come  from  Rome, 

And  do  not  know  our  ancient  usages. 

Know,  then,  when  fell  Macbeth  beneath 
the  arm 

Of    the    predestined    knight,  unborn    of 
woman. 

Three  boons  the  victor  ask'd,  and  thrice 
did  Malcolm, 

Stooping  the   sceptre  by  the  Thane  re- 
stored. 

Assent  to  his  request.  And  hence  the  rule, 

That  first  when  Scotland's  King  assumes 
the  crown, 

MacDuff's    descendant    rings   his    brow 
with  it: 

And  hence,  when  Scotland's  King  calls 
forth  his  host, 

MacDuff's  descendant  leads  the  van   in 
battle: 

And  last,  in  guerdon  of  the  crown  re- 
stored, 

Red    with    the    blood    of    the    usurping 
tyrant, 

The   right   was   granted   in    succeeding 
time, 

That  if  a  kinsman  of  the  Thane  of  Fife 

Commit  a  slaughter  on  a  sudden  impulse, 

And  fly  for  refuge  to  this  Cross  MacDuff, 

For  the  Thane's  sake  he  shall  find  sanc- 
tuary ; 

For    here    must    the    avenger's    step    be 
staid. 

And  here  the  panting  homicide  find  .safety. 
Wal.  And  here  a  brother  of  your  order 
watches, 

To  see  the  custom  of  your  place  observed  ? 
NiN.   Even  so;  —  such  is  our  convent's 
holy  right, 

Since  Saint  Magrioius  —  blessed  be   his 
memory !  — 

Did  by  a  vision  warn  the  Abl>ot  Eadmir.  — 

And  chief  we  watch,  when  there  is  bicker- 
ing 

Among  the  neighboring  nobles,  now  most 
likely 

From  this  return  of  Berkeley  from  abroad, 

Having  the   Lindesay's  blood  upon  his 
hand. 
Wal.  The  Lindesay,  then,  was  loved 

among  his  friends? 
NiN.  Honor'd   and   fear'd  he  was-- 
but  little  loved; 


570 


DRAMATIC  PIECES. 


For    even    his   bounty  bore    a   show  of 

sternness; 
And  when  his  passion  waked,  he  was  a 

Sathan 
Of  wrath  and  injury. 

Wal.   How  now,  Sir  Priest !  {fiercely) 

—  Forgive    me  — •  {recollecting  him- 
self) —  I  was  dreaming 
Of  an  old  baron  who  did  bear  a^out  him 
Some  touch  of  your  Lord  Reynold. 

NiN.   Lindesay's  name,  my  brother, 
Indeed  was   Reynold;  — and  methinks, 

moreover, 
That,  as  you  spoke  even  now,  he  would 

have  spoken. 
I  brought  him  a  petition  from  our  convent ; 
He  granted  straight,  but  in  such  tone  and 

manner, 
By  my  good  saint !  I  thought  myself  scarce 

safe 
Till  Tay  roll'd  broad  between  us.     I  must 

now 
Unto  the  chapel  —  meanwhile  the  watch 

is  thine : 
And,  at  thy  word,  the  hurrying  fugitive, 
Should  such  arrive,  must  here  find  sanc- 
tuary; 
And,  at  thy  word,  the  fiery-paced  avenger 
Must   stop   his   bloody  course  —  e'en  as 

swoln  Jordan 
ControU'd  his  waves,  soon  as  they  touch 'd 

the  feet 
Of  those  who  bore  the  ark. 

Wal.  Is  this  my  charge? 

NiN.  Even  so;  and  I  am  near,  should 

chance  require  me. 
At  midnight  I  relieve  you  on  your  watch. 
When  we  may  taste  together  some  refresh- 
ment: 
I  have  cared  for  it;    and  for  a  flask  of 

wine; — 
There  is  no  sin,  so  that  we  drink  it  not 
Until  the  midnight  hour,  when  lauds  have 

toll'd. 
Farewell  a  while,  and  peaceful  watch  be 

with  you ! 

\_Exit  tcnvards  the  Chapel. 
Wal.  It  is   not  with   me,  and   alas ! 

alas! 
I    know   not    where    to    seek    it.     This 

monk's  mind 
Is  with  his  cloister  match'd,  nor  lacks 

more  room. 


Its  petty  duties,  formal  ritual, 

Its  humble  pleasuresandits  paltry  troubles, 

Fill  up  his  round  of  life;    even  as  some 

reptiles, 
They  say,  are  moulded  to  the  very  shape, 
And  all  the  angles  of  the  rocky  crevice. 
In  which  they  live  and  die.     But  for  my- 
self, 
Retired  in  passion  to  the  narrow  cell, 
Couching  my  tired  limbs  in  its  recesses. 
So  ill-adapted  am  I  to  its  limits, 

That  every  attitude  is  agony. 

How  now  !  what  brings  him  back  ? 

\^Re-enter  Ninian. 
NiN.   Look  to  your  watch,  my  brother, 

—  horsemen  come; 
I  neard  their  tread  when  kneeling  in  the 

chapel. 
Wal,    (looking  to   a    distance).      My 

thoughts  have  wrapt  me  more  then 

thy  devotion, 
Else   had  I  heard  the   tread    of    distant 

horses 
Farther  than  thou  couldst  hear  the  sacring 

bell; 
But  now  in  truth  they  come :  —  flight  and 

pursuit 
Are  sights  I've  been  long  strange  to. 
NiN.   See  how  they  gallop  down  the 

opposing  hill ! 
Yon  gray  steed  bounding  down  the  head- 
long path. 
As  on  the  level  meadow,  while  the  black. 
Urged  by  the  rider  with  his  naked  sword, 
Stoops  on  his  prey,  as  I  have  seen  the 

falcon 
Lashing  upon   the    heron. — Thou   dost 

frown 
And  clench  thy  hand,  as  if  it  grasp'd  a 

weapon  ? 
Wal.  'Tis  but  for  shame  to  see  a  man 

fly  thus 
While  only  one  pursues  him.     Coward, 

turn  !  — 
Turn  thee,  I  say  !  thou  art  as  stout  as  he. 
And  well  niayst  match  thy  single  sword 

with  his  — 
Shame,  that  a  man  should  rein  a  steed 

like  thee. 
Yet  fear  to  turn  hisfront  against  a  foe  !  — ■ 
I  am  ashamed  to  look  on  them. 

NiN.  Yet  look  again;   they  quit  their 

horses  now. 


MACDUFF'S   CROSS. 


571 


Unfit  for  the  rough  path :  the  fugitive 
Keeps  the  advantage  still.     They  strain 
toward  us. 
Wal.   I'll   not  believe    that    ever  the 
bold  Thane 
Rear'd  up  his  Cross  to  be  a  sanctuarj* 
To    the    base    coward  who   shunn'd   an 

equal  combat.  — 
How   's  this?  —  that  look,  that  mien  — 
mine  eyes  grow  dizzy  ! 
NiN.   He  comes  !  —  thou  art  a  novice 
on  this  watch,  — 
Brother,  I'll  take  the  word  and  speak  to 

him. 
Pluck    down    thy  cowl :    know   that   we 

spiritual  champions 
Have  honor  to  maintain,  and  must  not 

seem 
To  quail  before  the  laity. 

[Waldhave  lets  dcrwtt  his  coivl, 

and  steps  back. 
Enter  Maurice  Berkeley. 
NiN.  Who  art  thou,  stranger!   speak 

thy  name  and  purpose. 
Ber.   I    claim    the    privilege    of    Clan 
MacDuff. 
My  name  is  Maurice  Berkeley,  and  my 

lineage 
Allies  me  nearly  with  thy  Thane  of  Fife. 
NiN.  Give  us  to  know  the  cause  of 

sanctuary? 
Ber.  Let  him  show  it. 

Against    whose    violence    I    claim    the 

privilege. 
Enter  Lindesay  with  his  suwrd  drawn. 
He  rushes  at  Berkeley  :    Ninian  in- 
terposes. 

NiN.   Peace,  in  the  name  of  Saint  Ma- 
gridius ! 
Peace,  in  our  Prior's  name,  and  in  the 

name 
Of  that  dear  symbol,  which  did  purchase 

peace 
And  good-will  towards  man !    I  do  com- 
mand thee 
To  sheathe  thy  sword,  and  stir  no  contest 
here. 
Lin.  One  charm  I'll  try  first. 
To  lure  the  craven  from  the  enchanted 

circle 
Which  he  hath  harbor'd  in.  —  Hear  you, 
De  Berkeley, 


This  is  my  brother's  sword  —  the  hand  it 

arms 
Is  weapon'd  to  avenge  a  brother's  death : 
If  thou  hast  heart  to  step  a  furlong  off, 
And  change  three  blows,  —  even  for  so 

short  a  space 
As  these    good   men   may  say  an   ave- 

marie,  — 
So,  Heaven  be  good  to  me !     I  will  for- 
give thee 
Thy  deed  and  all  its  consequences. 
Ber.  Were  not  my  right  hand  fetter'd 

by  the  thought 
That  slaying  thee  were  but  a  double  guilt 
In  which  to  steep  my  soul,  no  bridegroom 

ever 
Stept   forth  to  trip   a   measure  with  his 

bride 
More  joyfully  than  I,  young  man,  would 

rush 
To  meet  thy  challenge. 

Lin.    He    quails,   and  shuns   to   look 

upon  my  weapon. 
Yet  boasts  himself  a  Berkeley  ! 

Ber.  Lindesay,  and  if  there  were  no 

deeper  cause 
For  shunning  thee   than   terror  of   thy 

weapon. 
That  rock-hewn   Cross    as   soon    should 

start  and  stir. 
Because  a  shepherd-boy  blew  horn  be- 
neath it. 
As  I  for  brag  of  thine. 

NiN.  I  charge  you  both,  and  in  the 

name  of  Heaven, 
Breathe  no  defiance  on  this  sacred  spot, 
Where  Christian    men  must  bear  them 

peacefully. 
On  pain  of  the  Church  thunders.    Calmly 

tell 
Your  cause  of  difference ;  and ,  Lord  Linde- 
say, thou 
Be  first  to  speak  them. 

Lin.  Ask  the  blue  welkin  —  ask  the 

silver  Tay, 
The    Northern   Grampians  —  all    things 

know  my  wrongs; 
But  ask  not  me  to  tell  them,  while  the 

villain, 
Who  wrought  them,  stands  and  listens 

with  a  smile. 
NiN.   It  is  said  — 
Since  you  refer  us  thus  to  general  faaae— 


572 


DRAMATIC  PIECES. 


That  Berkeley  slew  thy  brother,  the  Lord 

Louis, 
In  his  own  halls  at  Edzell  — 

Lin.   Ay,  in  his  halls  — 
In  his  own  halls,  good  father,  that's  the 

word, 
in  his  own  house  he  slew  him,  while  the 

wine 
I'ass'd  on  the  board  between !    The  gal- 
lant Thane 
Who    wreak'd     Macbeth's    inhospitable 

murder, 
Rear'd  not  yon  Cross  to  sanction  tieeds 

like  these. 
Ber.  Thou  say'st  I  came  a  guest !  —  I 

came  a  victim  — 
A  destined  victim,  train'don  to  the  doom 
His  frantic  jealousy  prepared  for  me. 
He  fix'd  a  quarrel  on  me,  and  we  fought. 
Can  I  forget  the  form  that  came  lietween 

us. 
And  perish'd  by  his  sword  ?    "Twas  then 

I  fought 
For  vengeance,  —  until  then   I  guarded 

life. 
But  then  I  sought  to  take  it,  and  prevail'd. 
Lin.  Wretch!  thou  didst  first  dishonor 

to  thy  victim, 
And  then  didst  slay  him  ! 

Ber.  There  is  a  busy  fiend  tugs  at  my 

heart. 
But  I  will  struggle  with  it !  —  V'outhful 

knight, 
My  heart   is    sick  of  war,    my   hand    of 

slaughter; 
I  come  not  to  my  lordships,  or  my  land. 
But  just   to   seek   a  spot    in    some   cold 

cloister, 
Which  I  may  kneel  on  living,  and,  when 

dead. 
Which  may  suffice  to  cover  me. 
Forgive  me  that  I  caused  your  brother's 

death ; 
And  I  forgive  thee  the  injurious  terms 
With  which  thou  taxest  me. 

Lin.  Take  worse  and  blacker  —  Mur- 
derer !  adulterer ! 
Art  thou  not  moved  yet? 

Ber.  Do  not  press  me  further. 

The  hunted  stag,  even  when  he  seeks  the 

thicket, 
Compell'd  to  stand  at  bay,  grows  dan- 
gerous ! 


Most  true  thy  brother  perish'd    by  my 

hand. 
And  if  you  term  it  murder  —  I  must  bear 

it. 
Thus  far  my  patience  can;   but  if  thou 

brand 
The  purity  of  yonder  martyr'd  saint. 
Whom  then    my   sword    but   poorly  did 

avenge, 
With   one   injurious  word,   come  to  the 

valley. 
And   I  will  show  thee   how  it   shall   be 

answer'd ! 
NiN.    This   heat.  Lord  Berkeley,  doth 

but  ill  accord 
With  thy  late  pious  patience. 

Ber.  Father,  forgive,  and  let  me  stand 

excused 
To  Heaven  and  thee,  if  patience  brooks 

no  more. 
I  loved  this  lady  —  fondly,  truly  loved  — 
Lovctl  her,  and  was  beloved,  ere  yet  her 

father 
Conferr'd   her  on  another.      While    she 

lived. 
Each  thought  of  her  was  to  my  soul  as 

hallow'd 
As  those  I  send  to  Heaven;   and  on  her 

grave. 
Her  bloody,  early  grave,  while  this  poor 

hand 
Can  Hold  a  sword,  shall  no  one  cast   a 

scorn. 
LiN.   P'ollowme.    Thou  shalt  hear  me 

call  the  adulteress 
By  her  right  name.     I'm  glad  there  is  yet 

a  spur 
Can  rouse  thy  sluggard  mettle. 

Ber.    Make   then    obeisance    to    the 

blessed  Cross, 
For  it  shall  be  on  earth  thy  last  devotion. 
[  They  are  ij^oing  off. 
Wal.    {^rushing forward).     Madmen, 

stand !  — 
Stay  but  one  second  —  answer  but  one 

question.  — 
There,  Maurice  Berkeley,  canst  thou  look 

upon 
That   blessed    sign,    and   swear    thou'st 

spoken  truth? 
Ber.   I  swear  by  Heaven, 
And   by  the   memory  of    that   murder'd 

innocent, 


THE   DOOM   OF  DEVORGOIL. 


573 


Each  seeming  charge  against  her  was  as 

false 
As  our  blest  Lady  's  spotless !  —  Hear, 

each  saint ! 
Hear   me,    thou    holy   rood!  —  hear   me 

from  heaven, 
Thou    niarlyr'd    excellence  !  —  hear    me 

from  penal  fire, 
(For  sure  not  yet  thy  guilt  is  expiated)  ! 
Stern  ghost  of  her  destroyer  !  — 

Wal.     (llirtTMS   hiick   his   ctnol).      He 

hears  !  he  hears  !  thy  spell  hath  raised 

the  dead. 
Lin.    My  brother!  and  alive  !  — 
Wal.   Alive,  —  but  yet,  my  Richard, 

dead  to  thee. 
No  tie  of  kindred  binds  me  to  the  world; 
All  were  renounced,  when,  with  reviving 

life. 
Came    the    desire    to    seek    the    sacred 

cloister. 
Alas,  in  vain !  for  to  that  last  retreat, 
Like  to  a  pack  of  bloodhounds   in    full 

chase, 
My  passion  and  my  wrongs  have  follow'd 

me. 


Wrath  and  remorse  —  and,  to  fill  up  the 

cry. 
Thou  hast  brought  vengeance  hither. 

Lin.  I  but  sought 

To  do  the  act  and  duty  of  a  brother. 
Wal.  I  ceased  to  be  so  when  I  left  the 

world; 
But  if  he  can  forgive  as  I  forgive, 
God    sends   me   here   a   brother  in    my 

enemy, 
To  pray  for  me  and  with  me.     If  thou 

canst, 
De  Berkeley,  give  thine  hand,  — 

Ber.  {gh'es  his  hamf).       It  is  the  will 
Of   Heaven,  made  manifest  in  thy  pres- 
ervation. 
To    inhibit    farther    bloodshed;    for    De 

Berkeley, 
The  votary  Maurice  lays  the  title  down. 
Go  to  his  halls.  Lord  Richard,  where  a 

maiden. 
Kin     to    his    blood,    and    daughter    in 

affection, 
Heirs  his  broad  lands;  — If  thou  canst 

love  her,  Lindesay, 
Woo  her,  and  be  successful. 


THE   DOOM    OF   DEVORGOIL. 


PREFACE. 


The  first  of  these  dramatic  pieces  was  long  since  written,  for  the  purpose  of  obliging 
the  late  Mr.  Terry,*  then  manager  of  the  Adelphi  Theatre,  for  whom  the  Author  had  a 
particular  regard.  The  manner  in  which  the  mimic  goblins  of  Hcvorgoil  are  intermixed 
with  the  supernatural  machinery,  was  found  to  be  objectionable,  and  the  production  had 
other  faults,  which  rendered  it  unfit  for  representation.  I  have  called  the  piece  a  Melo- 
drama, for  want  of  a  better  name ;  but,  as  1  learn  from  tiie  unquestionable  authority  of 
Mr.  Colman's  "  Random  Records,"  tliat  one  species  of  the  drama  is  termed  an  extrava- 
ganza, I  am  sorry  I  was  not  sooner  aware  of  a  more  appropriate  name  than  that  which  I 
had  selected  for  "  Devorgoil." 

The  Author's  Publishers  thought  it  desirable,  that  the  scenes,  long  condemned  to 
oblivion,  should  be  united  to  similar  attempts  of  the  same  kind ;  and  as  he  felt  indifferent 
on  the  subject,  they  are  printed  in  the  same  volume  with  Halidon  Hill  and  Macduff's  Cross, 
and  thrown  off  in  a  separate  form,  for  the  convenience  of  those  who  possess  former  editions 
of  the  Author's  Poetical  Works. 

The  general  story  of  the  Doom  of  Devorgoil  is  founded  on  an  old  Scottish  tradition, 
the  scene  of  which  lies  in  Galloway.     The  crime  supposed  to  have  occasioned  the  misfor 


*  Mr.  Daniel  Terry,  the  Comedian,  died  June  22,  1S29. 


574 


DRAMATIC  PIECES. 


Act  I. 


tunes  of  this  devoted  house,  is  similar  to  that  of  a  Lord  Herries  of  Hoddam  Castle,  who 
is  the  principal  personage  of  Mr.  Charles  Kirkpatrick  Sharpe's  interesting  ballad  in  the 
"  Minstrelsy  of  the  Scottish  Border,"  vol.  iv.  p.  307.  In  remorse  for  his  crime,  he  built  the 
singular  monument  called  the  Tower  of  Repentance.  In  many  cases  the  Scottish  supersti- 
tions allude  to  the  fairies,  or  those  who,  for  sins  of  a  milder  description,  are  permitted  to 
wander  with  the  "rout  that  never  rest,"  as  they  were  termed  by  Dr.  Leyden.  They  imitate 
human  labor  and  human  amusements,  but  their  toil  is  useless,  and  without  any  advantage- 
ous result ;  and  their  gayety  is  unsubstantial  and  hollow.  The  phantom  of  Lord  Erick  is 
supposed  to  be  a  spectre  of  this  character. 

The  story  of  the  Ghostly  Barber  is  told  in  many  countries  ;  but  the  best  narrative 
founded  on  the  passage,  is  the  tale  called  Stiunmc  Liebe,  among  the  legends  of  Musasus. 
I  think  it  has  been  introduced  upon  the  English  stage  in  some  pantomime,  which  was  one 
objection  to  bringing  it  upon  the  scene  a  second  time. 

Abbotsford,  April,  1830.  ' 

DRAMATIS  PERSON/E. 

Oswald  of  Devorgoil,  a  decayed  Scottish  Baron. 

Leonard,  a  Ranger. 

DURWARD,  a  Painter. 

Lancelot  Blackthorn,  a  Companion  of  Leonard,  in  loi>e  with  Katleen. 

GuLLCRAMMER,  a  conceited  Student. 

CocKi  FnFMOv'      (  Maskers,  represented  by  Blackthorn  and  Flora. 
Spirit  of  Lord  Erick  of  Dkvorgoil. 
Peasants,  Shepherds,  and  Vassals  of  inferior  rank. 
Eleanor,  Wife  of  Oswald,  descended  of  obscure  Parentage. 
Flora,  Daughter  of  Osivald. 
Katleen,  Niece  of  Eleanor. 


ACT  I.  — Scene  L 

The  Scene  represents  a  wild  and  hilly, 
but  not  a  inountainous  Country  in  a 
frontier  district  of  Scotland.  The  flat 
scene  exhibits  the  Castle  of  Devorgoil, 
decayed,  and  partly  ruinous,  situated 
upon  a  Lake,  and  connected  with  the 
land  by  a  Draivbridge,  which  is  lowered. 
'Time  —  Sunset. 

Flora  enters  from  the  Castle,  looks 
timidly  around,  then  comes  forward 
and  speaks. 

He  is  not  here — -those  pleasures  are  not 
ours 

Which  placid  evening  brings  to  all  things 
else. 

SONG. 

The  sun  upon  the  lake  is  low. 

The  wild  birds  hush  their  song. 
The  hills  have  evening's  deepest  glow, 

Yet  Leonard  tarries  long. 
Now  all  whom  varied  toil  and  care 

From  home  and  love  divide, 
In  the  calm  sunset  may  repair 

Each  to  the  loved  one's  side. 


The  noble  dame,  on  turret  high, 

Who  waits  her  gallant  knight, 
Looks  to  the  western  beam  to  s]iy 

The  flash  of  armor  bright. 
The  village  maid,  with  hand  on  brow. 

The  level  ray  to  shade, 
Upon  the  footpath  watches  now 

For  Colin's  darkening  plaid. 

Now  to  their  mates  the  wild  swans  row, 

]5y  day  they  swam  apart :  — 
And  to  the  thicket  wanders  slow 

The  hind  beside  the  hart. 
The  woodlark  at  his  partner's  side, 

Twitters  his  closing  song  — 
All  meet  whom  day  and  care  divido. 
Hut  Leonard  tarries  long. 
[Katleen  has  come  out  of  the  Castle 
while  I'^LORA  was  singing,  and 
speaks  7C'hen  the  song  is  ended. 
Kat.   Ah,  my  dear  coz  !  —  if  that  your 
mother's  niece 
May   so    presume   to   call    your    father's 

daughter  — - 
All  these  fond  things  have  got  some  home 
of  comfoit 


Scene  I. 


THE   DOOM  OF  DEVORGOIL. 


575 


To  tempt  the  rovers  back — the  lady's 

lx>wer. 
The  shepherdess's  hut,  the  wild  swan's 

couch 
Among  the  rushes,  even  the  lark's  low 

nest, 
Has  that  of  promise  which  lures  home  a 

lover,  — 
But  we  have  naught  of  this. 

Flo.  I  low  call  you,  then,  this  castle  of 

my  sire, 
The  towers  of  Devorgoil  ? 

Kat.   Dungeons  for  men,  and  palaces 

for  owls; 
Yet  no  wise  owl  would  change  a  farmer's 

barn 
For    yonder    hungry    hall  —  our    latest 

mouse. 
Our  last  of  mice,  I  tell  you,  has  been  found 
Starved  in  the  pantry;    and  the  reverend 

spider, 
Sole  living  tenant  of  the  Haron's  halls. 
Who,  train'd  to  abstinence,  lived  a  whole 

summer 
Upon  a  single  fly,  he's  famish'd,  too; 
The  cat  is  in  the  kitchen-chimney,  seated 
Upon  our  last  of  fagots,  destined  soon 
To  dress  our  last  of  suppers,  and,  poor 

soul. 
Is  starved  with  cold,  and  mewling  mad 

with  hunger. 
Flo.   D'ye  mock  our  misery,  Katleen? 
Kat.     No,  but  I  am  hysteric  on  the 

subject. 
So  I  must  laugh  or  cry,  and  laughing's 

lightest. 
F"lo.   Why  stay  you  with  us,  then,  my 

merry  cousin? 
From  you  my  sire  can  ask  no  filial  duty. 

Kat.  No,  thanks  to  Heaven  ! 
No  noble  in  wide  Scotland,  rich  or  poor, 
Can  claim  an  interest  in  the  vulgar  blood 
That  dances  in  my  veins;  and  I  might  wed 
A  forester  to-morrow,  nothing  fearing 
The  wrath  of  high-born  kindred,  and  far 

less 
That  the  dry  bones  of  lead-lapp'd   an- 
cestors 
Would  clatter  in  their  cerements  at  the 

tidings. 
Flo.  My  mother,  too,  would   gladly 

see  you  placed 
Beyond  the  verge  of  our  unhappiness. 


Which,  like  a  witch's  circle,  blights  and 

taints 
Whatever  comes  within  it. 

Kat.    •  Ah  !  my  good  aunt ! 

She  is  a  careful  kinswoman,  and  prudent, 
In  all  but  marrying  a  ruin'd  baron, 
When  she  could  take  her  choice  of  honest 

yeomen; 
And  now,  to  balance  this  ambitious  error, 
She  presses  on  her  daughter's  love  the  suit 
Of  one  who  hath  no  touch  of  nobleness 
In  manners,  birth,  or  mind,  to  recommend 

him,  — 
Sage    Master    GuUcrammer,    the    new- 

dubb'd  preacher. 
Flo.  Do  not  name  him,  Katleen  ! 
Kat.  Ay,  but  I  must,  and  with  some 

gratitude. 
I  said  but  now,  I  saw  our  last  of  fagots 
Destined  to  dress  our  last  of  meals,  but 

said  not 
That    the    repast    consisted    of    choice 

dainties. 
Sent  to  our  larder  by  that  liberal  suitor, 
The  kind  Melchisedek. 

Flo.  Were  famishing  the  word 

I'd  famish  ere  I  tasted  them  —  the  fop, 
The  fool,  the  low-born,  low-bred,  pedant 

coxcomb ! 
Kat.  There  spoke  the  blood  of  long- 
descended  sires ! 
My  cottage  wisdom  ought  to  echo  back, — 
O    the   snug    parsonage !     the    well-paid 

stipend ! 
The  yew-hedged  garden !  bee-hive,  pigs, 

and  poultry ! 
But,  to  speak  honestly,  the  peasant  Kat- 
leen, 
Valuing  these  good   things    justly,    still 

would  scorn 
To  wed,  for  such,  the  paltry  GuUcrammer, 
As  much  as  Lady  Flora. 

Flo.  Mock  me  not  with  a  title,  gentle 

cousin. 
Which  poverty  has  made  ridiculous.  — 

[  Trumpets  far  off. 
Hark  !  they  have  broken  up  the  weapon- 

shawing; 
The  vassals  are  dismiss'd,  and  marching 

homeward. 
Kat.  Comes  your  sire  back  to-night? 
Flo.  He  did  propose 

To  tarry  for  the  banquet.    This  da^only, 


576 


DRAMATIC  PIECES. 


Act  I. 


Siimmon'd  as  a  king's  tenant,  he  resumes 

The  right  of  rank  his  birth  assigns  to  him, 

And  mingles  with  the  proudest. 

Kat.  To  return 

To   his   domestic  wretchedness   to-mor- 
row — 

1  envy  not  the  privilege.     Let  us  go 

lb  yonder  height,  and  see  the  marksmen 
practise; 

They  shoot  their  match  down  in  the  dale 
beyond, 

Betwixt  the  Lowland  and  the  Forest  dis- 
trict, 

By  ancient  custom,  ror  a  tun  of  wine. 

Let  us  go  and  see  which  wins. 

Flo.  That  were  too  forward. 

Kat.  Why,  you  may  drop  the  screen 
before  your  face, 

Which  some  chance  breeze  may  happily 
blow  aside 

Just  when  a  youth  of  special  note  takes 
aim. 

It  chanced  even  so  that  memorable  morn- 
ing, 

When,    nutting    in   the    woods,   we   met 
young  Leonard;  — 

And  in  good  time  here  comes  his  sturdy 
comrade. 

The  rough  Lance  Blackthorn. 

Enter  Lancelot  Blackthorn,  a 
Forester,  with  the  Carcass  of  a  Deer 
on  his  back,  and  a  Gun  in  his  hand. 

Bla.  Save  you,  damsels ! 

Kat.  Godden,  good  yeoman.  — Come 

you  from  the  Weaponshaw? 
Bla.  Not    I,    indeed;    there    lies    the 
mark  I  shot  at. 

[Lays  doiun  the  Deer. 
The  time  has  been  I  had  not  miss'd  the 

sport, 
Altho'  Lord  Nithsdale's  self  had  wanted 

venison ; 
But    this    same    mate    of    mine,    young 

Leonard  Dacre, 
Makes  me  do  what  he  lists;  — he'll  win 

the  prize,  tho' : 
The  Forest  district  will  not  lose  its  honor. 
And  that  is  all  I  care  for  —  {some  shots 

are  heard^.     Hark  !   they're  at  it. 
I'll  go  see  the  issue. 

Flo.  Leave  not  here 

The  produce  of  your  hunting. 


Bla.  But  I  must  tho'. 

This   is    his   lair   to-night,  for    Leonard 

Dacre 
Charged  me  to  leave  the  stag  at  Devor- 

goil; 
Then  show  mc  quickly  where  to  stow  the 

quarry, 
And  let  me  to  the  sports  —  (^more  shots). 

Come,  hasten  damsels ! 
Flo.   It    is  impossible  —  we  dare  not 

take  it.  ^ 

Bla.  There  let  it  lie,  then,  and  I'll 

wind  my  bugle. 
That  all  within  these  tottering  walls  may 

know 
That  here   lies   venison,  whoso  likes  to 

lift  it.  [About  to  blo7v. 

Kat.   (^to  Flo.)     He  will  alarm  your 

mother;    and,  l>esides. 
Our    Forest    proverb    teaches,    that    no 

question 
Should  ask  where  venison  comes  from. 
Your  careful  mother,  with  her  wonted 

prudence, 
Will    hold  its    presence    plead   its   own 

apology. — 
Come,  Blackthorn,  I  will  show  you  where 

to  stow  it. 

[Exeunt  Katlken  and  Black- 
thorn into  the  Castle  —  more 
shooting  —  then  a  distant  shout 
—  StraL^glers,  armed  in  different 
■ways,  pass  oz'er  the  stage,  as  if 
from  the  Weaponshaw. 

Flo.  The  prize  is  won;   that  general 

shout  proclaim'd  it. 
The  marksmen  and  the  vassals  are  dis- 
persing. [She  draws  back. 
First  Vassal  («  peasant).     Ay,  ay, 

—  'tis  lost    and   won, — the    Forest 

have  it. 
'Tis  they  have  all  the  luck  on't. 
Second   Vas.    («   shepherd).     Luck 

say'st    thou,    man?     'Tis    patience, 

skill,  and  cunning. 
Third  Vas.   'Tis   no  such  thing.  —  I 

had  hit  the  mark  precisely. 
But  for  this  cursed  flint;    and  as  I  fired, 
A  swallow  cross'd  mine  eye  too.  —  Will 

you  tell  me 
That  that  was  but  a  chance,  mine  honest 

shepherd? 


SCENK    1. 


THE   DOOM  OF  DEVORGOIL. 


577 


First  Vas.  Ay,  and  last  year,  when 

Lancelot  Blackthorn  won  it, 

Because  my  powder  happen'd  tol)e  damp, 

Was  there  no  luck  in  that  ?  —  The  worse 

luck  mine. 

Sec.  Vas.  Still  I  say,  'twas  not  chance; 

it  might  be  witchcraft. 
First  Vas.  Faith,  not  unlikely,  neigh- 
bors;   for  these  foresters 
Do    not    often    haunt   about   this   ruin'd 

castle. 
I've    seen    myself    this    spark, — young 

Leonard  Dacre,  — 
Come  stealing  like  a  ghost  ere  break  of 

day, 
And  after  sunset,  too,  along  this  path; 
And  well  you  know  the  haunted  towers 

of  Devorgoil 
Have  no  good  reputation  in  the  land. 
Shep.  That  have  tliey  not.     I've  heard 
my  father  say, 
Ghosts  dance  as  lightly  in  its  moonlight 

halls. 
As  ever  maiden  did  at  Midsummer 
Upon  the  village-green. 

First  Vas.  Those  that  frequent  such 
spirit-haunted  ruins 
Must    needs    know    more    than    simple 

Christians  do.  — 
See,  Lance  this  blessed  moment  leaves 

the  castle. 
And  comes  to  triumph  o'er  us. 

[Blackthorn    euters  from    the 
Castle,  and  comes  forward-while 
they  speak. 
Third  Vas.  A  mighty  triumph  !  What 
is't  after  all, 
Except  the  driving  of  a  piece  of  lead. 
As  learned  Master Gullcrammer  defined  it. 
Just  thro'  the  middle  of  a  painted  board? 
Black.  And  if  he  so  define  it,  by  your 
leave, 
Your  learned  Master  Gullcrammer' s  an 
ass. 
Third   Vas.    {ang7-ily').       He    is    a 

preacher,  huntsman,  under  favor. 
Sec.  Vas.  No  quarrelling,  neighbors, 
you  may  both  be  right. 
Enter  a  Fourth  Vassal,  7oith  a  gallon 
stoup  of  wine. 
Fourth  Vas.  Why  stand  you  brawl- 
ing here?      Young   Leonard   Dacre 


Has  set  abroach  the  tun  of  wine  he  gain'd 
That  all  may  drink  who  list.    Blackthorn, 

I  sought  you; 
Your  comrade  prays  you  will  bestow  this 

flagon 
Where  you  have  left  the  deer  you  kill'd 

this  morning. 
Black.    And  that  I  will;   but  first  we 

will  take  toll 
To  see  if  it's  worth  carriage.     Shepherd, 

thy  horn. 
There  must  be  due  allowance  made  for 

leakage, 
And   that   will    come   about   a   draught 

apiece. 
Skink  it  about,  and,  when  our  throats  are 

liquor 'd. 
We'll  merrily  trowl  our  song  of  Weapon- 

shaw. 

\^They  drink  about  out  of  the 
Shepherd's  horn,  and  then 
sing. 

SONG. 

We  love  the  shrill  trumpet,  we  love  the 
drum's  rattle, 

They  call  us  to  sport,  and  they  call  us  to 
battle; 

And  old  Scotland  shall  laugh  at  the 
threats  ,of  a  stranger. 

While  our  comrades  in  pastime  are  com- 
rades in  danger. 

If  there's  mirth  in  our  house,    'tis  our 

neighbor  that  shares  it  — 
If  peril  approach,  'tis  our  neighbor  that 

dares  it; 
And  when  we  lead  off  to  the  pipe  and  the 

tabor. 
The  fair  hand  we  press  is  the  hand  of  a 

neighbor. 

Then  close  your  ranks,  comrades — the 
bands  that  combine  them. 

Faith,  friendship,  and  brotherhood,  join'd 
to  entwine  them; 

And  we'll  laugh  at  the  threats  of  each  in- 
solent stranger, 

While  our  comrades  in  sport  are  our 
comrades  in  danger. 

Black.    Well,  I  must  do  mine  errand. 
Master  flagon  [  Shaking  it. 


578 


DRAMATIC  PIECES. 


Act  I. 


Is  too  consumptive  for  another  bleeding. 

Shep.   I  must  to  my  fold. 

Third  Vas.  I'll  to  the  butt  of  wine, 
And  see  if  that  has  given  up  the  ghost 
yet. 

First  Vas.   Have  with  you,  neighbor, 

[Blackthorn  enters  the  Cas- 
tle, the  rest  exeunt  sei'ernlly. 
Melchisedek  Gullcrammkr 
watihes  them  off  the  stage,  and 
then  enters  from  the  side-scene. 
His  costume  is  a  Geneva  cloak 
and  band,  with  a  hi^h-cro7tined 
hat ;  the  rest  of  his  dress  in  the 
fashion  of  yaines  the  Firsfs 
time.  He  looks  to  the  windoios 
of  the  Castle,  then  draws  back 
as  if  to  escape  observation, 
while  he  brushes  his  cloak, 
drives  the  white  threads  from 
hts  waistcoat  with  his  welted 
thumb,  and  dusts  his  shoes,  all 
with  the  air  of  one  7oho  would 
not  'ioillingly  he  observed  en- 
gaged in  these  offices.  He  then 
adjusts  his  collar  and  band, 
comes  fortuard,  and  speaks. 

Gui.L.    Right  comely  is  thy  garb,  Mel- 
chisedek; 
As  well  beseemeth  one,  whom  good  Saint 

Mungo, 
The  patron  of  our  land  and  university, 
Hath  graced  with  license  both  to  teach 

and  preach  — - 
Who  dare  opine  thou  hither  plod'st  on 

foot? 
Trim  sits  thy  cloak,  unruffled  is  thy  band, 
And  not  a  speck  upon  thine  outward  man 
Bewrays  the  labors  of  thy  weary  sole. 

[  I'ouches    his    shoe,    and    smiles 
complacently. 
Quaint    was    that  jest    and    pleasant !  — 

Now  will  I 
Approach  and  hail   the  dwellers  of  this 

fort; 
But  specially  sweet  Flora  Devorgoil, 
Ere  her  proud  sire  return.      He  loves  me 

not, 
Mocketh  my  lineage,  flouts  at  mine  ad- 
vancement — 
Sour  as  the  fruit  the  crab-tree  furnishes. 
And  hard  as  is  the  cudgel  it  supplies; 


But  Flora  —  she's  a  lily  on  the  lake, 
And  I  must  reach  her,  tho'  I  risk  a  duck- 
ing. 

[./j  Gullcrammer  moves  to- 
wards the  drawbridge,  Baul- 
DIE  Durward  enters,  and  in- 
terposes himself  betivixt  him 
and  the  Castle.  GuLLCRAM- 
MER  stops  and  speaks. 

Whom  have  we  here  !  —  that  ancient  for- 
tune-teller. 
Papist  and  sorcerer,  and  sturdy  beggar. 
Old  Bauldie  Durward  !     Would  I   were 
well  past  him  ! 

[Durward  advances,  partly  in 
the  dress  of  a  palmer,  partly 
in  that  of  an  old  Scottish  men- 
dicant, having  coarse  blue  cloak 
and  badge,  white  beard,  etc. 

Dur.  The  blessing  of  the  evening  on 

your  worship. 
And   on   your  taff'ty  doublet.      Much    I 

marvel 
Your  wisdom  chooseth  such  grim  garb, 

when  tempests 
Are  gathering  to  the  bursting. 

[Gulixrammer  (looks  to  his  dress, 
and  then  to  the  sky,  with  some  ap- 
prehension).    Surely,  Bauldie, 

Thou  dost  belie  the  evening;  —  in  the  west 

The  light  sinks  down  as  lovely  as  this  band 

Drops   o'er   this   mantle. — Tush,   man! 
'twill  be  fair. 
Dur.   Ay,  but  the  storm  I  bode  is  big 
with  blows. 

Horsewhips    for    hailstones,    clubs    for 
thunderbolts; 

And  for  the  wailing  of  the  midnight  wind. 

The  unpitied  howling  of  a  cudgell'd  cox- 
comb. 

Come,  come,   I   know   thou  seek'st   fair 
Flora  Devorgoil. 
GuL.   And  if  I  did,   I  do  the  damsel 
grace. 

Her  mother  thinks  so,  and  she  has  ac- 
cepted 

At  these  poor  hands  gifts  of  some  conse- 
quence. 

And    curious    dainties    for    the    evening 
cheer. 

To  which  I  am  invited  —  she  respects  me. 


Scene  I. 


THE   DOOM   OF  DEVORGOIL. 


579 


DUR.    But    not    so    doth    her    father, 

haughty  Oswald. 

Bethink  thee,  he's  a  baron 

GuL.  And  a  hare  one; 

Construe  me  that,  old  man  !  — The  crofts 

of  Mucklewhame  — 
Destined  for  mine  so  soon  as  heaven  and 

earth 
Have  shared  my  uncle's  soul  and  bones 

between  them  — 
The   crofts  of    Mucklewhame,  old  man, 

which  nourish 
Three  scores  of  sheep,  three  rows,  with 

each  her  follower, 
A  female  palfrey  eke  —  I  will  be  candid. 
She  is  of  that  meek  tribe  whom,  in  deri- 
sion, 
Our  wealthy  southern  neighbors  nickname 

donkeys 

DuR.    She  hath    her   follower  too, — 

when  thou  art  there. 
GuL.    I    say  to    thee,  these   crofts  of 

Mucklewhame, 
In  the  mere  tything  of  their  stock  and 

produce, 
Outvie  whatever  patch  of  land  remains 
To  this  old  rugged  castle  and  its  owner. 
Well,  therefore,  may  Melchisedek  Gull- 
crammer, 
Younger   of    Mucklewhame,  for   such  I 

write  me. 
Master  of  Arts,  by  grace  of  good  Saint 

Andrew, 
Preacher,  in  brief  expectance  of  a  kirk, 
Endow'd  with  ten  score  Scottish  pounds 

per  annum. 
Being  eight  pounds,  seventeen  eight  in 

sterling  coin  — 
Well  then,  I  say,  may  this  Melchisedek, 
Thus  highly  graced  by  fortune  —  and  by 

nature 
E"en  gifted  as  thou  scest  —  aspire  to  woo 
The  daughter  of  the  beggar'd  Devorgoil. 
DuR.  Credit  an  old  man's  word,  kind 

Master  Gullcrammer, 
You  will  not  find  it  so.  — Come,  Sir,  I've 

known 
The  hospitality  of  Mucklewhame; 
It   reach'd  not   to   profuseness — yet,  in 

gratitude 
For  the  pure  water  of  its  living  well, 
And    for  the   Barley   loaves    of    its    fair 

fields. 


Wherein  chopp'd  straw  contended  with 

the  grain 
Which  best  should  satisfy  the  appetite, 
I   would    not    see   the   hopeful   heir   of 

Mucklewhame 
Thus  fling  himself  in  danger. 

GuL,  Danger  !  what  danger ! — Know'st 

thou  not  old  Oswald 
This  day  attends  the  muster  of  the  shire. 
Where  the  crown-vassals  meet  to  show 

their  arras. 
And  their  best  horse  of  service  ?  —  Twas 

good  sport 
(And  if  a  man  had  dared  but  laugh  at  it) 
To  see  old  Oswald  with  his  rusty  morion. 
And  huge  two-handed  sword,  that  might 

have  seen 
The    field    of    Bannockburn    or    Chevy- 
Chase, 
Without  a  squire  or  vassal, page  or  groom. 
Or  e'en  a  single  pikeman  at  his  heels. 
Mix    with    the    proudest    nobles    of   the 

county. 
And  claim  precedence    for    his   tatter'd 

person 
O'er  armors  double  gilt  and  ostrich-plu- 
mage. 
DuR.  Ay  !  'twas  the  jest  at  which  fools 

laugh  the  loudest. 
The  downfall  of  our  old  nobility  — 
Which  may  forerun  the  ruin  of  a  king- 
dom. 
I've  seen  an  idiot  clap  his  hands,  and 

shout 
To  see  a  tower  like  yon  (points  to  a  part 

of  the  Castle)  stoop  to  its  base 
In  headlong  ruin;   while  the  wise  look'd 

round. 
And  fearful  sought  a  distant  stance  to 

watch 
What  fragment  of  the  fabric  next  should 

follow; 
For  when  the  turrets  fall,  the  walls  are 

tottering. 
GuL.   {after pondering).  If  that  means 

aught,  it  means  that  thou  saw'st  old 

Oswald 
Expeli'd  from  the  assembly. 

DUR.  Thy  sharp  wit 

Hath  glanced  unwittingly  right  nigh  the 

truth. 
Expeli'd   he   was   not,    but,    his    claim 

denied 


sSo 


DRAAfATIC  PIECES. 


Act  I. 


At  some  contested  point  of  ceremony, 

He  left  the  Weaponshaw  in   high  dis- 
pleasure, 

And   hither  comes- — his  wonted  bitter 
temper 

Scarce  sweeten'd  by  the  chances  of  the 
day, 

'Twere  much  like  rashness  should  you 
wait  his  coming. 

And  thither  tends  my  counsel. 

GuL.  And  I'll  take  it; 

Good  Bauldie  Durward,  I  will  take  thy 
counsel, 

And    will    requite    it    with    this    minted 
farthing. 

That  bears  our  sovereign's  head  in  purest 
copper. 
DUR.  Thanks  to  thy  bounty  !      Haste 
thee,  good  young  master; 

Oswald,    besides    the    old    two-handed 
sword. 

Bears  in  his  hand  a  staff  of  potency, 

To  charm  intruders  from  his  castle  pur- 
lieus. 
GuL.   I  do  abhor  all  charms,  nor  will 
abide 

To  hear  or  see,  far  less  to  feel  their  use. 

Behold,  I  have  departed.     \E.xil  hastily. 

Manet   DuRWARD. 

DuR.  Thus  do  I  play  the  idle  part  of 
one 
Who  seeks  to  save  the  moth  from  scorch- 
ing him 
In  the  bright  taper's  flame  —  and  Flora's 

beauty 
Must,     not     unlike     that     taper,     waste 

away, 
Gilding  the   rugged    walls    that    saw    it 

kindled. 
This   was    a    shard-born    beetle,    heavy, 

drossy. 
Though    boasting    his    dull    drone    and 

gilded  wing. 
Here  comes  a  flutterer  of  another  stamp, 
Whom  the  same  ray  is  charming  to  his 

ruin. 
Enter  Leonard,  dressed  as  a  huntsman; 
he  pauses  before  the  Toiver,  and  tohis- 
tles  a  note  or  two  at  intervals  — draw- 
ing back,  as  if  fearful  of  observation  — 
yet  waiting  as  if  expecting  sotne  reply 
—  Durward,    whom    he    had   not  ob- 


served, moves  around,  so  as  to  front 
Leonard  unexpectedly, 

Leon.  I  am  too  late  —  it  was  no  easy 
task 

To  rid  myself  from  yonder  noisy  revel- 
lers. 

Flora!  —  I  fear  she's  angry  —  Flora  — 
Flora ! 

SONG. 

Admire  not  that  I  gain'd  the  prize 
From  all  the  village  crew; 

How  could  I  fail  with  hand  or  eyes. 
When  heart  and  faith  were  true  ! 

And  when  in  floods  of  rosy  wine 
My  comrades  drown'd  their  cares, 

I  thought  but  that  thy  heart  was  mine, 
My  own  leapt  light  as  theirs. 

My  brief  delay  then  do  not  blame, 
Nor  deem  your  swain  untrue; 

My  form  but  linger "d  at  the  game, 
My  soul  was  still  with  you. 

She  hears  not ! 

DuR.  But  a  friend  hath  heard  —  Leon- 
ard, I  pity  thee. 
Leon.   (  starts,  but  recoz'ers  himself). 

Pity,  good    father,  is  for  those    in 

want, 
In  age,  in  sorrow,  in  distress  of  mind. 
Or  agony  of  liody.     I'm  in  health  — 
Can  match  my  limbs  against  the  stag  in 

chase. 
Have  means  enough  to  meet  my  simple 

wants. 
And  am  so  free  of  soul  that  I  can  carol 
To   woodland  and   to   wild    in   notes  as 

lively 
As  are  my  jolly  bugle's. 

DlJR.   Even  therefore  dost  thou  need 

my  pity,  Leonard, 
And  therefore  I  bestow  it,  praying  thee, 
Before  thou  feel'st  the  need,  my  mite  of 

Leonard,  thou  lovest;    and  in  that  little 

word 
There  lies  enough  to  claim  the  sympathy 
Of  men  who  wear  such  hoary  locks  as 

mine. 
And  know  what  misplaced  love  is  sure  to 

end  in. 


Scene  I. 


THE  DOOM   OF  DEVORGOIL. 


581 


Leon.  Good  father,  thou  art  old,  and 

even  thy  youth. 
As  thou  hast  told  me,  spent  in  cloister'd 

cells, 
Fits  thee  but  ill  to  judge  the  passions 
Which  are  the  joy  and  charm  of  social 

life. 
Press  me  no  farther,  then,  nor  waste  those 

moments 
Whose  worth  thou  canst  not  estimate. 

\^As  turning  from  him. 
DUR.    {detains  him).      Stay,    young 

man ! 
Tis  seldom  that  a  beggar  claims  a  debt ; 
Yet  I  bethink  me  of  a  gay  young  stripling. 
That  owes  to  these  white  locks  and  hoary 

l)eard 
Something  of  reverence  and  of  gratitude 
More  than  he  wills  to  pay. 

Leon.  Forgive  me,  father.    Often  hast 

thou  told  me. 
That  in  the  ruin  of  my  father's  house 
You    saved    the  orphan  Leonard  in  his 

cradle: 
And  well  I  know,  that  to  thy  care  alone  — 
Care    seconded    by    means    beyond    thy 

seeming  — 
I  owe  whatever  of  nurture  I  can  boast. 

DuR.  Then  for  thy  life  preserved. 
And  for  the  means  of  knowledge  I  have 

furnish'd 
(Which  lacking,  man  is  levell'd  with  the 

brutes), 
Grant  me  this  boon:  — Avoid  these  fated 

walls ! 
A  curse   is  on    them,  bitter,  deep,  and 

heavy. 
Of  power  to  split  the  massiest  tower  they 

boast 
From  pinnacle  to  dungeon  vault.     It  rose 
Upon  the  gay  horizon  of  proud  Devorgoil 
As  unregarded  as  the  fleecy  cloud. 
The  first  forerunner  of  the  hurricane. 
Scarce  seen  amid  the  welkin's  shadeless 

blue; 
Dark  grew  it,  and  more  dark,  and  still 

the  fortunes 
Of    this  doom'd    family    have    darken'd 

with  it. 
It  hid  their  sovereign's   favor,  and  ob- 
scured 
The  lustre  of  their  service,  gender'd  hate 
Betwixt  them  and  the  mighty  of  the  land; 


Till  by  degrees  the  waxing  tempest  rose. 

And  stripp'd  the  goodly  tree  of  fruit  and 
flowers, 

And  buds,  and  boughs,  and  branches. 
There  remains 

A  rugged  trunk,  dismember'd  and  un- 
sightly, 

Waiting  the  bursting  of  the  final  bolt 

To  splinter  it  to  shivers.     Now,  go  pluck 

Its  single  tendril  to  enwreath  thy  brow. 

And  rest  lieneath  its  shade  —  to  share  the 
ruin ! 
Leon.  This  anathema. 

Whence  should  it  come  ? —  How  merited  ? 
and  when? 
DuR.   'Twas  in  the  days 

Of  Oswald's  grandsire,  — mid  Galwegian 
chiefs 

The  fellest  foe,  the  fiercest  champion. 

His  blood -red  pennons  scared  the  Cum- 
brian coasts. 

And  wasted   towns  and  manors  mark'd 
his  progress. 

His  galleys  stored  with  treasure,  and  their 
decks 

Crowded  with  English  captives,  who  be- 
held. 

With  weeping  eyes,  their  native  shores 
retire. 

He  bore  him  homeward;  but  a  tempest 

rose 

Leon.   So  far  I've  heard  the  tale. 

And  spare  thee  the  recital :  —  The  grim 
chief. 

Marking  his  vessels  labor  on  the  sea. 

And  loth  to  lose  his  treasure,  gave  com- 
mand 

To  plunge  his  captives  in  the  raging  deep. 
DuR.  There  sunk  the  lineage  of  a  noble 
name. 

And  the  wild  waves  boom'd  over  sire  and 
son. 

Mother  and  nursling,  of  the  House  of 
Aglionby, 

Leaving  but  one  frail  tendril.  —  Hence 
the  fate 

That  hovers  o'er  these  turrets,  —  hence 
the  peasant. 

Belated,    hieing    homewards,   dreads    to 
cast 

A  glance  upon  that  portal,  lest  he  see 

The  unshrouded  spectres  of  the  murder'd 
dead; 


;82 


DRAMATIC  PIECES. 


Act  I. 


Or  the  avenging  Angel,  with  his  sword, 
Waving  destruction;    or  the  grisly  phan- 
tom 
Of  that  fell  Chief,  the  doer  of  the  deed. 
Which  still,    they    say,    roams  thro'    his 

empty  halls, 
And  mourns  their    wasteness    and    their 

lonelihood. 
Leon.   Such  is  the  dotage 
Of    superstition,    father;  —  ay,   and    the 

cant 
Of     hoodwink'd     prejudice.  —  Not     for 

atonement 
Of   some  foul   deed  done  in  the  ancient 

warfare, 
When  war  was  butchery,  and  men  were 

wolves, 
Doth    Heaven   consign    the   innocent  to 

suffering. 
I  tell  thee.  Flora's  virtues  might  atone 
For  all  the  massacres  her  sires  have  done 
Since  first  the  Pictish  race  their  stained 

limbs 
Array'd  in  wolf's  skin. 

DuR.   Leonard,   ere   yet  this  beggar's 

scrip  and  cloak 
Supplied  the  place  of  mitre  and  of  crosier, 
Which  in  these  alter'd  lands  must  not  be 

worn, 
I  was  superior  of  a  brotherhood 
•  Of  holy  men,  —  the  Prior  of   Lanercost. 
Nobles  then  sought  my  footstool  many  a 

league, 
There  to  unload  their  sins  - —  questions  of 

conscience 
Of  deepest  import  were  not  deem'd  too 

nice 
For  my  decision,  youth.  —  But  not  even 

then, 
With  mitre  on  my  brow,  and  all  the  voice 
Which    Rome  gives  to    a  father  of    her 

church, 
Dared  I  pronounce  so  boldly  on  the  ways 
Of   hidden    Providence,   as  thou,   young 

man, 
Whose  chiefest  knowledge  is  to  track  a 

stag. 
Or  wind  a  bugle,  hast  presumed  to  do. 

Leon.  Nay,  I  pray  forgive  me. 
Father;     thou  know'st    I    meant    not  to 

presume 

DuR.   Can    I    refuse    thee   pardon?  — 

Thou  art  all 


That   war  and   change   have  left  to    the 

poor  Durward. 
Thy    father,   too,  who   lost   his   life  and 

fortune 
Defending  Lanercost,  when  its  fair  aisles 
Were  spoil'd  by  sacrilege  —  I   blest  his 

banner. 
And  yet  it   prosper'd  not.     But- — all    I 

could  — 
Thee   from  the  wreck  I  saved,  and   for 

thy  sake 
Have  still  dragg'd  on  my  life  of  pilgrimage 
And  penitence  upon  the  hated  shores 
I  else  had  left  forever.     Come  with   me. 
And  I  will  teach  thee  there  is  healing  in 
The  wounds  which  friendship  gives. 

\_Excunt. 
Scene  II. 
The  Scene  changes  to  the  Interior  of  the 
Castle.  ^In  apartment  is  discovered, 
in  which  there  is  much  appearance  of 
present  poverty,  mixed  with  some  relics 
of  former  grandeur.  On  the  wall 
hangs,  amongst  other  things,  a  suit  of 
ancient  armor  :  by  the  table  is  a  cov- 
ered basket :  behind,  and  concealed  by 
it,  the  carcass  of  a  roe-deer.  There  is 
a  small  latticed  windo'w,  which,  ap- 
pearing to  perforate  a  wall  of  great 
thickness,  is  supposed  to  look  out  toioards 
the  dra-iobridge.  It  is  in  the  shape  of 
a  loop-hole  for  musketry  ;  and,  as  is  not 
unusual  in  old  buildings,  is  placed  so 
high  up  in  the  wall,  that  it  is  only  ap- 
proached by  five  or  six  narrow  stone 
steps. 

Eleanor,  the  wife  of  Oswald  </ 1  )kvor- 
GOiL,  Fi.oKA  and  Katlken,  her 
Daui^hter  and  Aiece,  are  discovered  at 
work.  The  former  spins,  the  latter  are 
enibroiderni}^.  Ei.KANOR  ijuits  her  own 
labor  to  examine  the  manner  in  which 
Flora  is  cxecu/ing  her  task,  and  shakes 
her  head  as  if  dissatisfied. 

Ele.   Fy  on  it,  Flora! — this  botch'd 

work  of  thine 
Shows  that  thy  mind  is  distant  from  thy 

t.ask. 
The  finest  tracery  of  our  old  cathedral 
Had  not  a  richer,  freer,  bolder  pattern. 
Than    Flora    once     could    trace.       Thy 

thoughts  are  wandering. 


Scene  II. 


THE    DOOM   OF  DEVORGOIL. 


583 


Flo.  They're  with  my  father.     Broad 
upon  the  lake 

The  evening  sun  sunk  down;    huge  piles 
of  clouds, 

Crimson  and  sable,  rose  upon  his  disk. 

And  quendi'd   him  ere  his  setting,  like 
some  chamjiion 

In  his  last  conflict,  losing  all  his  glory. 

Sure  signals  those  of  storm.     And  if  my 
father 

Be  on  his  homeward  road  — 

Ele.  But  that  he  will  not. 

Baron  of  Devorgoil,  this  day  at  least 

He  banquets  witii  the  nobles  — who,  the 
next. 

Would  scarce  vouchsafe  an  alms  to  save 
his  household 

From  want  or  famine.     Thanks  to  a  kind 
friend, 

For  one  brief  space  we  shall    not  need 
their  aid. 
F1.0.   (joyfully^.       What !     knew    you 
then  his  gift? 

How  silly    I   that  would,  yet  durst   not 
tell  it? 

I  fear  my  father  will  condemn  us  both. 

That  easily  accepted  such  a  present. 
Kat.  Now,    here's    the    game    a   by- 
stander sees  better 

Than  those  who  play  it.  —  My  good  aunt 
is  pondering 

On   the  good  cheer  which  Gullcrammer 
has  sent  us. 

And  Flora  thinks  upon  the  forest  venison. 

[Aside. 
Ele.  (/.'  Flo.).    Thy  father  need  not 
know  on't  —  'tis  a  lx)on 

Comes  timely,  when  frugality,  nay,  absti- 
nence. 

Might    scarce    avail    us    longer.     I    had 
hoped 

Ere  now  a  visit  from  the  youthful  donor. 

That  we  might   thank  his  bounty;   and 
perhaps 

My  Flora  thought  the  same,  when  Sun- 
day's kerchief 

And  the  best  kirtle  were  sought  out,  and 
donn'd 

To  grace  a  work-day  evening. 

Flo.  Nay,  mother,  that  is  judging  all 
too  close ! 

My  work-day  gown  was  torn  —  my  ker- 
chief sullied; 


And  thus —  But,  think  you,  will  the  gal- 
lant come? 
Ele.  He  will,  for  with  these  dainties 
came  a  message 

From  gentle  Master  Gullcrammer,  to  in- 
timate — 
Flo.    (^greatly    disappointed^.     Gull- 
crammer? 
Kat.  There  burst  the  bubble  —  down 
fell  house  of  cards, 

And  cousin's  like  to  cry  for  't !      \^Aside. 
Ele.    Gullcrammer!     ay,     Gullcram- 
mer;   thou  scorn'st  not  at  him? 

'Twere  something  short  of  wisdom  in  a 
maiden, 

Who,  like  the  poor  bat  in  the  Grecian 
fable. 

Hovers  betwixt  two  classes  in  the  world. 

And  is  disclaim'd  by  both  the  mouse  and 
bird. 
Kat.  I  am  the  poor  mouse, 

And  may  go  creep  into  what  hole  I  list. 

And  no  one  heed  me  —  Yet  I'll  waste  a 
word 

Of  counsel  on  my  betters. — Kind  my  aunt. 

And  you,  my  gentle  cousin,  were't  not 
better 

We  thought  of  dressing  this  same  gear 
for  supper. 

Than    quarrelling    about    the    worthless 
donor? 
Ele.  Peace,  minx ! 
Flo.    Thou    hast    no   feeling,    cousin 

Katleen. 
Kat.  So !     I  have  brought  them  both 
on  my  poor  shoulders : 

So  meddling  peace-makers  are  still   re- 
warded : 

E'en  let  them  to  't  again,  and  fight  it  out. 
Flo.    Mother,   were    I   disclaim'd  of 
every  class, 

I  would  not  therefore  so  disclaim  myself. 

As  even  a  passing  thought  of  scorn  to 
waste 

On  cloddish  Gullcrammer. 

Ele.  List  to  me,  love,  and  let  adversity 

Incline    thine    ear    to    wisdom.       Look 
around  thee  — 

Of  the  g.ay  youths  who  boast  a  noble  name. 

Which  will  incline  to  wed   a   dowerless 
damsel? 

And  of  the  yeomanry,  who,  think'st  thou. 
Flora, 


5^4 


DRAMATIC  PIECES. 


Act  I. 


Would  ask  to  share  the  labors  of  his  farm 
An  high-born  beggar?  —  This  young  man 

is  modest 

Flo.  Silly,  good  mother;  sheepish,  if 

you  will  it. 
Ele.  E'en  call  it  what  you  list  —  the 

softer  temper, 
The  fitter  to  endure  the  bitter  sallies 
Of  one  whose  wit  is  all  too  sharp  for  mine. 
Flo.  Mother,  you  cannot  mean  it  as 

you  say; 
You  cannot  bid  me  prize  conceited  folly? 
Ele.  Content  thee,  child  !  —  Each  lot 

has  its  own  blessings. 
This  youth,  with  his  plain-dealing  honest 

suit. 
Proffers  thee  quiet,   peace,   and  compe- 
tence, 
Redemption  from  a  home,  o'er  which  fell 

Fate 
Stoops   like    a   falcon.  —  Oh !    if    thou 

couldst  choose 
(As  no  such  choice  is  given)  'twixt  such 

a  male 
And  some  proud  noble  !  —  Who,  in  sober 

judgment. 
Would  like  to  navigate  the  heady  river. 
Dashing  in  fury  from  its  parent  mountain. 
More  than  the  waters  of  the  quiet  lake? 
Kat.   Now  can   I   hold  no  longer  — 

Lake,  good  aunt? 
Nay,  in  the  name  of  truth,  say  mill-pond, 

horse-pond; 
Or  if  there  be  a  pond  more  miry, 
More  sluggish,  mean-derived,  and  base 

than  either. 
Be  such  Gullcrammer's  emblem  —  and  his 

portion  ! 
Flo.  I  would  that  he  or  I  were  in  our 

grave. 
Rather  than  thus  his  suit  should  goad  me  ! 

—  Mother, 
Flora  of  Devorgoil,  tho'  low  in  fortunes, 
Is  still  too  high  in  mind  to  join  her  name 
With  such  a  base-born  churl  as  Gullcram- 

mer. 
Ele.  You  are  trim  maidens  both  ! 

(  To  F"lora. )   Have  you  forgotten. 
Or  did  you  mean  to  call  to  tity  remem- 
brance 
Thy  father  chose  a  wife  of  peasant  blood? 
Flo.   Will   you  speak  thus  to  me,  or 

think  the  stream 


Can    mock   the    fountain    it    derives   its 

source  from? 
My  venerated  mother !  —  in  that  name 
Lies  all  on  earth  a  child  should  chiefest 

honor; 
And  with  that  name  to  mix  reproach  or 

taunt, 
Were  only  short  of  blasphemy  to  Heaven. 
Ele.      Then    listen.    Flora,    to    that 

mother's  counsel, 
Or  rather  profit  by  that  mother's  fate. 
Your  father's  fortunes  were  but  bent,  not 

broken, 
Until  he  listen'd  to  his  rash  affection. 
Means  were  afforded  to  redeem  his  house, 
Ample  and  large  —  the  hand  of   a  rich 

heiress 
Awaited,  almost  courted,  his  acceptance; 
He  saw  my  beauty  —  such  it  then  was 

call'd, 
Or   such    at    least    he    thought    it  —  the 

wither'd  bush, 
Whate'er  it  now  may  seem,  had  blossoms 

then, — 
And  he  forsook  the  proud  and  wealthy 

heiress. 
To  wed  with  me  and  ruin  — 

Kat.  (^asii/e).  The  more  fool. 

Say  I,  apart,  the  peasant  maiden  then. 
Who  might  have  chose  a  mate  from  her 

own  hamlet. 
Ele.   Friends  fell  off. 
And  to  his  own  resources,  his  own  coun- 
sels, 
Abandon'd,  as  they  said,  the  thoughtless 

prodigal, 
Who  had  exchanged  rank,  riches,  pomp, 

and  honor. 
For  the  mean  beauties  of  a  cottage  maid. 

Flo.   It  was  done  like  my  father, 
Who  scorn'd  to   sell    what   wealth    can 

never  buy  — 
True  love  and  free  affections.      And  he 

loves  you ! 
If  you  have  suffer'd  in  a  weary  world. 
Your   sorrows  have   been  jointly  borne, 

and  love 
Has  made  the  load  sit  lighter. 

Ele.  Ay,  but  a  misplaced  match  hath 

that  deep  curse  in't. 
That  can  embitter  e'en  the  purest  streams 
Of   true  affection.     Thou  hast  seen  me 

seek, 


Scene  II. 


THE  DOOM  OF  DEVORGOIL. 


585 


With  the  strict  caution  early  habits  taught 

me, 
To  match  our  wants  and  means  —  hast 

seen  thy  father, 
With  aristocracy's  high  brow  of  scorn, 
Spurn  at  economy,  the  cottage  virtue, 
As  best  befitting  her  whose  sires  were 

peasants : 

Nor  can  I,  when  I  see  my  lineage  scorn'd, 

Always  conceal  in  what  contempt  I  hold 

The  fancied  claims  of  rank  he  clings  to 

fondly. 

Flo.     Why  will  you  do  so  —  well  you 

know  it  chafes  him. 
Ele.  Flora,  thy  mother  is  but  mortal 
woman. 
Nor  can  at  all  times  check  an  eager  tongue. 
Kat.   (^asitfe).  That's  no  new  tidings 

to  her  niece  and  daughter. 
Ele.  O  may'st  thou  never  know  the 
spited  feelings 
That  gender  discord  in  adversity 
Betwixt   the  dearest  friends  and  truest 

lovers ! 
In  the  chill  damping  gale  of  poverty, 
If  Love's  lamp  go  not  out,  it  gleams  but 

palely. 
And  twinkles  in  the  socket. 

Flo.  But  tenderness  can  screen  it  with 
her  veil. 
Till  it  revive  again.     By  gentleness,  good 

mother. 
How  oft  I've  seen  you  soothe  my  father's 
mood ! 
Kat.  Now  there  speak  youthful  hope 
and  fantasy !  \^AsiJe. 

Ele.  That  is  an  easier  task  in  youth 
than  age; 
Our  temper  hardens, and  our  charmsdecay , 
And    both    arc    needed    in    that    art    of 
soothing. 
Kat.  And  there  speaks  sad  experience. 
[Aside. 
Ele.  Besides,  since  that  our  state  was 
utter  desperate, 
Darker  his  brow,  more  dangerous  grow 

his  words: 
Fain  would  I  snatch  thee  from  the  woe 

and  wrath 
Which  darken'd  long  my  life,  and  soon 
must  end  it. 

[A    knocking  without',    ELEANOR 
shows  alarm. 


It  was  thy  father's  knock,  —  haste  to  the 
gate. 

[  Exeunt  FLORA  and  Katleen. 
What  can  have  happen'd?  —  he  thought 

to  stay  the  night. 
This  gear  must  not  be  seen. 

\As  she  is  about  to  remove  the  bast 
ket,  she  sees  the  body  of  the  roe- 
deer. 
What  have  we  here?  a  roe-deer !  —  as  I 

fear  it. 
This  was  the  gift  of  which  poor  Flora 
thought. 

The  young  and  handsome  hunter But 

time  presses. 

\She  removes  the  basket  and  the  roe 
into  a  closet.     As  she  has  done  — 

Enter  Oswald  0/  Devorgoil,  Flora, 
and  Katleen. 

[He  is  dressed  in  a  scarlet  cloak, 
■which  should  seem  worn  and  old 
—  a  headpiece,  and  old-fashioned 
sword —  the  rest  of  his  dress  that 
of  a  peasant.  His  countenance 
and  manner  should  express  the 
moody  and  irritable  haughtiness 
of  a  proud  man  involved  in 
calamity,  and  who  has  been  ex- 
posed  to  recent  insult. 

Osw.   (^addressing  his  wife).  — 
The  sun  hath  set  —  why  is  the  drawbridge 
lower'd? 
Ele.  The  counterpoise  has  fail'd,  and 
Flora's  strength, 
Katleen's,  and  mine   united,  could   not 
raise  it. 
Osw.   Flora  and  thou !  a  goodly  gar- 
rison 
To  hold  a  castle,  which,  if  fame  says  true, 
Once  foiled  the  King  of  Norse  and  all  his 
rovers. 
Ele.  It  might  be  so  in  ancient  times, 

but  now 

Osw.  A  herd  of  deer  might  storm  proud 

Devorgoil. 
Kat.   {aside   to   Flo.)     You,   Flora, 
know  full  well,  one  deer  already 
Has  enter'd  at  the  breach;   and,  what  is 

worse, 
The  escort   is  not    yet  march'd  off,   for 

Blackthorn 
Is  still  within  the  castle. 


586 


DRAMATIC  PIECES. 


Act  1. 


Flo.  In  heaven's  name,  rid  him  out 
on't  ere  my  father 
Discovers  he  is  here !     Why  went  he  not 
before? 
Kat.   Because    I  staid    him  on   some 
little  business; 
I  had  a  plan  to  scare  poor  paltry  Gull- 
crammer 
Out  of  his  paltry  wits. 

Flo.  Well,  haste  ye  now. 

And  try  to  get  him  off. 

Kat.  I  will  not  promise  that. 

I  would  not  turn  an  honest  hunter's  dog, 
So  well  I  love  the  woodcraft,  out  of  shelter 
In  such  a  night  as  this,  far  less  his  master : 
But  I'll  do  this,  —  I'll  try  to  hide  him 
for  you. 

Osw.  {rvhom  his  %vife  has  assisted  to 
take  off  his  cloak  and  feathered 
cap)  — 

Ay,  take   them  off,  and  bring   my  peas- 
ant's bonnet 
And   peasant's  plaid  —  I'll   noble  it  no 

further. 
Let  them  erase  my  name  from  honor's 

lists. 
And  drag  my  scutcheon  at  their  horses' 

heels; 
I  have  deserved  it  all,  for  I  am  poor. 
And  poverty  hath  neither  right  of  birth. 
Nor  rank,  relation,  claim,  nor  privilege. 
To  match  a  new-coin'd  viscount,  whose 

good-grandsire, 
The    lord   be   with    him,    was   a   careful 

skipper, 
And  steer'd  his  paltry  skiff  'twixt  Leith 

and  Campvere  — 
Marry,  sir,  he  could  buy  Geneva  cheap, 
And  knew  the  coast  by  moonlight. 

Flo.   Mean   you  the  Viscount    Ellon- 

dale,  my  father? 
What  strife  has  been  between  you? 

Oswr.  O,  a  trifle  ! 

Not  worth  a  wise  man's  thinking  twice 

about;  — 
Precedence  is  a  toy  —  a  superstition 
About   a    table's   end,    joint-stool,    and 

trencher. 
Something  was  once  thought  due  to  long 

descent, 
And    something    to    Galwegia's    oldest 

baron, — 


But  let  that  pass  —  a  dream  of  the  old 
time. 
Ele.   It  is  indeed  a  dream. 


Osw.   (^turning 
quickly')  — 


upon      her     rather 


Ha  !  said  ye  ?  —  let  me  hear  these  words 
more  plain. 
Ele.  Alas !    they  are    but    echoes   of 
your  own. 

Match 'd  with   the  real  woes  that  hover 
o'er  us. 

What  are  the  idle  visions  of  precedence, 

But,  as  you  term  them,  dreams,  and  toys, 
and  trifles. 

Not  worth  a  wise  man's   thinking  twice 
upon? 
Osw.   Ay,  'twas  for  you  I  framed  that 
consolation, 

The  true  philosophy  of  clouted  shoe 

And  linsey-woolsey  kirtle.     I  know,  that 
minds 

Of  nobler  stamp  receive  no  dearer  motive 

Than  what  is  linked  with  honor.      Rib- 
bons, tassels. 

Which  are  but  shreds  of  silk  and  spangled 
tinsel- — - 

The  right  of  place,  which  in  itself  is  mo- 
mentary — 

A  word,  which  is  but  air  —  may  in  them- 
selves. 

And    to    the   nobler   file,  be  steep'd    so 
richly 

In  that  elixir,  honor,  that  the  lack 

Of  things  so  very  trivia!  in  themselves 

Shall  be  misfortune.     One  shall  seek  for 
them 

O'er  the  wild  waves  —  one  in  the  deadly 
breach 

And    battle's    headlong    front— one    in 
the  paths 

Of  midnight  study, — and,  in  gaining  these 

Emblems  of  honor,  each  will  hold  him- 
self 

Repaid    for    all    his    labors,   deeds,   and 
dangers. 

What    then    should  he    think,  knowing 
them  his  own, 

Who  sees  what  warriors  and  what  sages 
toil  for. 

The    formal    and    establish'd    marks    of 
honor, 

Usurp'd  from  him  by  upstart  insolence? 


-SCENK    11. 


THE  DOOM  OF  DEVORGO/L. 


5^7 


Ele.   (la/io  has  listened  to  the  last  speech 
with  some  impatience)  — 
This  is  but  empty  declamation,  Oswald. 
The  fragments  left  at  yonder  full-spread 

banquet, 
Nay,  even  the  poorest  crust  swept   from 

the  table. 
Ought  to  be  far  more  precious  to  a  father. 
Whose   family  lacks  food,  than  the  vain 

boast. 
He  sate  at  the  Ixjard-head. 

Osw.  Thou'lt   drive   me  frantic  !  —  I 
will  tell  thee,  woman  — 
Yet  why  to  thee?     There  is  another  ear 
Which  that  tale  better  suits,  and  he  shall 
hear  it. 

[  Looks  at  his  sword,  which  he  has 
unbuckled,    and  addresses    the 
rest  of  the  speech  to  it. 
Yes,  trusty  friend,  my  father  knew   thy 

worth. 
And  often  proved  it — often  told  me  of  it. 
Tho'  thou  and  I  be  now  held  lightly  of, 
And  want  the  gilded  hatchments  of  the 

time, 
I  think  we  both  may  prove  true  metal  still. 
'Tis  thou  shall  tell  this  story,  right  this 

wrong: 
Rest  thou  till  time  is  fitting. 

[Hangs  up  the  sword. 
[  The    Wotnen  look  at  each  other 
with  anxiety  during  this  speech, 
which     they  partly    overhear. 
They  both  approach  Oswald. 
Ele.  Oswald,  my  dearest  husband  ! 
Flo.  My  dear  father  ! 

Osw.  Peace,    both !  —  we   speak   no 
more  of  this.      I  go 
To  heave  the  drawbridge  up.  [Exit. 

Katleen  mounts  the  steps  tdvards  the 

loop-hole,  looks  out,  and  speaks. 
Kat.  The    storm    is    gathering    fast; 
l)road,  heavy  drops 
Fall  plashing  on  the  Ixisom  of  the  lake. 
And  dash  its  inky  surface  into  circles; 
The  distant  hills  are  hid  in  wreaths  of 

darkness. 
'Twill  be  a  fearful  night. 
Oswald  re-enters,  and  throras  himself 
into  a  seat. 
Ele.  More  dark  and  dreadful 

Than  is  our  destiny,  it  cannot  be. 


Osw.   {toYto.)  Such  is  Heaven's  will 
—  it  is  our  part  to  bear  it. 

We're  warranted,  my  child,  from  ancient 
story 

And    blessed    writ,    to    say,    that    song 
assuages 

'Hie   gloomy  cares  that    prey  upon    our 
reason. 

And  wake  a  strife  betwixt  our  better  feel- 
ings 

And  the  fierce  dictates  of  the  headlong 
passions. 

Sing,  then,  my  love;    for  if  a  voice  have 
influence 

To  mediate  peace    betwixt  me  and   my 
destiny, 

Flora,  it  must  be  thine. 

Flo.  My  best  to  please  you  ! 


When  the  tempest's  at  the  loudest, 

On  its  gale  the  eagle  rides; 
When  the  ocean  rolls  the  proudest. 

Thro'  the  foam  the  sea-bird  glides  — 
All  the  range  of  wind  and  sea 
Is  subdued  by  constancy. 

Gnawing  want  and  sickness  pining. 
All  the  ills  that  men  endure; 

Each  their  various  pangs  combining, 
Constancy  can  find  a  cure  — 

Pain,  and  Fear,  and  Poverty, 

Are  subdued  by  constancy. 

Bar  me  from  each  wonted  pleasure. 
Make  me  abject,  mean,  and  poor; 

Heap  on  insults  without  measure, 
Chain  me  to  a  dungeon  floor  — 

I'll  be  happy,  rich,  and  free. 

If  endow'd  with  constancy. 

ACT   II.  —Scene  I. 
A  Chamber  in  a  distant  part  of  the  Castle. 
A  large  (Findo7a  in  the  flat  scene,  sup- 
posed to  look  on  the  Lake,  which  is  oc- 
casionally   illuminated    b)'   lightning. 
There  is  a  couch-bed  iti  the  room,  and 
an  antique  cabinet. 
Enter    Katleen,    introducing   Black- 
thorn. 
Kat.  This  was  the  destined  scene  of 
action.  Blackthorn, 


DRAMATIC  PIECES. 


Act  II. 


And  here  our  properties.    But  all  in  vain, 

For  of  GuUcrammer  we'll  see  naught  to- 
night, 

Except  the  dainties  that  I  told  you  of. 
Bla.  O,  if  he's  left  that  same  hog's 
face  and  sausages, 

He  will  try  back  upon  them,  never  fear  it. 

The  cur  will  open  on  the  trail  of  bacon. 

Like  my  old  brach-hound. 

Kat.  And  should  that  hap,  we'll  play 
our  comedy. 

Shall  we  not.  Blackthorn?     Thou  shalt 

be  Owlspiegle 

Bla.  And  who  may  that  hard-named 

person  be? 
Kat.  I've  told  you  nine  times  over. 
Bla.  Yes,  pretty  Katleen,  but  my  eyes 
were  busy 

In  looking  at  you  all  the  time  you  were 
talking; 

And  so  I  lost  the  tale. 

Kat.  Then    shut  your   eyes,  and    let 
your  goodly  ears 

Do  their  good  office. 

Bla.        That  were  too  hard  penance. 

Tell  but  thy  tale  once  more,  and  I  will 
hearken 

As  if  I  were  thrown  out,  and  listening 
for 

My  blood-hound's  distant  bay. 

Kat.  a  civil  simile ! 

Then,  for  the  tenth  time,  and  the  last, — 
be  told, 

Owlspiegle  was  of  old  the  wicked  barber 

To  Erick,  wicked  Lord  of  Devorgoil. 
Bla.  The  chief  who  drown'd  his  cap- 
tives in  the  Solway? 

We  all  have  heard  of  him. 

Kat.  a    hermit     hoar,    a    venerable 
man  — 

So  goes  the  legend  —  came  to  wake  re- 
pentance 

In  the  fierce  lord,  and  tax'd  him  with  his 
guilt; 

But  he,  heart-harden'd,  turn'd  into  deris- 
ion 

The  man  of  heaven,  and,  as  his  dignity 

Consisted  much  in  a  long  reverend  beard, 

Which  reach'd  his  girdle,  Erick  caused 
his  barber. 

This  same  Owlspiegle,  violate  its  honors 

With  sacrilegious  razor,  ami  clip  his  hair 

After  the  fashion  of  a  roguish  fool. 


Bla.  This  was  reversing  of  our  ancient 
proverb. 
And    shaving    for    the    devil's,    not    for 
God's  sake. 
Kat.  True,   most   grave  Blackthorn; 
and  in  punishment 
Of  this   foul  act  of  scorn,  the  barber's 

ghost 
Is  said  to  have  no  resting  after  death. 
But  haunts  these  halls,  and  chiefly  this 

same  chamber. 
Where  the  profanity  was  acted,  trimming 
And  clipping  all   such  guests  as   sleep 

within  it. 
Such  is  at  least  the  tale  our  elders  tell, 
With  many  others,  of  this  haunted  castle. 
Bla.   And  you  would    have    me   take 
this  shape  of  Owlspiegle, 
And   trim    the    wise    Melchisedek !  —  I 
wonnot. 
Kat.  You  will  not ! 
Bla.  No  —  unless  you  bear 

a  part. 
Kat.   What !  can  you  not  alone  play 

such  a  farce? 
Bla.  Not  I —  I'm  dull.     Besides,  we 
foresters 
Still  hunt  our  game  in  couples.     Look 

you,  Katleen, 
We    danced    at    Shrovetide  —  then    you 

were  my  partner; 
We  sung  at  Christmas — you  kept  time 

with  me; 
And  if  we  go  a  mumming  in  this  business, 
By  heaven,  you  must  be  one,  or  Master 
GuUcrammer 

Is  like  to  rest  unshaven 

Kat.  Why,  you  fool. 

What  end  can  this  serve? 

Bla.  Nay,  I  know  not,  I. 

But  if  we  keep  this  wont  of  being  part- 
ners, 
Why,  use  makes  perfect  —  who  knows 
what  may  happen? 
Kat.  Thou  art  a  foolish  patch  —  But 
sing  our  carol. 
As  I  have  alter'd  it,  with  some  few  words 
To  suit  the  characters,  and  I  will  bear  — 
[  Gives  a  paper. 
Bla.     Part   in   the   gambol.     I'll   go 
study  quickly. 
Is  there  no  other  ghost,  then,  haunts  the 
castle. 


Scene  I. 


THE   DOOM  OF  DEVORGOIL. 


589 


But  this  same  barber  shave-a-penny  gob- 
lin? 

I  thought  they  glanced  in  every  beam  of 
moonshine, 

As  frequent  as  a  bat. 

Kat.    I've  heard  my  aunt's  high  hus- 
band tell  of  prophecies, 

And  fates  impending  o'er  the  house  of 
Devorgoil ; 

Legends  first  coin'd  by  ancient  supersti- 
tion, 

And  render'd  current  by  credulity 

And  pride  of  lineage.     Five  years  have 
I  dwelt, 

And  ne'er  saw  anything  more  mischievous 

Than  what  I  am  myself. 

Bla.  And  that  is  quite  enough,  I  war- 
rant you. 

But,  stay,  where  shall  I  find  a  dress 

To    play  this  —  what    d'ye   call    him  — 
Owlspiegle  ? 
Kat.   (flakes  dresses  out  of  the  cabinet.^ 
Why,  there  are  his  own  clothes. 

Preserved  with  other  trumpery  of  the  sort, 

For  we've  kept  naught  but  what  is  good 
for  naught. 

\She  drops  a  cap  as  she  draws  out 
the  clothes.  Blackthorn  lifts  it, 
and  gives  it  to  her. 

Nay,  keep  it  for  thy  pains  —  it  is  a  cox- 
comb, — 

.So  call'd  in  ancient  times,  in  ours  a  fool's 
cap, — •  » 

For  you  must  know  they  kept  a  Fool  at 
Devorgoil 

In  former  days;    but  now  are  well' con- 
tented 

To  play  the  fool  themselves,  to  save   ex- 
penses. 

Yet  give   it  me,  I'll  find  a  worthy  use 
for  't. 

I'll  take   this    page's  dress,  to  play  the 
page 

Cockledemoy,  who  waits  on  ghostly  Owl- 
spiegle ; 

And  yet  'tis  needless,  too,  for  GuUcram- 
mer 

Will  scarce  be  here  to-night. 

Bi.A.   I  tell  you  that  he  will  —  I  will 
uphold 

His  plighted  faith  and  true  allegiance 

Unto  a  sows'd  sow's  face  and  sausages, 


And  such  the  dainties  that  you  say  he 

sent  you. 
Against  all  other  likings  whatsoever. 
Except  a  certain  sneaking  of  affection. 
Which  makes  some  folks  I  know  of  play 

the  fool, 
To  please  some  other  folks. 

Kat.  Well,    I   do   hope   he'll  come. 

There's  first  a  chance 
He  will  be  cudgell'd  by  my  noble  uncle  — 
I    cry  his   mercy  —  by  my  good    aunt's 

husband. 
Who  did  vow  vengeance,  knowing  naught 

of  him 
But  by  report,  and  by  a  limping  sonnet 
f  Which  he  had  fashion'd  to  my  cousin's 

glory, 
And  forwarded  by  blind  Tom  Long  the 

carrier; 
So  there's  the  chance,  first  of  a  hearty 

beating. 
Which    failing,  we've   this  after-plot   of 

vengeance. 
Bla.  Kind   damsel,  how   considerate 

and  merciful ! 
But  how  shall  we  get  off,  our  parts  being 

play'd? 
Kat.  For  that  we  are  well  fitted :  — 

here's  a  trap-door 
Sinks  with  a  counterpoise; — you  shall 

go  that  way. 
I'll  make   my  exit  yonder  —  'neath  the 

window, 
A  balcony  communicates  with  the  tower 
That,  overhangs  the  lake. 

Bla.   'Twere  a  rare  place,  this  house 

of  Devorgoil, 
To  play  at  hide-and-seek  in  —  shall  we 
One  day,  my  pretty  Katleen? 

Kat.   Hands    off,   rude  ranger!     I'm 

no  managed  hawk 
To  stoop   to   lure   of  yours.  —  But   bear 

you  gallantly; 
This  Gullcrammer  hath  vex'd  my  cousin 

much,  — 
I  fain  would  have  some  vengeance. 
Bla.   I'll  bear  my  part  with  glee;  — 

he  spoke  irreverently 
Of  practice  at  a  mark  ! 

Kat.  That  cries  for  vengeance. 

But  I  must  go  —  I  hear  my  aunt's  shrill 

voice  \ 
My  cousin  and  her  father  will  scream  next. 


590 


DRAMATIC  PIECES. 


Act  II. 


Ele.   (a/  a  distance').    Katleen  !   Kat- 

leen ! 
Bla.   Hark  to  old  Swectlips. 
Away    with   you     before    the     full     cry 

open  — 
But  stay,  what  have  you  there? 

Kat.   {;iuith   a   bundle   she   has   taken 
from  the  wardrobe')  — 
My  dress,  my  page's  dress  —  let  it  alone. 
Bla.   Your  tiring-room  is  not,  I  hope, 
far  distant; 
You're  inexperienced  in  these  new  habili- 
ments— 
I  am  most  ready  to  assist  j-our  toilet. 
Kat.  Out,  you  great    ass !   was    ever 
such  a  fool !  \^Runs  off. 

Bla.  (sings'). 

O,  Robin  Hood  was  a  bowman  good. 
And  a  bowman  good  was  he. 

And  he  met  with  a  maiden  in  merry  Sher- 
wood, 
All  under  the  greenwood  tree. 

Now  give  me  a  kiss,  quoth  bold  Robin 
Hood, 
Now  give  me  a  kiss,  said  he. 
For  there  never  came   maid  into  merry 
Sherwood, 
But  she  paid  the  forester's  fee. 

I've  coursed   this  twelvemonth   this   sly 

^uss,  young  Katleen, 
And  she  has  dodged  me,  turn'd  beneath 

my  nose, 
And  flung  me  out   a  score   of  yards   at 

once: 
If  this  same  gear  fadge  right,  Til  cote 

and  mouth  her. 
And  then  !  whoop  !   dead  !  dead  !  dead  ! 

She  is  the  metal 
To  make  a  woodman's  wife  of !  — 

\^Pauses  a  mofnent. 
Well  —  I  can  find  a  hare  upon  her  form 
\Vith  any  man  in  Nithsdalc — stalk  a  deer, 
Run    Reynard   to   the   earlh    for  all    his 

doubles. 
Reclaim  a  haggard  hawk  that's  wild  and 

wayward, 
Can  bait  a  wild  rat,  —  sure  the  devil's  in't 
But  I  can  match  a  woman  —  I'll  to  study. 
\Sits  do7vn  ott  the  coitch  to  exam- 
ine the  paper. 


Scene   II. 

Scene  changes  to  the  inhabited  apartment 
of  the  Castle,  as  in  the  last  Scene  of  the 
preceding  Act.  A  f7e  is  kindled,  by 
which  Oswald  sits  in  an  attitude  of 
deep  and  melancholv  thought,  without 
faying  attention  to  what  passes  around 
him.  Illkanor  is  busy  in  cohering  a 
table  ;  Vlora goes  out  and  re-enters,  as 
if  busied  in  the  kitchen.  There  should 
be  some  by-play  —  the  IVomen  whisper- 
ing  together,  and  watching  the  state  of 
Oswald;  then  separating  and  seeking 
to  avoid  his  obsen'alion,  when  he  casu- 
ally raises  his  head  and  drops  it  again. 
This  must  be  left  to  taste  and  tnauage- 
ment.  The  H't>men,in  the  first  part  of 
the  scene,  talk  apart,  and  as  if  fearful 
of  being  oiier heard  ;  the  by-play  of  stop- 
ping occasionally,  and  attending  to  Os- 
wald's movements,  will  gi^ie  liveliness 
to  the  Scene. 

Ele.  Is  all  prepared? 
Flo.  Ay :   but  I  doubt  the  issue 

Will  give  my  sire  less  pleasure  than  you 

hope  for. 
Ele.  Tush,  maid —  I  know  thy  father's 

humor  better. 
He  was  high-bred  in  gentle  luxuries; 
And  when  our  griefs  began,   I've  wept 

apart, 
While  lordly  cheer  and  high-fill'd  cups 

of  wine 
Were  blinding   him   against  the  woe  to 

come. 
He  has  turn'd  his  back  u|)on  a  jirincely 

banquet ; 
We  will  not  spread  his  board  —  this  night 

at  least. 
Since  chance  hath  better  furnish'd  — with 

dry  bread, 
And  water  from  the  well. 

Enter  Katlekn,  and  hears  the  last  speech. 

Kat.  {aside').  Considerate  aunt !  she 

deems  that  a  good  supper 
Were  not  a  thing  indifferent  evt^n  to  him 
Who  is  to  hang  to-morrow.     Since  she 

thinks  so. 
We  must  take  care  the  venison  has  due 

honor  — 
So  much  I  owe  the  sturdy  knave,  Lance 

Blackthorn. 


Scene  II. 


THE  DOOM  OF  DEVORGOIL, 


591 


Flo.   Mother,  alas !  when  Grief  turns 

reveller, 
Despair  is  cup-bearer.      What  shall  hap 

to-morrow  ? 
Ele.  I  have  learn'd  carelessness  from 

fruitless  care. 
Too  long  I've  watch'd  to-morrow;   let  it 

come 
And  cater  for  itself— Thou  hear'st  the 

thunder.  \^Lcnv  and  distant  thunder. 
This  is  a  gloomy  night  —  within,  alas  ! 

[Locyking  at  her  htuhand. 
Still  gloomier  and  more  threatening.  — 

Let  us  use 
Whatever  means  we  have  to  drive  it  o'er. 
And  leave  to  Heaven  to-morrow.     Trust 

me,  Flora, 
'Tis  the  philosophy  of  desperate  want 
To  match  itself  but  with  the  present  evil, 
And  face  one  grief  at  once. 
Away !   I   wish   thine   aid,   and    not   thy 

counsel. 

[As  F"lora  is  about  to  go  off, 
Gullckammer's  voice  is  heard 
behind  the  fiat  scene,  as  if  from 
the  drawbridge. 

GUL.  {behimf).  Hillo  — hillo  — hilloa 
—  hoa  —  hoa  ! 

[Oswald  raises  himself  and  lis- 
tens ;  Eleanor  goes  up  the  steps 
and  opens  the  window  at  the 
loop-hole:  Gullcrammer's  voice 
is  then  heard  more  distitutly. 

"OuL.  Kind    Lady   Devorgoil  —  sweet 

Mistress  Flora !  — 
The  night  grows  fearful,  I  have  lost  my 

way. 
And  wander'd  till  the  road  turn'd  round 

with  me, 
And   brought  me  back.     For  Heaven's 

sake,  give  me  shelter  ! 
Kat.  {aside).  Now,  as  I  live,  the  voice 

of  Gullcrammer ! 
Now  shall  our  gambol  be  played  off  with 

spirit; 
I'll  swear  I  am  the  only  one  to  whom 
That  screech-owl  whoop  was  e'er  accept- 
able. 
Osw.   What  bawling  knave  is  this,  that 

takes  our  dwelling 
For  some  hedge-inn,  the  haunt  of  lated 

drunkards? 


Ele.  What  shall   I  say?— Go,  Kat- 

leen,  speak  to  him. 
Kat.    {aside).    The   game   is   in   my 
hands  —  I  will  say  something 
Will  fret  the  Baron's  pride  • — and  then 

he  enters. 
{She  speaks  from  the  window)  —  Good 

sir,  be  patient ! 
We  are  poor  folks  —  it  is  but  six  Scotch 

miles 
To  the  next  borough  town,  where  your 

Reverence 
May  be  accommodated  to  your  wants; 
We  are  poor  folks,  an't  please  your  Rev- 
erence, 
And  keep  a  narrow  household  —  there's 

no  track 
To  lead  your  steps  astray  ■ — 

GuL.  Nor  none  to  lead  them  right.  — 
You  kill  me,  lady, 
If  you  deny  me  harbor.     To  budge  from 

hence. 
And  in   my  weary  plight,  were   sudden 

death, 
Interment,    funeral-sermon,    tombstone, 
epitaph. 
Osw.  Who's  he  that  is  thus  clamorous 
without  ? 
(  'Jo  Ele.)  Thou  know'st  him? 

Ele.  {confused).   I  know  him?  —  No 
—  yes —  'tis  a  worthy  clergyman. 
Benighted  on  his  way; — but  think  not 
of  him. 
Kat.  The  morn  will  rise  when   that 
the  tempest's  past. 
And    if    he    miss    the   marsh,    and    can 

avoid 
The  crags  upon  the  left,  the  road  is  plain. 
Osw.  Then  this  is  all  your  piety!  — 
to  leave 
One  whom  the  holy  duties  of  his  office 
Have  summon 'd  over  moor  and  wilder- 
ness. 
To  pray  lx;side  some  dying  wretch's  bed. 
Who  (erring  mortal)  still  would  cleave 

to  life,  — 
Or  wake  some  stubborn  sinner  to  repent- 
ance, — 
To  leave  him,  after  offices  like  these. 
To  choose  his  way  in  darkness  'twixt  the 

marsh 
And  dizzy  precipice? 

Ele.  What  can  I  do? 


592 


DRAMATIC  PIECES. 


Act  II. 


Osw.  Do  what  thou  canst — the  wealth- 
iest do  no  more; 

And  if  so  much,  'tis  well.  These  crum- 
bling walls, 

While  yet  they  bear  a  roof,  shall  now,  as 
ever. 

Give  shelter  to  the  wanderer.  —  Have 
we  food? 

He  shall  partake  it.  — Have  we  none? 
the  fast 

Shall  be  accounted  with  the  good  man's 
merits 

And  our  misfortunes 

[He  goes  to  the  loop-hole  while  he 
speaks,  and  places  himself  there 
in  room  of  his  Wife,  who  com.es 
down  with  reluctance. 

GuL.  {without^ .   Hillo  —  hoa  —  hoa ! 

By  my  good  faith,  I  cannot  plod  it 
farther; 

The  attempt  were  death. 

Osw.  (^speaks  from  the  -cuindoio)  —  Pa- 
tience, my  friend,  I  come  to  lower 
the  drawbridge.  (^Descends,  anil  exit. 
Ele.  O  that  the  screaming  bittern  had 
his  couch 

Where    he    deserves  it,   in  the    deepest 
marsh ! 
Kat.   I  would  not  give  this  sport  for 
all  the  rent 

Of  Devorgoil,  when  Devorgoil  was  rich- 
est! 

(  To  Ele.)  But  now  you  chided  me,  my 
dearest  aunt. 

For  wishing  him  a  horse-pond   for    his 
portion? 
Ele.  Yes,  saucy  girl ;   but,  an  it  please 
you,  then 

He  was  not  fretting  me.  If  he  had  sense 
enough. 

And  skill  to  bear  him  as  some  casual 
stranger,  — • 

But  he  is  dull  as  earth,  and  every  hint 

Is  lost  on  him,  as  hail-shot  on  the  cormo- 
rant. 

Whose  hide  is  proof  except  to  musket- 
bulets ! 
Flo.  (apart^.     And  yet  to  such  a  one 
would  my  kind  mother. 

Whose  chiefest  fault  is  loving  me  too 
fondly. 

Wed  her  poor  daughter? 


Enter  GULLCRAMMER,  his  dress  damaged 
by  the  storm  ;  ELEANOR  runs  to  meet 
him,  in  order  to  explain  to  him  that  she 
wished  him  to  behave  as  a  stranger. 
GULLCRAMMER,  mistaking  her  ap- 
proach for  an  invitation  to  familiarity, 
advances  with  the  air  of  pedantic 
conceit  belonging  to  his  character,  when 
Oswald  enters,  —  Eleanor  recovers 
herself,  and  assumes  an  air  of  distance 
—  GULLCRAMMER  IS  confounded,  and 
does  not  kno7u  what  to  make  of  it. 

Osw.  The  counterpoise  has  clean  given 
way;    the  bridge 

Must  e'en  remain  unraised,  and  leave  us 
open, 

For  this  night's  course  at  least,  to  pass- 
ing visitants.  — 

What  have  we  here?  —  is  this  the  rever- 
end man? 

[He  takes  up  the  candle,  and  sur- 
veys GULLCRAMMER,  whostrivcs 
to    sustain    the   inspection   with 
confidence,  -while  fear  oln'iously      ^ 
contends   with   conceit    and    de- 
sire to  show  himself  to  the  best 
advantage. 
GuL.   Kind  sir  —  or,  good  my  lord,  — 
my  band  is  ruffled, 
But  yet  'twas  fresh  this  morning.     This 

fell  shower 
Hath  somewhat  smirch'd  my  cloak,  but 

you  may  note 
It  rates  five  marks  per  yard;    my  doul>let 
Hath  fairly  'scaped  —  'tis  three-piled  taf- 
feta. 

\Opens  his  cloak,  and  displays  his 
doublet. 
Osw.   A  goodly  inventory — Art  thou 

a  preacher? 
GuL.  Yea  —  I  laud  Heaven  and  good 

Saint  Mungo  for  it. 
Osw.   'Tis    the    time's    plague,    when 
those  that  should  weed  follies 
Out  of  the  common  field,  have  their  own 

minds 
O'errun  with  foppery. — Envoys    'twixt 

heaven  and  earth. 
Example   should   witli    precept    join,  to 

show  us 
How  we  may  scorn  the  world  with  all  its 
vanities. 


Scene  II. 


THE   DOOM   OF  DEVORGOIL. 


5^3 


Gui..  Nay,  the  high  heavens  forefend 
that  I  were  vain  ! 

When  our  learn'd  Principal  such  sound- 
ing hiud 

Gave  to  mine  Essay  on  the  hidden  quali- 
ties 

Of  the  sulphuric  mineral,  I  disclaim'd 

All  self-exaltment.     And  (^turning  to  the 
worn  til)  when  at  the  dance. 

The  lovely  Saccharissa  Kirkencroft, 

Daughter  to  Kirkencroft  of   Kirkencroft, 

Graced  me  with  her  soft  hand,  credit  me, 
ladies, 

That  still  I  felt  myself  a  moital  man, 

Though  l)eauly  smiled  on  me. 

Osw.   Come,  sir,  enough  of  this. 

That  you're  our  guest  to-night,  thank  the 
rough  heavens, 

And  all  our  worser  fortunes;  be  conform- 
able 

Unto  my  rules;    these  are  no  Saccharissas 

To  gild  with   compliments.     There's  in 
your  profession. 

As  the  best  grain  will  have  its  piles  of 
chaff, 

A  certain  whiffler,  who  hath  dared  to  bait 

A  nobljc  maiden  with  love  tales  and  son- 
nets; 

And  if  I  meet  him,  his  Geneva  cap 

May  scarce  be  proof  to  save  his  ass's  ears. 
Kat.  («5;V/f).   Umph — -I  am  strongly 
tempted ; 

And  yet  I  think  I  will  be  generous. 

And  give  his  brains  a  chance  to  save  his 
bones. 

Then  there's  more  humor  in  our  goblin 
plot, 

Than  in  a  simple  drubbing. 

Ei.E.  {iif>ari  io  Flo.  ).     What  shall  we 
do?     If  he  discover  him. 

He'll  fling  him  out  at  window. 

Fl.O.   My  father's  hint  to  keep  himself 
unknown 

Is  all  too  broad,  I  think,  to  be  neglected. 
Elk.  But  yet  the  fool,  if  we  produce 
his  bounty, 

May  claim  the  merit  of  presenting  it; 

And  then  we're  but  lost  women  for  ac- 
cepting 

A  pft  our  needs  made  timely. 

Kat.  Do  not  produce  them. 

E'en  let  the  fop  go  supperless  to  bed. 

And  keep  his  bones  whole. 


Osw.  {to  his  Wife)  —  Hast  thou  aught 
To  place  before  him  ere  he  seek  repose? 
Ele.  Alas !    too  well    you    know  our 
needful  fare 
Is  of  the  narrowest  now,  and  knows  no 
surplus. 
Osw.   Shame  us  not  with  thy  niggard 
housekeeping : 
He  is  a  stranger  — were  it  our  last  crust. 
And  he  the  veriest  coxcomb   e'er  wore 

taffeta, 
A   pilch   he's   little  short    of  —  he   must 

share  it. 
The'  all  should  want  to-morrow. 

GUL.   (^fiartly  m-erheariug  what  passes 
bet~tvecn  them  )  — 

Nay,    I    am    no    lover    of    your    sauced 

dainties  — 
Plain  food  and  plenty  is  my  motto  still. 
Your  mountain  air  is  bleak,  and  brings 

an  appetite : 
A  soused  sow's  face,  now,  to  my  modest 

thinking. 
Has  ne'er  a  fellow.     What  think  these 

fair  ladies 
Of  a  sow's  face  and  sausages? 

\^Makes  signs  to  ELEANOR. 
Flo.   Plague  on  the  vulgar  hind,  and 
on  his  courtesies ! 
The  whole  truth  will  come  out ! 

Osw.  What   should    they   think,    but 
that  you're  like  to  lack 
Your  favorite  dishes,  sir,  unless  perchance 
You  bring  such  dainties  with  you. 

GuL.  No,  not  with  me;    not,  indeed, 
Directly  with  me;  but —  Aha  !  fair  ladies  ! 
{Makes  sigtis  again. 
Kat.  He'll  draw  the  beating  down  — 
Were  that  the  worst. 
Heaven's  will  be  done  !  [Aside. 

Osw.  {apart).  What  can  he  mean?  — 
this  is  the  veriest  dog-whelp  — 
Still  he's  a  stranger,  and  the  latest  act 
Of  hospitality  in  this  old  mansion 
Shall  not  be  sullied. 

GuL.  Troth,  sir,    I   think,   under   the 
ladies'  favor. 
Without  pretending  skill  in  second-sight. 
Those   of    my   cloth    being  seldom  con- 
jurers   

Osw.  I'll  take  my  Bible-oath  that  thou 
art  none.  [Aside. 


594 


DRAMATIC  PIECES. 


Act  II. 


GUL.   I  do  opine,  still  with  the  ladies' 
favor, 
That    I   could   guess   the  nature    of    our 

supper : 
I  do  not  say  in  such  and  such  precedence 
The  dishes  will  be  placed  —  housewives, 

as  you  know, 
On  such  forms  have  their  fancies;   but,  I 
say  still, 

That  a  sow's  face  and  sausages 

Osw.  Peace,  sir ! 

O'er-driven  jests  (if  this  be  one)  are  in- 
solent. 
Flo.  {apart,  seeing  her  mother  uneasy.) 
The  old  saw  still  holds  true — a  churl's 

benefits, 
Sauced  with  his   lack  of  feeling,  sense, 

and  courtesy. 
Savor  like  injuries. 

\A  horn  is  winded  without ;  then 
a  loud  knocking  at  the  gate. 
Leo.  (^without').  Ope,  for  the  sake  of 
love  and  charity ! 

[Oswald  goes  to  the  loop-hole. 
GuL.   Heaven's  mercy!    should  there 
come  another  stranger. 
And  he  half-starved  with  wandering  on 

the  wolds, 
The  sow's  face  boasts  no  substance,  nor 

the  sausages, 
To  stand  our  reinforced  attack  !   I  judge, 

too. 
By  this  starved  Baron's  language,  there's 

no  hope 
Of  a  reserve  of  victu.als. 

Flo.  Go  to  the  casement,  cousin. 
Kat.  Go  yourself. 

And    bid    the    gallant,    who    that    bugle 

winded, 
Sleep  in  the  storm-swept  waste;    as  meet 

for  him 
As  for  Lance  Blackthorn.  — Come,  I'll 

not  distress  you; 
I'll  get  admittance  for  this  second  suitor, 
And  we'll  jilay  out  this  gambol  at  cross 

purposes. 
But  see,  your  father  has  prevented  me. 

Osw.  {seems  to  have  spoken  with  those 
without,  and  ansT.vers)  — 
Well,   I   will  ope   the   door;    one   guest 
already, 


Driven    by    the    storm,   has   claim'd    my 

hospitality. 
And  )ou,  if  you  were  fiends,  were  scarce 

less  welcome 
To  this  my  mouldering  roof,  than  empty 

ignorance 
And   rank   conceit.      I    hasten   to  admit 

you,  \_Exit. 

Eli-:,  (/c  Flo.).  The  tempest  thickens. 

By  that  winded  bugle, 
I  guess  the  guest  that  next  will  honor  us. 
Little    deceiver,    that    didst    mock     my 

troubles, 
'Tis  now  thy  turn  to  fear ! 

Flo.  Mother,  if  I  knew  less  or  more 

of  this 
Unthought-of   and  most   perilous  visita- 
tion, 
I  would  your  wishes  were  fulfiU'd  on  me, 
And  I  were  wedded  to  a  thing  like  yon. 
GuL.    {approaehing).      Come,  ladies, 

now  you  see  the  jest  is  threadbare. 
And  you  must  own  that  same  sow's  face 
.     and  sausages 

Re-enter  Oswald  7vith  Leonard,  sup- 
porting Bauldie  Durward,  Oswald 
takes  a  7>ie7i)  of  them,  as  formerly  of 
GULLCKAMMER,  then  Speaks  — 

Osw.  (/('Leo.;.  By  thy  green  cassock, 
hunting-spear,  and  bugle, 
I  guess  thou  art  a  huntsman? 

Leo.  (^bowing  with  respect')  — 
A  ranger  of  the  neighboring  royal  forest. 
Under  the  good  Lord  Nithsdale;    hunts- 
man, therefore. 
In  time  of  peace;  and  when  the  land  has 

war. 
To  my  best  powers  a  soldier. 

Osw.  Welcome,    as   either,      I   have 
loved  the  chase, 
And  was    a   soldier   once.  — This   aged 

man. 
What  may  he  be? 

DuR,  (^reco7>erittg  his  breath")  — 
Is  but  a  beggar,  sir,  a  humble  mendicant, 
Who  feels  it  passing  strange,  that   from 

this  roof. 
Above  all   others,  he  should  now  crave 
shelter, 
Osw.   Why  so?     You're  welcome  both 
—  only  the  word 


Scene  II. 


THE  DOOM  OF  DEVORGOIL. 


m 


Warrants  more  courtesy  than  our  present 

means 
rcrmit  us  to  bestow.     A  huntsman  and 

a  soldier 
May  be  a  prince's  comrade,  much  more 

mine; 
And  for  a  beggar  —  friend,  there  little 

lacks, 
Save    that    blue   gown    and  badge,  and 

clouted  pouches. 
To  make  us  comrades  too;  then  welcome 

both. 
And  to  a  beggar's  feast.      I  fear,  brown 

broad. 
And  water  from  the  spring,  will  be  the 

best  on't; 
For  we   had  cast   to  wend    abroad   this 

evening, 
And  left  our  larder  empty. 

GuL.  Yet,  if  some  kindly  fairy. 

In    our   behalf,    would    search    its    hid 

recesses.  — 
(^Apart.^  We'll  not  go  supperless  now  — 

we're  three  to  one.  — 
Still  do  I  say,   that  a  soused  face   and 

sausages 

Osw.   (Jooks  sternly  at  him,  then  at  his 
wife)  — 

There's  something  under  this,  but  that 

the  present 
Is  not  a  time  to  question.  —  (  7^o  Ele.) 

Wife,  my  mood 
Is  at  such  height  of  tide,  that   a   turn'd 

feather 
Would  make  me  frantic  now,  with  mirth 

or  fury ! 
Tempt  me  no  more  —  but  if  thou  hast 

the  things 
This  carrion   crow  so  croaks    for,  bring 

them  forth; 
For,  by   my  father's    beard,  if    I   stand 

caterer, 
'Twill  be  a  fearful  banquet! 

Ele.   Your  jileasure  be  obey'd  —  Come 

aid  me.  Flora.  [Exeunt. 

[/)itr/;/Q  the  folhnviui;  speeches,  the 
Women  place  tlishes  on  the  table. 

Osw.   {to  DlTR.).  How  did  you    lose 

your  path? 
DUR.   E'en  when  we  thought  to  find 

it  a  wild  meteor 


Danced  in  the  moss,  and  led  our  feet 

astray.  — 
I    give    small    credence   to    the   tales  of 

old, 
Of  Friar's-lantern  told,  and  Will-o'-Wisp, 
Else  would  I   say,  that   some   malicious 

demon 
Guided  us  in  a  round;    for  to  the  moat, 
Which  we  had   pass'd   two  hours  since 

were  we  led. 
And  there  the  gleam  flicker'd  and  disap- 
pear'd. 
Even  on  your  drawbridge.    I  was  so  worn 

down. 
So  broke  with  laboring  thro'  marsh  and 

moor. 
That,  wold  I  nold  I,  here  my  young  con- 
ductor 
Would  needs  implore  for  entrance;  else, 

believe  me, 
I  had  not  troubled  you. 

Osw.   And    why   not,    father? — have 

you  e'er  heard  aught. 
Or  of  my  house   or  me,  that  wanderers, 
Whom  or  their  roving  trade  or  sudden 

circumstance 
Oblige  to  seek  a  shelter,  should  avoid 
The  House  of  Devorgoil? 

DuR.  Sir,  I  am  English  born  — 

Native  of  Cumberland.     Enough  is  said 
Why  I  should  shun  those  towers,  whose 

lords  were  hostile 
To  English  blood,  and  unto  Cumberland 
Most  hostile  and  most  fatal. 

Osw.  Ay,  father.     Once  my  grandsire 

plough'd  and  harrow'd, 
And  sow'd  with  salt,  the  streets  of  your 

fair  towns: 
But  what  of  that?  —  you  have  the  'vant- 
age now. 
DuR.  True,  Lord  of    Devorgoil,  and 

well  believe  I, 
That  not  in  vain  we  sought  these  towers 

to-night. 
So    strangely    guided,    to    behold    their 

state, 
Osw.  Ay,  thou  wouldst  say,  'twas  fit 

a  Cumbrian  beggar 
Should  sit  an  equal  guest  in  his   proud 

halls, 
Whose  fathers  beggar'd  Cumberland  — 

Grayljeard,  let  it  be  so, 
I'll  not  dispute  it  with  thee. 


596 


DRAMATIC  PIECES. 


Act  II. 


(  To  Leonard,  who  was  spcakitig 
to¥^.ol\^.,  but,  on  being  surprised, 
occupied  himself  with  the  suit  of 
armor)  — 

What  makest  thou 
there,  young  man? 
Leo.  I  marvell'd  at  this  harness;  it  is 
larger 
Than  arms  of  modern  days.     How  richly 

carved 
With  gold  inlaid  on  steel  —  how  close 

the  rivets  — 
How  justly  fit  the  joints !     I   think  the 

gauntlet 
Would  swallow  twice  my  hand. 

[He  is  about  to  take   down  some 
part  of  the  armor ;   Oswald 
interferes. 
Osw.  Do  not  displace  it. 

My    grandsire,    Erick,    doubled    human 
strength. 

And  almost   human    size  —  and   human 
knowledge, 

And  human  vice,  and  human  virtue  also, 

As  storm  or  sunshine  chanced  to  occupy 

His  mental  hemisphere.     After  a  fatal 
deed, 

He  hung  his  armor  on  the  wall,  forbid- 
ding 

It  e'er  should  be  ta'en  down.     There  is 
a  prophecy, 

That  of  itself  'twill  fall,  upon  the  night 

When,  in  the  fiftieth  year  from  his  decease, 

Devorgoil's  feast  is  full.     This  is  the  era; 

But,  as  too  well  you  see,  no  meet  occa- 
sion 

Will  do  the  downfall  of  the  armor  justice. 

Or   grace  it  with  a  feast.     There   let  it 
bide. 

Trying  its  strength  with  the  old  walls  it 
hangs  on. 

Which  shall  fall  soonest. 

DuR.  (^looking  at   the    trophy  ivith    a 
mixture  of  feeling)  — 

Then  there  stern  Erick's  harness  hangs 
untouch'd. 

Since  his  last  fatal  raid  on  Cumberland ! 
Osw.  Ay,  waste  and  want,  and  reck- 
lessness —  a  comrade 

Still  yoked  with  waste  and  want  —  have 
stripp'd  these  walls 

Of  every  other  trophy.     Antler'd  skulls, 


Whose  branches  vouch 'd  the  talcs  old 

vassals  told 
Of     desperate    chases  —  partisans    and 

spears  — 
Knights'  barred  helms  and  shields — the 

shafts  and  bows, 
Axes  and  breastplates,  of  the  hardy  yeo- 
manry — 
The  banners  of  the  vanquish'd  —  signs 

these  arms 
Were  not  assumed  in  vain,  have  disap- 

pear'd; 
Yes,    one    by  one   they  all  have   disap- 

pear'd;  — 
And   now   Lord    Erick's   harness  hangs 

alone. 
Midst  implements  of  vulgar  husbandry 
And  mean  economy;  as  some  old  war- 
rior, 
Whom  want   hath  made   an  inmate  of 

an  almshouse, 
Shows,  mid   the   beggar'd    spendthrifts, 

base  mechanics. 
And   bankrupt  pedlers,  with  whom    fate 

has  mix'd  him. 
DuR.   Or  rather  like   a    pirate,  whom 

the  prison-house, 
Prime   leveller  next  the  grave,  hath   for 

the  first  time 
Mingled  with   peaceful   captives,  low  in 

fortunes. 
But  fair  in  innocence. 

Osw.  {looking  at  Durward  ivith  stir- 
prise')  —  Friend,  thou  art  bitter! 
DuR.   Plain  truth,  sir,  like  the  vulgar 

copper  coinage, 
Despised   amongst  the  gentry,  still  finds 

value 
And  currency  with  beggars. 

Osw.  Be  it  so. 

I  will  not  trench  on  the  immunities 
I  soon  may  claim  to  share.     Thy  features, 

too, 
Tho'  weather-beaten,  and   thy  strain   of 

language. 
Relish   of   better    days.      Come   hither, 

friend, 

[  They  speak  apart. 
And  let  me  ask  thee  of  thine  occupation. 
[Leonard  looks  round,  and,  see- 
ing Os'WK'LD  eni^aged  with  Dur- 
ward, (///(/Gui.ixrammer  with 
Eleanor,   approaches  towards 


Scene  II. 


THE  DOOM  OF  DEVORGOIL. 


597 


Flora,  'mHo  must  give  him  an 
opportunity  of  doing  so,  with  ob- 
vious attention  on  her  part  to  give 
it  the  air  of  chance.  The  by-plav 
here  •will  rest  with  the  Lady,  who 
must  engage  the  attention  of  the 
audience  by  playing  off  a  little 
female  hypocrisy  atid  simple  co- 
quetry. 

Leo.     Flora 

Flo.     Ay,  gallant  huntsman,  may  she 
deign  to  question 

Why  Leonard  came  not  at  the  appointed 
hour; 

Or  why  he  came  at  midnight? 

Leo.  Love  has  no  certain  lodestar,  gen- 
tle Flora, 

And  oft  gives  up  the  helm  to  wayward 
pilotage. 

To  say  the  sooth  —  A  beggar  forced  me 
hence, 

And\Vill-o'-Wispdid  guide  us  back  again. 
Flo.  Ay,  ay,  your  beggar  was  the  faded 
spectre 

Of  Poverty,  that  sits  upon  the  threshold 

Of  these  our  ruin'd  walls.     I've  been  un- 
wise, 

Leonard,  to  let  you  speak  so  oft  with  me; 

And  you  a  fool  to  say  what  you  have  said. 

E'en  let  us  here  break  short;    and,  wise 
at  length. 

Hold  each  our  separate  way  thro'  life's 
wide  ocean. 
Leo.   Nay,  let  us  rather  join  our  course 
together, 

And  share  the  breeze  or  tempest,  doub- 
ling joys. 

Relieving  sorrows,  warding  evils  off 

With  mutual  effort,  or  enduring  them 

With  mutual  patience. 

Flo.  This  is  but  flattering  counsel  — 
sweet  and  baneful; 

But  mine  had  wholesome  bitter  in't. 
Kat.   Ay,  ay;  but  like  the  sly  apothe- 
cary, 

You'll  be  the  last  to  take  the  bitter  drug 

That  you  prescribe  to  others. 

\They  whisper.  Eleanor  ad- 
vances to  interrupt  them,  fol- 
hrwed  by  GULLCRAMMER. 

Ele.  What,  maid,  no  household  cares? 
Leave  to  your  elders 


The  task  of  filling  passing  strangers'  ears 

With  the  due  notes  of  welcome. 

Gul.  Be  it  thine, 

O,  Mistress  Flora,  the  more  useful  talent 

Of  filling  strangers'  stomachs  with  sub- 
stantials; 

That  is  to  say,  —  for  learned  commen- 
tators 

Do   so   expound    substantial    in   some 
places, — 

With  a  soused  bacon-face  and  sausages. 
Flo.  {apart).  Would  thou  wert  soused, 
intolerable  pedant, 

Base,  greedy,  perverse,  interrupting  cox- 
comb ! 
Kat.     Hush,  coz,  for  we'll  be  well 
avenged  on  him. 

And  ere  this  night  goes  o'er,  else  woman's 
wit 

Cannot  o'ertake  her  wishes. 

[She  proceeds  to  arrange  seats. 
Oswald  and  Durward  come 
forward  in  conversation. 

Osw.     I  like  thine  humor  well.  —  So 

all  men  beg 

DUR.  Yes  —  I  can  make  it  good  by 
proof.     Your  soldier 
Begs  for  a  leaf  of  laurel,  and  a  line 
In  the  Gazette; —  he  brandishes  his  sword 
To  back  his  suit,  and  is  a  sturdy  beggar. — 
The  courtier  begs  a  ribbon  or  a  star, 
And,  like  our  gentler  mumpers,  is  pro- 
vided 
With  false  certificates  of  health  and  for- 
tune 
Lost   in  the  public  service.  —  For  your 

lover 
Who  begs  a  sigh,  a  smile,  a  lock  of  hair, 
A  buskin-point,  he  maundsupon  the  pad, 
With  the  true  cant  of  pure  mendicity. 
"  The  smallest  trifle  to  relieve  a  Christian, 
And  if  it  like  your  ladyship !  " 

[/«  a  begging  tone 
Kat,  {apart).  This  is  a  cunning  knave, 
and  feeds  the  humor 
Of  my  aunt's  husband,  for  I  must  not  say 
Mine  honor'd  uncle.     I  will  try  a  ques- 
tion. — 
Your  man  of  merit  tho',  who  serves  the 
commonwealth, 

Nor  asks  for  a  requital  ? 

[  To  Durward. 


59S 


DRA^^ATIC  PIECES. 


Act  II. 


DuR.  Is  a  dumb  beggar, 

And  lets  his  actions  speak  like  signs  for 

him, 
Chal lenging  double  guerdon.  —  Now,  I'll 

show 
How  your  true  beggar  has  the  fair  advan- 
tage * 
O'er  all  the  tribes  of  cloak'd  mendicity 
I  have  told  over  to  you.  —  The  soldier's 

laurel. 
The  statesman's  ribbon,  and  the  lady's 

favor, 
Once  won  and  gain'd,  are  not  held  worth 

a  farthing 
By  such  as  longest,  loudest,  canted  for 

them; 
Whereas  your  charitable  halfpenny. 
Which  is  the  scope  of  a  true  beggar's  suit. 
Is  worth  tTvo  farthings,  and,  in  times  of 

plenty, 
Will  buy  a  crust  of  bread. 

Flo.   [interrupting  him,  and  address- 
ing her  father)  — 

Sir,  let  me  be  a  beggar  with  the  time. 

And  pray  you  come  to  supper. 

Ele.  (^to  Oswald,  apart).     Must  /le 
sit  with  us?  [Looking afDvKW AKD. 
Osw.  Ay,   ay,  what  else  —  since  we 
are  beggars  all? 

When  cloaks  are  ragged,  sure  their  worth 
is  equal. 

Whether   at   first    they   were  of  silk    or 
woollen. 
Ele.   Thou  art  scarce  consistent. 

This  day  thou  didst  refuse  a  princely  ban- 
quet, 

Because    a    new-made    lord   was   placed 
above  thee; 

And  now 

Osw.  Wife,  I  have  seen,  at  public  exe- 
cutions, 

A  wretch  that  could  not  brook  the  hand 
of  violence 

Should  push  him  from  the  scaffold,  pluck 
up  courage. 

And,  with  a  desperate  sort  of  cheerfulness, 

Take  the  fell  plunge  himself  — 

Welcome    then,  beggars,  to  a  beggar's 
feast ! 

GuL.  (who  has  in  the  meanwhile  seated 
himself)  — 

But  this  is  more. — A  better  countenance. 


Fair  fall  the  hands  that  soused  it !  —  than 

this  hog's. 
Or  prettier  provender  than   these   same 

sausages, 
(By  what  good  friend  sent  hither,  shall 

be  nameless  — 
Doubtless  some  youth   whom  love  hath 

made  profuse,) 

[Smiling  significantly  at  Eleanor 
attd  Flora.] 

No  prince  need  wish  to  peck  at.     Long, 

I  ween. 
Since  that  the  nostrils  of  this  house  (by 

metaphor, 
I  mean  the  chimneys)  smell'd  a  steam  so 

grateful.  — 
By  your  good  leave  I  cannot  dally  longer. 
[Helps  himself. 
Osw.   (places  Durward  above  GuLL- 

crammer).     Meanwhile,  sir. 
Please  it  your  youthful   learning  to  give 

place 
To  gray  hairs  and  to  wisdom;  and,  more- 
over. 

If  you  had  tarried  for  the  benediction 

GUL.  {some7uhat  abashed).  I  said  grace 

to  myself. 
Osw.  (jiot  minding  him)  — And  waited 

for  the  company  of  others. 
It  had  been  better   fashion.     Time   has 

been, 
I  should  have  told  a  guest  at  Devorgoil, 
Bearing    himself   thus    forward,   he   was 

saucy. 

[l/e  seats  himself,  and  helps  the  com- 
pany and  himself  in  dumb-sho7U. 
There  should  be  a  contrast  be- 
tzoixt  the  precision  of  his  aris- 
tocratic cizdlity  and  the  rude 
under  breeding   of   GULLCRAM- 

MER. 

Osw.    {having  tasted  the  dish  next  him) 

—  Why,  this  is  venison,  Eleanor! 

GuL.  Eh!  What!  Let's  see  — (/'w^/^t-i 

across  Oswald  and  helps  himself.) 

It  may  be  venison  — 

I'm  sure  'tis  not  beef,  veal,  mutton,  lamb, 

or  pork; 
Eke  am  I  sure,  that  be  it  what  it  will, 
It  is  not  half  so  good  as  sausages. 
Or  as  a  sow's  face  soused. 

Osw.   Eleanor,  whence  all  this? 


Scene  II. 


THE  DOOM   OF  DEVORGOIL. 


599 


Ei.E.  Wait  till  to-morrow, 

You  shall   know   all.      It   was    a  happy 

chance 
That  f  urnish'd  us  to  meet  so  many  guests 

— (y  Fills  ■wine'). 
Try  if  your  cup  be  not  as  richly  garnish'd 
As  is  your  trencher.* 

Kat.  {apart).  Aly  aunt  adheres  to  the 

good  cautious  maxim 
Of  "  Eat  your  pudding,  friend,  and  hold 

your  tongue." 
Osw.   (flash's  tlu  wim).    It  is  the  grape 

of  Bordeaux. 
Such  dainties,  once  familiar  to  my  board, 
Have  been  estranged  from  't  long. 

[f/e  again  Jills  his  glass,  and  con- 
tinues to  speak  as  he  holds  it  up. 

Fill     round,     my     friends  —  here    is     a 

treacherous  friend,  now. 
Smiles  in  your  face,  yet  seeks  to  steal  the 

jewel, 
Which  is  distinction   lietween   man  and 

brute  — 
I  mean   our  reason;    this  he   does,  and 

■I  • 

smiles. 

But  are  not  all  friends  treacherous?  One 

shall  cross  you 
Even  in  your  dearest  interests  —  one  shall 

slander  you  — 
This  steal  your   daughter,   that   defraud 

your  purse; 
But  this  gay  flask  of  Bordeaux  will  but 

borrow 
Your  sense  of  mortal  sorrows  for  a  season, 
And  leave,  instead,  a  gay  delirium. 
Methinks  my  brain,  unused  to  such  gay 

visitants. 
The  influence  feels  already '.  ■ —  we  will 

revel !  — 
Our  banquet  shall  lie   loud  !  —  it  is  our 

last. 
Kalleen,  thy  song. 

Kat.  Not  now,  my  lord  —  I  mean  to 

sing  to-night 
For  this  same  moderate,  grave,  and  rev- 
erend clergyman; 
I'll  keep  my  voice  till  then. 

Ele.  Your   round   refusal    shows   but 

cottage  breeding. 

*  Wooden  trenchers  should  be  used,  and  the 
quaigh,  a  Scottish  drinking  cup  :  whence  our 
word  quaff. 


Kat.  Ay,  my  good  aunt,   for  I  was 
cottage-nurtured. 

And   taught,   I  think,  to   prize  my  own 
wild  will 

Above  all  sacrifice  to  compliment. 

Here  is  a  huntsman  —  in  his  eyes  I  read 
it, 

He    sings    the    martial    song   my    uncle 
loves. 

What  time  fierce  Claver'se  with  his  Cava- 
liers, 

Abjuring  the  new  change  of  government, 

Forcing  his  fearless  way  thro'  timorous 
friends. 

And  enemies  as  timorous,  left  the  capi- 
tal 

To  rouse  in  James's  cause  the    distant 
Highlands. 

Have  you  ne'er  heard  the  song,  my  noble 
uncle? 
Osw.   Have  I  not  heard,  wench? —  It 
was  I  rode  next  him  — 

'Tis  thirty  summers  since — rode  by  his 
rein ; 

We  marched  on  thro'  the  alarmed  city. 

As  sweeps   the  osprey  thro'   a  flock   of 
gulls. 

Who  scream  and  flutter,  but  dare  no  re- 
sistance 

Against  the  bold  sea-empress.     They  did 
murmur, 

The  crowds    before    us,   in    their    sullen 
wrath. 

And  those  whom  we  had  pass'd,  gather- 
ing fresh  courage. 

Cried    havoc  in    the  rear  —  we  minded 
them 

E'en  as  the  brave  bark  minds  the  burst- 
ing billows. 

Which,  yielding   to   her  bows,  burst  on 
her  sides. 

And  ripple  in  her  wake.  — Sing  me  that 
strain,  (  To  Leo.) 

And  thou  shall  have   a  meed   I  seldom 
tender. 

Because  they're  all  I  have  to  give  —  my 
thanks. 
Leo.  Nay,  if  you'll  bear  with  what  I 
cannot  help, 

A  voice  that's  rough  with  hollowing  to 
the  hounds, 

I'll  sing  the  song  even  as  old  Rowland 
taught  me. 


6oo 


DRAMATIC  PIECES. 


Act  II. 


SONG. 

Air,  —  "  The  Bonnets  of  Bonny  Dundee." 

To  the  Lords  of  Convention  'twas  Clav- 
er'se  who  spoke, 

"  Ere  the  King's  crown  shall  fall,  there 
are  crowns  to  be  broke : 

So  let  each  Cavalier  who  loves  honor  and 
me. 

Come  follow  the  bonnet  of  Bonny  Dun- 
dee. 

Come  fill  up  my  cup,  come  fill  up 

my  can, 
Come  saddle  your  horses,  and  call 

up  your  men; 
Come  open  the  West  Port,  and  let 

me  gang  free. 
And  it's  room  for  the  bonnets  of 

bonny  Dundee !  " 

Dundee  he  is  mounted,  he  rides  up  the 

street. 
The  bells  are  rung  backward,  the  drums 

they  are  beat : 
But  the  Provost,  douce  man,  said,  "  Just 

e'en  let  him  be, 
The  Gude  Town  is  weel  quit  of  that  Deil 

of  Dundee." 

Come  fill  up  my  cup,  etc. 

As  he  rode  down  the  sanctified  bends  of 

the  Bow, 
Ilk  carline  was  flyting  and  shaking  her 

pow; 
But  the  young  plants  of  grace  they  look'd 

couthie  and  slec, 
Thinking,  luck  to  thy  bonnet,  thou  Bonny 

Dundee ! 

Come  fill  up  my  cup,  etc. 

With  sour-featured  Whigs  the  Grass- 
market  was  cramm'd,* 

As  if  half  the  West  had  set  tryst  to  be 
hang'd; 

There  was  spite  in  each  look,  there  was 
fear  in  each  e'e. 

As  they  watch'd  for  the  bonnets  of  Bonny 
Dundee. 

Come  fill  up  my  cup,  etc. 

*  Previous  to   1784  the  Grassmarket  was  the 
common  place  of  execution  at  Kdinburgh. 


These  cowls  of  Kilmarnock  had  spits  and 
had  spears, 

And  lang-hafted  gullies  to  kill  Cavaliers; 

But  they  shrunk  to  close-heads,  and  the 
causeway  was  free. 

At  the  toss  of  the  bonnet  of  Bonny  Dun- 
dee. 

Come  fill  up  my  cup,  etc. 

He  spurr'd  to  the  foot  of  the  proud  Cas- 
tle rock, 

And  with  the  gay  Gordon  he  gallantly 
spoke : — 

"  Let  Mons  Meg  and  her  marrows  speak 
twa  words  or  three. 

For  the   love  of   the   bonnet  of   Bonny 
Dundee." 

Come  fill  up  my  cup,  etc. 

The  Gordon  demands  of  him  which  way 

he  goes ; — 
"  Where'er  shall  direct  me  the  shade  of 

Montrose ! 
Your  Grace  in  short  space  shall  hear  tid- 

'    ings  of  me. 
Or  that  low  lies  the  bonnet  of  Bonny 
Dundee. 

Come  fill  up  my  cup,  etc. 

"There  are  hills  beyond  Pentland,  and 
lands  beyond  Forth, 

If  there's  lords  in  the  Lowlands,  there's 
chiefs  in  the  North; 

There  are  wild  Duniewassals  three  thou- 
sand times  three, 

Will  cry  /loix^h  !  for  the  bonnet  of  Bonny 
Dundee. 

Come  fill  up  my  cup,  etc. 

"There's  brass  on  the  target  of  barken'd 

bull-hide; 
There's  steel  in  the  scabbard  that  dangles 

beside ; 
The  brass  shall  be  burnish'd,  the   steel 

shall  flash  free. 
At  a  toss  of  the  bonnet  of  Bonny  Dundee. 
Come  fill  up  my  cup,  etc. 

"  Away  to  the  hills,  to  the  caves,  to  the 

rocks ! — 
Ere  I  own   an  usurper,  I'll  couch  with 

the  fox !  — 


Scene  II. 


THE  DOOM  OF  DEVORGOIL. 


6on 


And  tremble,  false  Whigs,  in  the  midst 

of  your  glee, 
Vou  have  not  seen  the  last  of  my  bonnet 

and  me ! " 

Come-fill  up  my  cup,  etc. 

He  waved  his  proud  hand,  and  the  trum- 
pets were  blown. 

The  kettle-drums  clashed,  and  the  horse- 
men rode  on. 

Till  on  Ravelston's  cliffs  and  on  Clermis- 
ton's  lee. 

Died  away  the  wild  war-notes  of  Bonny 
Dundee. 

Come  fill  up  my  cup,  come  fill  up 

my  can, 
Come  saddle  the  horses,  and  call 

up  the  men. 
Come  open  your  gates,  and  let  me 

gae  free. 
For  it's  up  with   the   bonnets  of 

Bonny  Dundee ! 

Ele.   Katleen,  do  thou  sing  now.    Thy 

uncle's  cheerful; 
We  must  not  let  his  humor  ebb  again. 
Kat.  But  I'll  do  better,  aunt,  than  if 

I  sung, 
For  Flora  can  sing  blithe;   so  can  this 

huntsman. 
As  he  has  shown  e'en  now;    let  them  duet 

it. 
Osw.  Well,  huntsman,  we  must  give 

to  freakish  maiden 
The  freedom  of  her  fancy.  —  Raise  the 

carol, 
And    Flora,    if   she   can,    will   join   the 

measure. 

SONG. 

When  friends  are  met  o'er  merry  cheer, 
And  lovely  eyes  are  laughing  near. 
And  in  the  goblet's  bosom  clear 
The  cares  of  day  arc  drown'd; 

When    puns    are    made,    and   bumpers 

quaff'd, 
And  wild  Wit  shoots  his  roving  shaft, 
And  Mirth  his  jovial  laugh  has  laugh 'd, 
Then  is  our  banquet  crown 'd, 

Ah  gay. 
Then  is  our  banquet  crown'd. 


When  glees  are  sung,  and  catches  troll'd. 
And  bashfulness  grows  bright  and  bold. 
And  beauty  is  no  longer  cold, 

And  age  no  longer  dull; 
When  chimes  are  brief,  and  cocks  do  crow, 
To  tell  us  it  is  time  to  go. 
Yet  how  to  part  we  do  not  know. 

Then  is  our  feast  at  full. 
Ah  gay. 

Then  is  our  feast  at  full. 

Osw.  (rises  with  his  cup  in  his  hand) — 
Devorgoil's  feast  is  full  —  Drink  to  the 
pledge ! 

\A  tremendotts  burst  of  thunder  fol- 
lows these  words  of  the  Song  ; 
and  the  Lightning  should  seem 
to  strike  the  suit  of  black  Armor, 
which  falls  with  a  crash.  All 
rise  in  surprise  and  fear  except 
GULLCRAMMER,  who  tumbles 
over  backwards  and  lies  still. 

Osw.  That  sounded  like  the  judgment 
peal  —  the  roof 
Still  trembles  with  the  volley, 

DUR.  Happy  those, 

Who  are  prepared  to  meet  such  fearful 

summons. 
Leonard,  what  dost  thou  there? 

Leo.  {supporting  ¥1.0.)    The  duty  of 
a  man  — 
Supporting  innocence.     Were  it  the  final 

call, 
I  were  not  misemploy'd. 

Osw.  The  armor  of  my  grandsire  hath 
fall'n  down, 
And  old  saws  have  spoke  truth.  —  {Mus- 

ing.)     The  fiftieth  year  — 
Devorgoil's    feast   at   fullest !     What   to 
think  of  it  — 
Leo.  (lifting  a  scroll  which  had  fallen 
with  the  armor")  — 
This  may  inform  us.  —  (Attempts  to  read 
the  manuscript,  shakes  his  head  and 
gives  it  to  Oswald)  — 
But  not  to  eyes  unlearn'd  it  tells  its  tidings. 
Osw.  Hawks,   hounds,  and  revelling 
consumed  the  hours 
I  should  have  given  to  study.     {Looks  at 

the  manuscript.") 
These  characters  I  spell  not  more  than 
thou. 


6o2 


DRAAFATIC  PIECES. 


Act  II. 


They  are  not  of  our  clay,  and,  as  I  think. 

Not    of    our    language.  —  Where's    our 
scholar  now. 

So  forward  at  the  banquet  ?     Is  he  laggard 

Upon  a  point  of  learning? 

Leo.    Here  is  the  man  of  letter'd  dig- 
nity, 

E'en  in  a  piteous  case.     (^Drags  Gull- 
CRAMMER  forward. ) 
Osw.  Art  waking,  craven?    Canst  thou 
read  this  scroll? 

Or  art  thou  only  learn'd  in  sousing  swine's 
flesh, 

And  prompt  in  eating  it? 

Gull.  Eh  — ah!  —  oh — ho!  —  Have 
you  no  better  time 

To    tax   a   man    with    riddles,    than    the 
moment 

When    he    scarce    knows    whether    he's 
dead  or  living? 
Osw.   Confound  the  pedant  ? — Can  you 
read  the  scroll, 

Or  can  you  not,  sir?  If  youfrtw,  pronounce 

Its  meaning  speedily. 

GuL.  ian  I  read  it,  quotha? 

When  at  our  learned  University, 

I  gain'd  first  premium  for  Heljrew  learn- 
ing, — - 

Which  was  a  pound  of  high-dried  Scot- 
tish snuff. 

And  half  a  peck  of  onions,  with  a  bushel 

Of  curious  oatmeal,  —  our  learned  Prin- 
cipal 

Did  say,   "  Melchisedek,  thou  canst  tlo 
anything !  " 

Now  comes  he  with  his  paltry  scroll  of 
parchment, 

And,  "  Ca7i  you  read  it?"  —  After  such 
affront. 

The  point  is,  if  I  will. 

Osw.  A  point  soon  solved. 

Unless  you  choose  to  sleep   among  the 
frogs; 

For  look  you,  sir,  there  is  the  chamber 
window,  — 

Beneath  it  lies  the  lake. 

Ele.   Kind   master   Gullcrammer,  be- 
ware my  husband. 

He  brooks  no  contradiction  — 'tis  his  fault , 

And  in  his  wrath  he's  dangerous. 

Gull,   {looks  at  the  scroll,  and  mutters 
as  if  reading)  — 

Hashgaboth  hotch-potch  — 


A  simple  matter  this  to  make  a  rout  of  — 

Ten  rashersen  bacon,  mish-mash  venison. 

Sausagian    souscd-fice — 'Tis    a    simple 
catalogue 

Of  our  snijU  supper  —  made  by  the  grave 
sage 

Whose  prescience  knew  this  night  that 
we  should  feast 

On  venison,  hash'd  sow's  face,  and  sau- 
sages. 

And  hung  his  steel  coat  for  a  supper  bell. 

E'en  let  us  to  our  provender  again, 

l'"or  it  is  written  we  shall  finish  it, 

And  bless  our  stars  the  lightning  left  it  us. 
Osw.  This  must  be  impuilence  or  ig- 
norance ! 

The  spirit  of  rough  Erick  stirs  within  me, 

And  I  will  knock  thy  brains  out  if  thou 
falterest ! 

Expound  the  scroll  to  me  ! 

GuL.  You're  over-hasty; 

And    yet    you   may   be   right   too — -'Tis 
Samaritan, 

Now  I  look  closer  on't,  and  I  did  take  it 

For  simple  Hebrew. 

DuR.    'Tis  Hebrew  to  a  simpleton. 

That  we  see   plainly,   friend  —  Give  me 
the  scroll. 
GuL.   Alas,  good  friend  !  what  would 

you  do  with  it? 
DuR.  {takes  it  from  him.) 

My  best  to  read  it,  sir  —  The  character 
is  Saxon, 

Used  at  no  distant  date  within  this  dis- 
trict; 

And  thus  the  tenor  runs  —  not  in  Samari- 
tan, 

Nor  simple  Hebrew,  but  in  wholesome 
English :  — 

"  Devorgoil,  thy  bright  moon  waneth. 
And  the  rust  thy  harness  staineth; 
Servile  guests  the  banquet  soil 
Of  the  once  proud  Devorgoil. 
But  should  Black  Erick's  armor  fall. 
Look  for  guests  shall  scare  you  all ! 
They  shall  come  ere  peep  of  day,  — 
Wake  and  watch,  and  hope  and  pray." 

Kat.  (/c  Flo.)   Here  is  fine  foolery? 

An  old  wall  shakes 
At  a  loud  thunder-clap  —  down  comes  a 

suit 
Of  ancient  armor,  when  its  wasted  braces 


Scene  II. 


THE   DOOM   OF  DEVORGOIL. 


603 


Were  all  too  rotten  to  sustain  its  weight  — 
A  beggar  cries  out,  Miracle  !  — and  your 

father, 
Weighing   the   importance  of   his  name 

and  lineage, 
Must  needs  believe  the  dotard  ! 

F"lo.   Mock  not,  I  pray  you;  this  may 

be  too  serious. 
Kat.  And  if  I  live  till  morning,  I  will 

have 
The  power  to  tell  a  better  tale  of  wonder 
Wrought  on  wise  Gullcrammer.     I'll  go 

prepare  me.  [A'jr//. 

Flo.  I  have  not  Katlcen's  spirit,  yet 

I  hate 
This  Gullcrammer  too  heartily  to  stop 
Any  disgrace  that's  hasting  towards  him. 

Osw.  (/(?  ichom  the  Beggar  has  been 
again  reading  the  scroll ). 

'Tis   a   strange    prophecy  !  —  The    silver 

moon. 
Now  waning  sorely,  is  our  ancient  bear- 
ing — 
Strange  and  unfitting  guests  — 

GUL.   (^interrupting   him).     Ay,    ay, 
the  matter 
Is,  as  you  say,  all  moonshine  in  the  water. 
Osw.   How  mean  you,  sir?   (Jhreaten- 

GuL.  To  show  that  I  can  rhyme 

With  yonder  bluegown.     Give  me  breath 

and  time, 
I  will  maintain,  in  spite  of  his  pretense, 
Mine  exposition  had  the  better  sense  — 
It  spoke  good  victuals  and   increase  of 

cheer; 
And  his,  more  guests  to  eat  what  we  have 

here  — 
An  increment  right  needless. 

Osw.  Get  thee  gone  ! 

To  kennel,  hound  ! 

GUL.      The  hound  will  have  his  bone. 

»  [  Takes  up  the  platter  of  meat  and  a 

flask. 

Osw.  Flora,  show  him  his  chamber  — 
take  him  hence, 
Or,  by  the  name  I  bear,  I'll  see  his  brains  '. 
GUL.   Ladies,    good-night !  —  I    spare 
you,  sir,  the  pains. 

\Exit,   lighted  by   Flora   with   a 
lamp. 


Osw.  The   owl   is  fled.  —  I'll    not  to 
bed  to-night : 

There   is   some    change  impending  o'er 
this  house. 

For  good  or  ill.     I  would  some  holy  man 

Were  here,  to  counsel  us  what  we  should 
do. 

Yon  witless  thin-faced  gull  is  but  a  cas- 
sock 

Stuff'd  out  with  chaff  and  straw. 

DuR.  (^assuming  an  air  0/  dignity). 
I  have  been  wont, 

In  other  days,  to  point  to  erring  mortals 

The  rock  which  they  should  anchor  on. 

[//(f  holds  up  a  Cross  —  the  rest  take 
a  posture  of  devotion,  and  the 
Scene  closes. 

ACT  III.  — Scene  I. 

A  ruinous  Anteroom  in  the  Castle. 

Enter  Katleen,  fantastically  dressed  to 
play  the  character  of  Cockledemoy,  luitk 
the  visor  in  her  hand. 

Kat.  I've  scarce  had  time  to  glance  at 

my  sweet  person. 
Yet  this  much  could  I  see,  with   half  a 

glance. 
My  elfish  dress  becomes  me  —  I'll   not 

mask  me 
Till    I    have    seen    Lance    Blackthorn. 

Lance,  I  say!  \_Calls. 

Blackthorn,  make  haste ! 

Enter  Blackthorn,  ha^^ressed  as 
Ozt'lspiegle.     ' 

Bla.   Here  am  I  —  Blackthorn  in  the 

upper  half, 
Much   at  your    service;    but   my  nether 

parts 
Are  goblinized  and  Owlspiegled.     I  had 

much  ado 
To  get  these  trankums  on.     I  judge  Eord 

Erick 
Kept    no  good   house,  and    starved    his 

quondam  barber. 
Kat.  Peace,  ass,  and  hide  you  —  Gull- 
crammer is  coming; 
He  left  the  hall  before,  but  then  took 

fright. 
And  e'en  sneak'd  back.     The  Lady  Flora 

lights  him  — 
Trim  occupation  for  her  ladyship ! 


0o4 


DRAMATIC  PIECES. 


Act  III. 


Had  you  seen  Leonard,  when   she   left 

the  hall 
On  such  fine  errand  ! 

Bla.  This  Gullcranimer  shall   have  a 
bob  extraordinary 
For  my  good  comrade's  sake.  —  But  tell 

me,  Katleen, 
What  dress  is  this  of  yours? 

Kat.  a  page's,  fool ! 

Bla.     I  am  accounted  no  great  scholar, 
But  'tis  a  page  that  I  would  fain  peruse 
A  little  closer.  {^Approaches  her. 

Kat.  Put  on  your  spectacles. 

And  try  if  you  can  read  it  at  this  distance, 
For  you  shall  come  no  nearer. 

Bla.  But  is  there  nothing,  then,  save 
rank  imposture, 
In  all  these  tales  of  goblinry  at  Devor- 
goil? 
Kat.  My  aunt's  grave  lord  thinks  other- 
wise, supposing 
That    his    great    name    so    interests    the 

Heavens, 
That  miracles  must  needs  bespeak  its  fall. 
I  would  that  I  were  in  a  lowly  cottage. 
Beneath  the  greenwood,  on  its  walls  no 
armor 

To  court  the  levin-lx)U 

Bla.  And  a  kind  husband,  Katleen, 
To  ward  such  dangers  as  must  needs  come 

nigh,  — 
My  father's  cottage  stands  so   low  and 

lone, 
That  you  would  think  it  solitude  itself; 
The  greenwood  shields  it  from  the  north- 
ern blast, 
And,  in  the  woodliine  round  its  latticed 

casement, 
The  linnet's  sure  to  build  the  earliest  nest 
In  all  the  forest. 

Kat.  Peace,  you  fool,  — they  come. 
[Flora     lights     Gullcrammer 
across  the  Stage. 
Kat.  {jivhen  they  have  passed)  —  Away 
with  you ! 
On   with  your  cloak  —  be    ready  at   the 
signal. 
Bla.   And  shall  we  talk  of   that  same 
cottage,  Katleen, 
At  better  leisure?     I  have  much  to  say 
In  favor  of  my  cottage. 

Kat.  If  you  will  be  talking. 

You  know  I  can't  prevent  you. 


Bla.  That's  enough. 

(^Aside.)   I    shall    have    leave,   I  see,  to 

spell  the  page 
A  little  closer,  when  the  due  time  comes. 

Scene  II. 

Scene  changes  to  Gollcrammer's  sleep- 
ing Apartment.  He  enters,  ushered  in 
by  Flora,  7vho  sets  on  the  table  a  flask, 
■with  the  lamp. 

Flo.  a  flask,  in  case  your  Reverence 
be  athirsty; 
A    light,    in    case    your     Reverence    be 

afear'd;  — - 
And  so,  sweet  slumVier  to  your   Rever- 
ence. 
GuL.  Kind  Mistress  Flora,  will  you  ?  — 

ch  !  eh  !  eh  ! 
Flo.  Will  I  what? 
GuL.  Tarry  a  little  ? 
Flo.    (^smiling).    Kind    Master    Gull- 
crammer, 
How  can  you  ask  me  aught  so  unlx;com- 
ing? 
GuL.   Oh,  fie,  fie,  fie  !  —  Believe  me. 
Mistress  Flora, 
'Tis    not    for    that  —  but    being    guided 

through 
Such   dreary  galleries,  stairs,   and  suites 

of  rooms. 
To  this  same  cubicle,  I'm  somewhat  loth 
To  bid  adieu  to  pleasant  company. 

Flo.   a    flattering    compliment !  —  In 

plain  truth,  you  are  frighten'd. 
GuL.   What !    frighten'd  ?  —  I  —  I  — 

am  not  timorous. 
Flo.  Perhaps  you've  heard  this  is  our 
haunted  chamber? 
But  then  it   is  our  best.  —  Your  Rever- 
ence knows. 
That  in  all  tales  which  turn  upon  a  ghost, 
Your  traveller  belated  has  the  luck 
To    enjoy  the    haunted  room  —  it   is   a 
rule:  —  * 

To  some  it  were  a  hardship,  but  to  you. 

Who  are  a  scholar,  and  not  timorous 

GuL.   I  did  not  say  I  was  not  timorous, 
I  said  I  was  not  temerarious.  — 
I'll  to  the  hall  again. 

Flo.  You'll  do  your  pleasure, 

But  you  have  somehow  moved  my  father's 
anger. 


Scene  II. 


THE  DOOM   OF  DEVORGOIL. 


605 


And  you   had   better  meet   our  playful 
Owlspiegle  — 

So  is  our  goblin  call'd  —  than  face  Lord 
Oswald. 
GuL.  Owlspiegle?  — 

It  is  an  uncouth  and  outlandish  name, 

And  in  mine  ears  sounds  fiendish. 
Flo.  Hush,  hush,  hush! 

Perhaps  he  hears  us  now  —  (/«  an  under- 
tone)—  A  merry  spirit; 

None  of  your  elves  that  pinch  folks  black 
and  blue. 

For  lack  of  cleanliness. 

GuL.  As  for  that.  Mistress  Flora, 

My  taffeta  doublet  hath  l)een  duly  brush'd. 

My  shirt  hebdomadal  put  on  this  morn- 
ing. 
Flo.  Why,  you  need  fear  no  goblins. 

But  this  Owlspiegle 

Is  of  another  class;  — yet  has  his  frolics; 

Cuts  hair,  trims  beards,  and  plays  amid 
his  antics 

The  office  of  a  sinful  mortal  barber. 

Such  is  at  least  the  rumor. 

GuL.   He  will  not  cut  my  clothes,  or 
scar  my  face. 

Or  draw  my  blood? 

Flo.  Enormities  like  these 

Were  never  charged  against  him. 

GuL.   And,  Mistress  Flora,  would  you 
smile  on  me. 

If,  prick 'd  by  the  fond  hope  of  your  ap- 
proval , 

I  should  endure  this  venture? 

Flo.  I  do  hope 

I  shall  have  cause  to  smile. 

Gt^L.  Well !  in  that  hope 

I  will  embrace  the  achievement  for  thy 
sake.  \_She  is  going. 

Yet,    stay,     stay,    stay !  —  on     second 
thoughts  I  will  not  — 

I've  thought  on  it,  and  will  the  mortal 
cudgel 

Rather    endure    than    face    the    ghostly 
razor ! 

Your  crab-tree's  tough,  but  blunt,  —  your 
razor's  polish 'd. 

But,  as  the  proverb  goes,  'lis  cruel  sharp. 

I'll  to  thy  father,  and  unto  his  pleasure 

Submit  these  destined  shoulders. 

Flo.  But  you  shall  not  — 

Believe   me,   sir,  you    shall    not;    he    is 
desperate. 


And  better  far  be  trimm'd  by  ghost  or 

goblin, 
Than  by  my  sire  in  anger;  — there  are 

stores 
Of   hidden   treasure,  too,    and   Heaven 

knows  what. 
Buried   among   these   ruins  —  you   shall 

stay. 
(^Apart.)  And  if  indeed  there  be  such 

sprite  as  Owlspiegle, 
And,  lacking  him,  that  thy  fear  plague 

thee  not 
Worse  than  a  goblin,  I  have  miss'd  my 

purpose. 
Which  else  stands  good  in  either  case.  — 

Gootl-night,  sir. 

[Exit,  and  douhle  lock%  the  door. 
GuL.  Nay,  hold  ye,  hold  !    Nay,  gentle 

Mistress  Flora, 
Wherefore    this    ceremony? — She    has 

lock'd  me  in. 
And  left  me  to  the  goblin  !  —  (^Listening. ) 

So,  so,  so ! 
I  hear  her  light  foot  trip  to  such  a  dis- 
tance. 
That  I  believe  the  castle's  breadth  divides 

me 
From    human    company.  —  I'm    ill    at 

ease  — 
But  if  this  citadel  {laying  his  hand  on 

his  stomach)  were  better  victual'd, 
It  would  be  better  mann'd. 

[  Sits  down  and  drinks. 

She  has  a  footstep  light,  and  taper  ankle. 

[  Chuckles.- 

Aha  !  that  ankle  !  yet,  confound  it  too. 

But  for  those  charms  Melchisedek  had 

been 
Snug  in  his  bed  at  Mucklewhame  —  I  say. 
Confound  her  footstep,  and  her  instep 

too. 
To  use  a  cobbler's  phrase.  — There  I  was 

quaint. 
Now,  what  to  do  in  this  vile  circumstance. 
To  watch  or  go   to  bed,  I   can't   deter- 
mine ; 
Were  I  a-bed,  the  ghost  might  catch  me 

napping. 
And  if  I  watch,  my  terrors  will  increase 
As  ghostly  hours  approach.     I'll  to  my 

bed 
E'en   in  my  taffeta  doublet,  shrink  my 

head 


5o6 


DRAMATIC  PIECES. 


Act  III. 


Beneath    the  clothes  —  leave   the    lamp 
burning  there, 

\Sets  it  on  the  table. 
And  trust  to  fate  the  issue. 

l^He    lays    aside    his    cloak,     and 
brushes  it,  as  from  habit,  start- 
ing at  every   moment ;    ties  a 
napkin    over   his    head;    then 
shrinks  beneath  the  bed-clothes. 
He  starts  once  or  twice,  and  at 
length  seems  to  go  to  sleep.     A 
bell  tolls  ONE.     He  leaps  up  in 
his  bed. 
GuL.  I  had  just  coax'd  myself  to  sweet 
forgetfulness, 
And  that  confounded  bell,  I  hate  all  bells, 
Except  a  dinner-bell — and  yet  I  lie,  too, — 
I  love  the  bell  that  soonshall  tell  the  parish 
Of    Gabblegoose,   Melchisedek's  incum- 
bent— 
And  shall  the  future  minister  of  Gabble- 
goose, 
Whom  his  parishioners  will  soon  require 
To   exorcise    their   ghosts,    detect    their 

witches. 
Lie  shivering  in  his  bed  for  a  pert  goblin. 
Whom,    be    he    switch'd    or    cocktail'd, 

horn'd  or  poll'd, 
A  few  tight  Hebrew  words  will  soon  send 

packing? 
Tush  !  I  will  rouse  theparson  up  within  me, 

And  bid  defiance (.-/  distant  noise.} 

In  the  name  of  Heaven, 
What  sounds  are  these?  —  O  Lord  !   this 
comes  of  rashness ! 

[Dramas  his  head  down  under  the 
bed-clothes. 

Duet  ivithout,  betioeen  OWLSPIEGLE   and 

COCKLEDEMOY. 

Owi^.  Cockledemoy, 

My  boy,  my  boy, 
CocKL.  Here,  father,  here. 

Owls.  Now  thepole-star'sredandburning. 
And  the  witch's  spindle  turning. 
Appear,  appear  I 
GuL.   (^7iiho  has  again  raised  himself, 
and  listened  with  great  terror  to 
the  Duet)  — 
I  have  heard  of  the  devil's  dam  before. 
But   never   of   his  child.     Now  Heaven 
deliver  me. 


The  Papists  have  the  belter  of  us  there,  -- 
They  have  their  Latin  prayers,  cut  and 

dried. 
And  pat  for  such  occasion.  — - 1  can  think 
On  naught  but  the  vernacular. 
Owls.  Cockledemoy ! 

My  boy,  my  boy. 

We'll  sport  us  here  — 
CocKL.  Our  gambols  play, 

Like  elve  and  fay; 
Owls.  And  domineer, 

Both.     Laugh,  frolic,  and  frisk,  till  the 

morning  appear. 
CoCKL.  Lift  latch — ^open  clasp  ^ — 

Shoot  bolt  — -and  burst  hasp  ! 
[  The  door  opens  with  violence. 
Enter  BLACKTHORN  as  OwL- 
SPIEGLE,  fantastically  dressed 
as  a  Spanish  Barber,  tall,  thin, 
emaciated,  and  ghostly  :  Kat- 
LEEN,  as  Cockledemoy,  at- 
tends as  his  page.  .ill  their 
mantiers,  tones,  and  motions 
are  fantastic,  as  those  of  Gob- 
lins. They  make  two  or  three 
times  the  circuit  of  the  Room, 
without  seeming  to  see  GULL- 
CRAMMER.  7 hey  then  resume 
their  Chant,  or  Recitative. 
Owls.  Cockledemoy ! 

My  boy,  my  boy, 
What  wilt  thou  do  that  will  give 

thee  joy? 
Wilt  thou  ride  on  the  midnight 
owl? 
CocKL.    No;   for  the  weather  is  stormy 

and  foul. 
Owls.  Cockledemoy ! 

My  boy,  my  boy, 
What  wilt  thou  do  that  can  give 

thee  joy? 
With  a  needle  for  a  sword,  and 

a  thimble  for  a  hat. 
Wilt  thou  fight  a  traverse  with 
the  castle  cat? 
CoCKL.    Oh   no !    she  has  claws,  and  I 
like  not  that. 
Gi;l.  I  see  the  devil  is  a  doting  father. 
And  spoils  his  children  —  'tis  the  surest 

way 
To  make  curst  imps  of  them.     They  see 
me  not  — 


Scene  II. 


THE  DOOM  OF  DEVORGOIL. 


607 


What  will  they  think  on  next?     It  must 

be  own'd, 
They  have  a  dainty  choice  of  occupations. 
Owls.  Cockledemoy ! 

My  boy,  my  hoy. 
What  shall  we  do  that  can  give 

thee  joy? 
Shall  we  go  seek  for  a  cuckoo's 
nest? 
CocKL.         That's  best,  that's  best ! 
Both.  About,  about. 

Like  an  elvish  scout, 
The  cuckoo's  a  gull,  and  we'll 
soon  find  him  out. 

\Tliey  search  the  room  with  mops 
and  mows.  At  length  Q.OCYX.Y.- 
D^UOY  jumps  on  the  bed.  GuLL- 
CRAMMER  raises  himself  half  up, 
supporting  himself  by  his  hands. 
Cockledemoy  does  the  same, 
and  grins  at  him,  then  skips 
from  tht  bed,  and  runs  to  OwL- 

SPIEGLE. 

CocKL.  I've  found  the  nest. 

And  in  it  a  guest, 
With  a  sable  cloak  and  a  taffeta 

vest; 
He  must  be  wash'd,and  trimm'd, 

and  drest, 
To  please  the  eyes  he  loves  the 
best. 
Owls.         That's  best,  that's  best. 
Both.     He  must  be  shaved,  and  trimm'd 
and  drest. 
To  please  the  eyes  he  loves  the 
best. 
[They  arrange  shaving  things  on 
the  table,  and  sing  as  they  pre- 
pare them. 
Both.   Know  that  all  of  the  humbug,  the 
bite,  and  the  buz, 
Of  the  make-believe  world,  be- 
comes forfeit  to  us. 
Owls,  {sharpening  his  razor)  — 

The  sword  this  is  made  of  was 

lost  in  a  fray 
By  a  fop,  who  first  bullied  and 

then  ran  away; 
And  the  strap,  from  the  hide  of 

a  lame  racer,  sold 
By  Lord  Match,  to  his  friend, 
for  some  hundreds  in  gold. 


Both.     For  all  of  the  humbug,  the  bite, 
and  the  buz. 

Of  the  make-ljelieve  world,  be- 
comes forfeit  to  us. 
CoCKL.  {placing  the  napkin)  — 

And  this  cambric  napkin,  so 
white  and  so  fair. 

At  an  usurer's  funeral  I  stole 
from  the  heir. 

[Drops  something  from  a  vial, 
as  going  to  make  suds. 

This  dewdrop  I  caught  from  one 
eye  of  his  mother. 

Which  wept,  while  she  ogled  the 
parson  with  t'other. 
Both.  For  all  of  the  humbug,  the  bite, 
and  the  buz. 

Of  the  make-believe  world,  be- 
comes forfeit  to  us 
Owls,   {arranging  the  lather  and  the 
basin")  — 

My  soap-ball  is  of  the  mild  al- 
kali made. 

Which  the  soft  dedicator  em- 
ploys in  his  trade; 

And  it  froths  with  the  pith  of  a 
promise,  that's  sworn 

By  a  lover  at  night,  and  forgot 
on  the  morn. 
Both.  For  all  of  the  humbug,  the  bite, 
and  the  buz. 

Of  the  make-believe  world,  be- 
comes forfeit  to  us. 
Halloo,  halloo, 
The  blackcock  crew. 

Thrice  shriek'd  hath  the  owl, 
thrice  croak 'd  hath  the 
raven. 

Here  ho !  Master  Gulicrammer, 
rise  and  be  shaven? 

Da  capo. 
GuL.  (7vho  has  been  observing  them). 
I'll  pluck  a  spirit  up,  they're  merry  gob- 
lins. 
And  will  deal  mildly.    I  will  soothe  their 

humor ; 
Besides,  my  beard  lacks  trimming. 

[He  rises  from  his  bed,  and  ad- 
vances with  great  symptoms  of 
trepidation,  but  affecting  an  air 


6o8 


DRAMATIC  PIECES. 


Act  III. 


of  composure.  The  Goblins  re- 
ceive him  with  fantastic  cere- 
mony. 

Gentlemen,    'tis   your  will   I  should   be 

trimm'd  — 
E'en  do  your  pleasure. 

[  They  point  to  a  seat  —  he  sits. 

Think,  howsoe'er. 

Of  me  as  one  who  hates  to  see  his  blood; 

Therefore  I  do  beseech  you,  signior, 

Be  gentle  in  your  craft.     I  know  those 

barbers, 
One  would  have  harrows  driven  across 

his  visnomy. 
Rather  than  they  should  touch  it  with  a 

razor. 
OWLSPIEGLE  shaves  GULLCRAMMER  xuhile 

COCKLEDEMOY  singS. 

Father  never  started  hair. 
Shaved  too  close,  or  left  too  bare  — 
Father's  razor  slips  as  glib 
As  from  courtly  tongue  a  fib. 
Whiskers,  mustache,  he  can  trim  in 
Fashion  meet  to  please  the  women; 
Sharp's  his  blade,  perfumed  his  lather  ! 
Happy  those  are  trimm'd  by  father ! 

GuL.  That's  a  good  boy.     I  love  to 

hear  a  child 

Stand  for  his  father,  if  he  were  the  devil. 

[  He  motions  to  rise. 

Craving  your   pardon,  sir.  —  What !  sit 

again? 
My  hair  lacks  not  your  scissors. 

[OwLSPlEGLE  insists  ON  his  sitting. 
Nay,  if  you're  peremptory,  I'll  ne'er  dis- 
pute it. 
Nor  eat  the  cow  and  choke  upon  the  tail  — 
E'en  trim  me  to  your  fashion. 

[Owi^PiEGLE    cuts  his  hair,  and 
shaves  his  head  ridiculously. 
COCKLEUEMOY  {sings  as  before). 
Hair-breadth  'scapes,  and  hair-breadth 

snares, 
Hair-brain'd  follies,  ventures,  cares, 
Part  when  father  clips  your  hairs. 
If  there  is  a  hero  frantic, 
Or  a  lover  too  romantic;  — 
If  threescore  seeks  second  spouse. 
Or  fourteen  lists  lover's  vows. 
Bring  them  here  —  for  a  Scotch  boddle, 
Owlspiegle  shall  trim  their  noddle. 


[  They  take  the  napkin  from  about 
GuLLCRAMMER's  neck.  I/e 
makes  bo-ws  of  ackno7vledgment, 
which  they  return  fantastically, 
and  sing — 

Thrice  crow'd  hath  the  blackcock,  thrice 

croak'd  hath  the  raven. 
And  Master  Melchisedek  Gullcrammer's 

shaven ! 
GUL.  My  friends,  you  are  loo  musical 

for  me. 
But  though  I  cannot  cope  with  you  in 

song, 
I  would,  in  humble  prose,  inquire  of  you, 
If  that  you  will  permit  me  to  acquit 
Even  with  the  barber's  pence  the  barberV 

service  ? 

[  They  shake  their  heads. 
Or  if  there  is  aught  else  that  I  can  do  for 

you. 
Sweet  Master  Owlspiegle,  or  your  loving 

child, 
The  hopeful  Cockle 'moy? 
CocKL.  Sir,  you  have  been  trimm'd  of 

late; 
Smooth's  your  chin,  and  bald  your  pate; 
Lest  cold  rheums  should  work  you  barm. 
Here's  a  cap  to  keep  you  warm. 

GuL.   Welcome,  as  Fortunatus'  wish- 
ing cap. 
For  'twas  a  cap  that  I  was  wishing  for. 
(There  I  was  quaint  in  spite  of  mortal 

terror.) 

\^As  he  puts  on  the  cap,  a  pair  of 
ass's  ears  disengage  themselves. 

Upon  my  faith,  it  is  a  dainty  head-dress. 
And    might    become    an    alderman !  — 

Thanks,  sweet  Monsieur, 
Thou'rt  a  considerate  youth. 

[Both  Goblins  bow  with  ceremony 
to  GuLLCRAMMER,  'who  returns 
their  salutation.  OWLSPEIGLE 
descends  by  the  trap-door. 
COCKLEDEMOY  Springs  out  at 
window. 

SONG  {without). 
Owl.  Cockledemoy,  my  hope,  my  care. 
Where  art  thou;now,0  tell  me  where? 
CocKL.  Up  in  the  sky, 

On  the  bonny  dragonfly. 


Scene  III. 


THE   DOOM  OF  DEVOkGOlL. 


Oo0 


Come,  father,  come  you  too  — 
She  has  four  wings  and  strength  enow, 
And  her  long  body  has  room  for  two. 

GUL.  Cockledenioy  now  is  a  naughty 
brat  — 
Would  have  the  poor  old   stiff-rump'd 

devil,  his  father, 
Peril   his   fiendish    neck.     All    boys   are 
thoughtless. 

SONG. 
Owl.   Which  way  didst  thou  take? 
COCKL.   I  have  fallen  in  the  lake  — 

Help,  father,  for  Beelzebub's  sake. 

GuL.  The  imp  is  drown'd  —  a  strange 
death  for  a  devil ! 

O,  may  all  boys  take  warning,  and  be 
civil; 

Respect  their  loving  sires,  endure  a  chid- 
ing. 

Norroam  by  night  on  dragonflies  a-riding ! 

CoCKL.  {sitiffs).  Now  merrily,  merrily, 
row  I  to  shore. 
My  bark  is  a  bean-shell,  a  straw  for 
an  oar. 
Owl.  (^sifigs).  My  life,  my  joy, 

My  Cockledenioy ! 

GuL.   I  can  bear  this  no  longer  —  thus 

children  are  spoil'd. 
(^Strikes  into  the  tune.')  —  Master  Owl- 

spiegle,  hoy ! 
He  deserves  to  be  whipp'd,  little  Cockle- 

demoy ! 
[  Their  voices  are  heard  as  if  dying  a^vay. 
GUL.    They're    gone  !  —  Now,    am    I 

scared,  or  am  I  not? 
I  think  the  very  desperate  ecstasy 
Of  fear  has  given  me  courage.     This  is 

strange,  now ! 
When  they  were  here  I  was  not  half  so 

frighten'd 
As  now  they  are  gone —  they  were  a  sort 

of  company. 
What  a  strange  thing  is  use  !  —  A  horn, 

a  claw, 
The  tip   of  a  fiend's   tail,  was  wont  to 

scare  mc;  — 
Now  am  I  with  the  devil  hand  and  glove; 
His  soap  has  lather'd,  and  his  razor  shaved 

me; 
I've  joined  him  in  a  catch,  kept  time  and 

tune. 


Could  dine  with  him,  nor  ask  for  a  long 

spoon; 
And  if  I  keep  not  better  company. 
What  will  become  of  me  when  I  shall  die  ? 

\_Exit. 
Scene  HI. 

A  Gothic  Hall,  loaste  and  ruinous.  The 
mnofilighi  is  at  times  seen  through  the 
shafted  zoindorus.  Enter  Katleen 
a«^/ Blackthorn  —  1  hey  have  thrown 
off  the  more  ludicrous  parts  of  their  dis- 
guise. 

Kat.  This  way  —  this  way.     Was  ever 

fool  so  gull'd ! 
Bla.  I  play'd  the  barber  better  than  I 
thought  for. 
Well,  Fve  an  occupation  in  reserve, 
When  the  long  bow  and  merry  musket 

fail  me.  — 
But  hark  ye,  pretty  Katleen. 

Kat.  What  should  I  hearken  to? 

Bla.     Art  thou  not  afraid. 
In  these  wild  halls  while  playing  feigned 

goblins. 
That  we  may  meet  with  real  ones? 

Kat.  Not  a  jot. 

My  spirit  is  too  light,  my  heart  too  bold- 
To  fear  a  visit  from  the  other  world. 
Bla.  But  is  not  this  the  place,  the  very 
hall 
In  which  men  say  that  Oswald's  grand- 
father. 
The  black  Lord  Erick,  walks  his  penance 

round? 
Credit  me,  Katleen,  these  half-moulder'd 

columns 
Have  in  their  ruin  somethingveryfiendish, 
And,  if  you'll   take  an  honest   friend's 

advice, 
The  sooner  that  you  change  their  shat- 

ter'd  splendor 
For  the  snug  cottage  that  I  told  you  of, 
Believe   me,    it   will    prove   the   blither 
dwelling. 
Kat.  If  I  e'er  see  that  cottage,  honest 
Blackthorn, 
Believe  me,  it  shall  Ije  from  other  motive 
Than  fear  of  Erick's  spectre. 

[./  rustling  sound  is  heard. 
Bla.  I  heard  a  rustling  sound  — 

Upon  my  life,  there's  something  in  the 
hall. 


6io 


DRAMATIC  PIECES. 


Act  hi. 


Katleen,  besides  us  two  ! 

Kat.  a  yeoman  thou, 

A  forester,  and  frighten'd !  I  am  sorry 
I  gave  the  fool's-cap  to  poorGuUcrammer, 
And  let  thy  head  go  bare. 

[  The  same  7-ushing  sound  is  repeated. 
liLA.  Why,  are  you  mad,  or  hear  you 

not  the  sound? 
Kat.  And  if  I  do,  I  take  small  heed 
of  it. 
Will  you  allow  a  maiden  to  be  bolder 
'I'linn  you,  with  b^ard  on  chin  and  sword 
at  girdle? 
Bla.   Nay,  if  I  had  my  sword,  I  would 
not  care; 
Tho'  I  ne'er  heard  of  master  of  defence. 
So  active  at  his  weapon  as  lO  brave 
The  devil,  or  a  ghost  —  See  !   see  !  see 
yonder ! 

\_A  Figure  is  imperfectly  seen  be- 
tween tzuo  of  the  pillars. 

Kat.  There's  something  moves,  that's 
certain,  and  the  moonlight. 
Chased  by  the  flitting  gale,  is  too  imperfect 
To  show  its  form;   but,  in  the  name  of 

God, 
I'll  venture  on  it  boldly. 

Bla.  Wilt  thou  so? 

Were    I    alone,    now,    I    were    strongly 

tempted 
To  trust  my  heels  for  safety;    but  with 

thee. 
Be  it  fiend  or  fairy.  111  take  risk  to  meet  it. 
Kat.   It  stands  full  in  our  path,  and 
we  must  pass  it, 
Or  tarry  here  all  night. 

Bla.  In  its  vile  company? 

\^As  they  adikince  towards  the 
Figure,  it  is  more  plainly  distin- 
guished, which  might,  /  think, 
be  contrived  by  raisins;  successive 
screens  of  crape.  The  Figure  is 
wrapped  in  a  long  robe,  like  the 
mantle  of  a  Hermit,  or  Palmer. 

Palmkk.    IIo!   ye  who  thread  by  night 
tlijse  wildering  scenes. 
In  garb  of  those  who  long  have  slept  in 

death, 
Fear  yc  the  company  of  those  you  imitate? 
.  Bla.   This  is  the  devil,  Katleen,  let  us 
fly  !  [  Runs  off. 


Kat.   I  will  not  fly  —  why  should  I  ? 

My  nerves  shake 
To  look  on  this  strange  vision,  but  my 

heart 
Partakes  not  the  alarm.  —  If  thou  dost 

come  in  Heaven's  name. 
In  Heaven's  name  art  thou  welcome ! 
Pal.   I    come,  by  Heaven  permitted. 

Quit  this  castle: 
There  is  a  fate  on't  —  if  for  good  or  evil, 
Brief    space  shall   soon   determine.     In 

that  fate, 
If  good,  by  lineage  thou  canst  nothrtig 

claim. 
If  evil,  much  may'st  suffer.  —  Leave  these 

precincts. 
Kat.  Whate'er  thou  art,  be  answer'd 

—  Know,  I  will  not 
Desert  the  kinswoman  who   train'd  my 

youth ; 
Know,  that  I  will  not  quit  my  friend,  my 

Flora; 
Know,  that  I  will  not  leave  the  aged  man 
Whose   roof  has  shelter'd  me.     This  is 

my  resolve  — 
If  evil  come,  I  aid  my  friends  to  bear  it; 
If  good,  my  part  shall  be  to  see  them 

prosper, 
A  portion  in  their  happiness  from  which 
No  fiend  can  bar  me. 

Pal.  Maid,  before  thy  courage. 

Firm  built  on  innocence,  even  beings  of 

nature. 
More  powerful  far  than  thine,  give  place 

and  way; 
Take  then  this  key,  and  wait  the  event 

with  courage. 

\He  drops  the  key.  —  He  disappears 
gradually  —  the  moonlight  fail- 
ing at  the  same  time. 

Kat.  (^after  a  pause').  Whate'er  it  was, 
'tis  gone  !     My  head  turns  round  — 
The  blood  that  lately  fortified  my  heart 
Now  eddies  in  full  torrent  to  my  brain. 
And   makes  wild  work    with  reason.     I 

will  haste. 
If  that  my  steps  can  boar  me  so  far  safe, 
To  living  company.      What  if  I  meet  it 
Again  in  the  long  aisle,  or  vaulted  pas- 
sage ? 
And  if  I  do,  the  strong  support  that  bore 
me 


Scene  IV. 


THE  DOOM   OF  DEVORGOIL. 


6ii 


Thro'  this  appalling  interview,  again 
Shall  strengthen  and  uphold  me. 

\As  she  steps  forward,  she  stumbles 
over  the  key. 

What's  this?     The  key?  —  there  may  be 

mystery  in't. 
I'll  to  my  kinswoman,  when  this  dizzy  fit 
Will    give  me   leave  to  choose  my  way 

aright. 

[She  sits  doiuH  exhausted. 

Re-enter  Blackthorn,  7vith  a  drawn 
stvord  and  torch. 

Bla.  Katleen  !  —  what,  Katleen  !  — 
What  a  wretch  was  I 

To  leave  her  !  —  Katleen  !  —  I  am 
weapon'd  now, 

And  fear  nor  dog  nor  devil,  —  She  re- 
plies not ! 

Beast  that  I  was !  —  nay,  worse  than 
beast !     The  stag, 

As  timorous  as  he  is,  fights  for  his  hind. 

What's  to  be  done?  —  I'll  search  this 
cursed  castle 

From  dungeon  to  the  battlements;  if  I 
find  her  not, 

I'll  fling  me  from  the  highest  pinnacle  — 

Katleen  {7vho  has  somewhat  gathered 
her  spirits  in  consequence  of  his  en- 
trance, comes  behind  and  touches  him  : 
he  starts).  Brave  sir  ! 

I'll  spare  you  that  rash  leap  —  You're  a 
bold  woodsman ! 

Surely  I  hope  that  from  this  night  hence- 
forward 

You'll  never  kill  a  hare,  since  you're  akin 
to  them. 

0  I  could  laugh  —  but  that  my  head's  so 

dizzy. 
Bla.  Lean  on  me,  Katleen  —  By  my 
honest  word 

1  thought  you  close  behind  —  I  was  sur- 

prised. 

Not  a  jot  frightened. 

Kat.  Thou  art  a  fool  to  ask  me  to  thy 
cottage. 

And  then  to  show  me  at  what  slight  ex- 
pense 

Of  manhood  I  might  master  thee  and  it. 
Bla.   I'll  take  the  risk  of  that— This 
goblin  business 

Came  rather  unexpectedly;  the  best  horse 


Will   start   at   sudden   sights.      Try    me 

again, 
And  if  I  prove  not  true  to  bonny  Katleen, 
Hang  me  in  mine  own  bowstring. 

\_Exeunt. 

Scene  IV. 
The  Scene  returns  to  the  Apartment  at  the 
beginning  of  Act  Second.  Oswald 
and  DURWARD  are  discovered  with 
Eleanor,  Flora,  and  Leonard  — 
DuRWARD  shuts  a  Prayer-book,  which 
he  seems  to  have  been  reading. 

DuR .   'Tis  true  —  the  difference  betwixt 
the  churches. 
Which  zealots  love  to  dwell  on,  to  the 

wise 
Of  either  flock  are  of  far  less  importance 
Than    those   great   truths   to  which  all 

Christian  men 
Subscribe  with  equal  reverence. 

Osw.  We  thank  thee,  father,  for  the 
holy  office. 
Still  best  performed  when   the    pastor's 

tongue 
Is  echo  to  his  breast :   of  jarring  creeds 
It    ill    beseems   a   layman's    tongue    to 

speak  — 
Where  have  you  stow'd  yon  prater? 

[7i>  Flora. 
Flo.  Safe  in  the  goblin-chamber. 
Ele.  The  goblin-chamber ! 

Maiden,  wert  thou  frantic?  —  if  his  Rev- 
erence 
Have   suffer'd    harm   by   waspish   Owl- 

spiegle, 
Be  sure  thou  shaft  abye  it. 

Here  he  comes. 
Can  answer  for  himself ! 

Enter  Gullcrammer  in  the  fashion  in 
which  Owlspiegle  had  put  him  ;  hav- 
ing the  fooP  s-cap  on  his  head,  and  to'iuel 
about  his  neck,  etc.  His  manner 
through  the  scene  is  wild  and  extrava- 
gant, as  if  the  fright  had  a  little  af- 
fected his  brain. 

Dur.  A  goodly  spectacle  !  —  Is  there 
such  a  goblin  ? 
{To  Osw.)  Or  has  sheer  terror  made  him 
such  a  figure? 
Osw.  There  is  a  sort  of  wavering  tra- 
dition 


6l2 


DRAMATIC  PIECES. 


Act  III. 


Of    a    malicious    imp    who    teased    all 

strangers; 
My  father  wont  to  call  him  Owlspiegle. 

GuL.  Who  talks  of  Owlspiegle? 
He  is  an  honest  fellow  for  a  devil. 
So  is  his  son,  the  hopeful  Cockle'moy. 

(^Sings\)  "  My  hope,  my  joy. 

My  Cockledemoy !  " 

Leo.   The  fool's  bewitch'd  —  the  gob- 
lin hath  furnish'd  him 
A  cap  which  well  befits  his  reverend  wis- 
dom. 
Flo.   If  I  could  think  he  had  lost  his 
slender  wits, 
I  should  be  sorry  for  the  trick  they  play'd 
him. 
Leo.  O  fear  him  not;   it  were  a  foul 
reflection 
On  any  fiend  of  sense  and  reputation, 
To  filch   such    petty  wares  as    his   poor 
brains. 
DUR.   What    saw'st   thou,  sir? — what 

heard'st  thou? 
GUL.   What  was't  I  saw  and  heard? 
That  which  old  graybeards. 
Who  conjure  Hebrew  into  Anglo-Saxon, 
To  cheat  starved  barons  with,  can  little 
guess  at. 
Flo.   If  he  begin  so  roundly  with  my 
father. 
His  madness  is  not  like  to  save  his  bones. 
GuL.  Sirs,  midnight  came,  and  with  it 
came  the  goblin. 
I  had  reposed  me  after  some  brief  study; 
But  as  the  soldier,  sleeping  in  the  trench. 
Keeps  sword  and  musket  by  him,   so  I 

had 
My  little  Hebrew  manual  prompt  for  ser- 
vice. 
Flo.  Sausagian  soused-face  ;  that  much 
of  your  Hebrew 
Even  I  can  bear  in  memory. 

GuL.  We  counter'd, 

The    goblin   and    myself,    even    in    mid- 
chamber, 
And  each  stept  back  a  pace,  as  'twere  to 

study 
The   foe  he  had  to  deal  with !  —  I  be- 
thought me. 
Ghosts  ne'er  have  the  first  word,  and  so 

I  took  it. 
And  fired  a  volley  of  round  Greek  at  him. 


He  stood  his  ground,  and  answer'd  in 

the  Syriac; 
I   flank'd  my  Greek  with  Hebrew,  and 

compell'd  him —      [A  noise  heard. 
Osvv.   Peace,  idle  prater  !  —  Hark  — 

what  sounds  are  these? 
Amid  the  growling  of  the  storm  without, 
I  hear  strange  notes  of  music,  and   the 

clash 
Of  coursers'  trampling  feet. 

Voices    {^ivilhonf).    We    con:e,    dark 

riders  of  the  night. 
And  flit  before  the  dawning  light; 
Hill  and  valley,  far  aloof. 
Shake  to  hear  our' chargers'  hoof; 
But  not  a  foot-stamp  on  the  green 
At   morn  shall   show  where  we    have 

been. 

Osw.  These  must  be  revellers  be- 
lated — 

Let  them  pass  on;  the  ruin'd  halls  of 
Devorgoil 

Open  to  no  such  guests.  — 

[Flourish  of  trumpets  at  a  distance, 
then  nearer. 

They  sound  a  summons; 
What  can  they  lack  at  this  dead  hour  of 

night? 
Look    out,  and    see    their  number,  and 
their  bearing. 
Leo.   i^goes  tip  to  the  window')  — 
'Tis  strange  —  one  single  shadowy  form 

alone 
Is  hovering  on  the  drawbridge  —  far  apart 
P'lit  thro'  the  tempest  banners,  horse,  and 

riders. 
In  darkness  lost,  or  dimly  seen  by  light- 
ning. — 
Hither  the  figure  moves --the  bolts  re- 
volve — 
The  gate  uncloses  to  him. 

Ele.  Heaven  protect  us  ! 

The  Palmer  enters  —  Gullcrammer 

runs  off. 
Osw.   Whence,  and  what  art  thou?  — 

for  what  end  come  hither? 
Pal.   I  come  from  a  far  land,  where 
the  storm  howls  not. 
And  the  sun  sets  not,  to  pronounce  to 

thee, 
Oswald  of  Devorgoil,  thy  house's  fate. 


Scene  IV, 


THE  DOOM  OF  DEVORGOIL. 


6f3 


DuR.  I  charge  thee,  in  the  name  we 

late  have  kneel'il  to 

Pal.  Abbot  of  Lanercost,  I  bid  thee 
peace  ! 

Uninterrupted  let  me  do  mine  errand: 

Baron  of  Devorgoil,  son  of  the  bold,  the 
proud, 

The  warlike  and  the  mighty,  wherefore 
wear'st  thou 

The  habit  of  a  peasant  ?     Tell  me,  where- 
fore 

Are  thy  fair  halls  thus  waste  — thy  cham- 
bers bare  ?  — 

Where  are  the  tapestries,  where  the  con- 
quer'd  banners, 

Trophies,  and  gilded  arms,  that  deck'd 
the  walls 

Of  once  proud  Devorgoil? 

\_He  advances,  and  places  himself 
where  the  Armor  hung,  so  as  to 
be  nearly  in  the  centre  of  the 
Scene. 

DuR.   Whoe'er  thou  art  —  if  thou  dost 
know  so  much, 

Needs  must  thou  know 

Osw.   Peace!  I  will  answer  here;    to 
me  he  spoke  — 

Mysterious  stranger,  briefly  I  reply : 

A  peasant's  dress  befits  a  peasant's  for- 
tune; 

And  'twere  vain  mockery  to  array  these 
walls 

In  trophies,  of  whose  memory  naught  re- 
mains. 

Save  that  the  cruelty  outvied  the  valor 

Of  those  who  wore  them. 

Pal.  Degenerate  as  thou  art, 

Know'st  thou  to  whom  thou  say'st  this? 

\^He  drops  his  mantle,  and  is  dis- 
covered armed  as  nearly  as  may 
be  to  the  suit  which  hung  on  the 
wall ;  all  express  terror. 

Osw.  It  is  himself  —  the  spirit  of  mine 

Ancestor ! 
Erl  Tremble  not,  son,  but  hear  me  ! 

\^He  strikes  the  wall ;  it  opens,  and 
discovers  the  Treasure- Cham- 
ber. 

There  lies  piled 
The  wealth  I  brought  from  wasted  Cum- 
berland, 


Enough  to  reinstate  thy  ruin'd  for- 
tunes. — 

Cast  from  thine  high-born  brows  that 
peasant  bonnet. 

Throw  from  thy  noble  grasp  the  peas- 
ant's staff  — 

O'er  all,  withdraw  thine  hand  from  that 
mean  mate. 

Whom  in  an  hour  of  reckless  despera- 
tion 

Thy  fortunes  cast  thee  on.     This  do, 

And  be  as  great  as  e'er  was  Devorgoil, 

When  Devorgoil  was  richest ! 

Dur.   Lord  Oswald,  thou  art  tempted 
by  a  fiend,  ' 

Who  doth  assail  thee  on  thy  weakest 
side,  — 

Thy  pride  of  lineage,  and  thy  love  ol 
grandeur. 

Stand  fast — resist — contemn  his    fatal 
offers ! 
Ele.  Urge    him    not,    father;    if    the 
sacrifice 

Of  such  a  wasted  woe-worm  wretch  as  I 
am 

Can  save  him  from  the  abyss  of  misery, 

Upon  whose  verge  he's  tottering,  let  me 
wander 

An  unacknowledged  outcast  from  his 
castle. 

Even  to  the  humble  cottage  I  was  born 
in. 
Osw.  No,  Ellen,  no  —  it  is  not  thus 
they  part, 

Whose  hearts  and  souls,  disasters  borne 
in  common 

Have  knit  together,  close  as  summer 
saplings 

Are  twined  in  union  by  the  eddying  tem- 
pest. — 

Spirit  of  Erick,  while  thou  bear'st  his 
shape, 

I'll  answer  with  no  ruder  conjuration 

Thy  impious  counsel,  other  than  with 
these  words. 

Depart,  and  tempt  me  not ! 

Eri.  Then  Fate  will  have  her  course.  — 
Fall,  massive  grate. 

Yield  them  the  tempting  view  of  these 
rich  treasures. 

But  bar  them  from  possession  !  {A  port- 
cullis falls  before  the  door  of  the  Treas- 
ure-Chamber.)    Mortals,  hear! 


6i4 


DRAMATIC  PIECES. 


Act  III.  Scene  IV. 


No  hand  may  ope  that  gate,  except  the 

heir 
Of    plunder'd   Aglionby,  whose   mighty 

wealth, 
Ravish'd  in  evil  hour,  lies  yonder  piled; 
And  not  his  hand  prevails  without  the 

key 
Of   Black  Lord  Erick.     Brief   space   is 

given 
To  save  proud  Devorgoil  —  so  wills  high 

Heaven.    [  Thunder  ;  he  disappears. 
DUR.  Gaze  not  so  wildly;   you  have 

stood  the  trial 
That  his  commission  bore,  and  Heaven 

designs, 
If  I  may  spell  his  will,  to  rescue  Devor- 
goil 
Even  by  the  Heir  of  Aglionby  —  Behold 

him 
In  that  young  forester,  unto  whose  hand 
Those  bars  shall  yield  the   treasures  of 

his  house. 
Destined    to  ransom  yours. — Advance, 

young  Leonard, 
And  prove  the  adventure. 

Leo.    {^advances,    and     attempts    the 

grate).     It  is  fast 
As  is  the  tower,  rock-seated. 

Osw.  We  will  fetch  other  means,  and 

prove  its  strength. 
Nor  starve  in  poverty,  with  wealth  before 

us. 
DUR.  Think  what  the  vision  spoke; 
The  key  —  the  fated  -key 

Enter  GULLCRAMMER 

GUL.  A  key?  —  I  say  a  quay  is  what 

we  want. 
Thus  by   the    learn'd   orthographized  — 

Q,  u,  a,  y. 
The  lake  is  overflow 'd  !  —  a  quay,  a  boat, 
Oars,  punt,  or  sculler,  is  all  one  to  me  !  — 
We  shall  be  drown'd,  good  people ! ! ! 

Enter  Katleen  and  Blackthorn. 

Kat.  Deliver  us  ! 

Haste,  save  yourselves — the  lake  is  ris- 
ing fast. 
Bla.   'T  has  risen  my  bow's  height  in 
the  last  five  minutes, 
And  still  is  swelling  strangely. 

GuL.    (  %vho  has  stood  astonished  upon 
seeing  t/iem)  — 


We  shall  be  drown'd  without  your  kind 

assistance. 
Sweet  Master  Owlspiegle,  your  dragon- 

fly- 
Your    straw,    your     bean-stalk,    gentle 

Cockle'moy ! 
Leo.    {looking from  the  shot-hole). 
'Tis  true,  by  all  that's  fearful.    The  proud 

lake 
Peers,    like    ambitious   tyrant,    o'er   his 

bounds. 
And  soon  will  whelm  the  castle  —  even 

the  drawbridge 
Is  under  water  now. 

Kat.  Let  us  escape  !     Why  stand  you 

gazing  there? 
DuR.  Upon  the  opening  of  that  fatal 

grate 
Depends  the  fearful  spell  that  now  en- 
traps us. 
The  key  of  Black  Lord  Erick  —  ere  we 

find  it. 
The  castle  will  be  whelm'd  beneath  the 

waves. 
And  we  shall  perish  in  it ! 

Kat.  {giving  the  key).     Here,  prove 

this: 
A  chance  most  strange  and  fearful  gave 

it  me. 

[OsvfAUD  puts  it  into  the  lock,  and 
attempts  to  turn  it —  a  loud  clap 
of  thunder. 

Flo.  Thelake still  risesfaster.  —  Leon, 
ard,  Leonard, 
Canst  thou  not  save  us  '. 

[  Leonard  tries  the  lock  —  it  open 
with  a  violent  noise,  and  th. 
Portcullis  rises.  A  loud  strain 
of  wild  music.  —  There  may  bi 
a  Chorus  here. 

[Oswald  enters  the  apartment, 
and  brings  out  a  scroll. 

Leo.  The  lake  is  ebbing  with  as  won 

drous  haste 

As  late  it  rose  —  the  drawbridge  is  lef^ 

dry! 

Osw.  This  may  explain  the  cause  — 

(Gullcrammer  offers  to  take  it.)     But 

soft  you,  sir. 
We'll  not  disturb  your  learning  for  the 
matter; 


AUCHINDRANE. 


6iS 


Yet,  since  you've  borne  a  part  in  this 

strange  drama, 
You  shall  not  go  unguerdon'd.     Wise  or 

learn'd, 
Modest  or  gentle,  Heaven  alone  can  make 

thee, 
Being  so  much  otherwise;  but  from  this 

abundance 
Thou   shalt   have    that    shall    gild   thine 

ignorance. 
Exalt  thy  base  descent,  make  thy  pre- 
sumption 
Seem  modest  confidence,  and  find  thee 

hundreds 
Ready  to  swear  that  same  fool's  cap  of 

thine 
Is  reverend  as  a  mitre. 

Gull.  Thanks,  mighty  baron,  now  no 

more  a  bare  one  ! 
I  will   be  quaint  with   him,   for   all  his 

quips.  \^Aside. 

Osvv.   Nor  shall  kind  Katleen  lack 
Her  portion  in  our  happiness. 


Kat.  Thanks,  my  good  lord,  but  Kat- 
leen's  fate  is  fix'd  — 
There  is  a  certain  valiant  forester, 
Too   much    afear'd    of  ghosts   to  sleep 

anights 
In  his  lone  cottage,  without  one  to  guard 
him.  — 
Leo.  If  I  forget  my  comrade's  faithful 
friendship, 
May  I  be  lost  to  fortune,  hope,  and  love ! 
DUR.   Peace,  all !  and  hear  the  bless- 
ing which  this  scroll 
Speaks  unto    faith,   and    constancy,  and 
virtue :  — 

"No  more  this  castle's  troubled  guest. 
Dark  Erick's  spirit  hath  found  rest. 
The  storms  of  angry  Fate  are  past. 
For  Constancy  defies  their  blast. 
Of  Devorgoil  the  daughter  free 
Shall  wed  the  heir  of  Aglionby; 
Nor  ever  more  dishonor  soil 
The  rescued  house  of  Devorgoil ! ' ' 


AUCHINDRANE;  OR,  THE  AYRSHIRE  TRAGEDY. 


Cur  aliquid  vidi  ?  cur  noxia  lumina  feci ! 
Cur  imprudenti  cognita  culpa  mihi  est  ? 

Ovidii  Tristium,  Liber  Secundus. 


PREFACE. 

There  is  not  perhaps,  upyon  record,  a  tale  of  horror  which  gives  us  a  more  perfect  pic- 
ture than  is  afforded  by  the  present,  of  the  violence  of  our  ancestors,  or  the  complicated 
crimes  into  which  they  were  hurried,  by  what  their  wise,  but  ill-enforced,  laws  termed  the 
heathenish  and  accursed  practice  of  Deadly  Feud.  The  author  has  tried  to  extract  some 
dramatic  scenes  out  of  it  ;  but  he  is  conscious  no  exertions  of  his  can  increase  the  horror 
of  that  which  is  in  itself  so  iniquitous.  Yet,  if  we  look  at  modern  events,  we  must  not 
too  hastily  venture  to  conclude  that  our  own  times  have  so  much  the  suf)eriority  over 
former  days  as  we  might  at  first  be  tempted  to  infer.  Our  great  object  lias  been  obtained. 
The  power  of  the  laws  extends  over  the  country  universally,  and  if  criminals  at  present 
sometimes  escape  punishment,  this  can  only  be  by  eluding  justice,  —  not,  as  of  old,  by 
defying  it. 

But  the  motives  which  influence  modern  ruffians  to  commit  actions  at  which  we  pause 
with  wonder  and  horror,  arise,  in  a  great  measure,  from  the  thirst  of  gain.  For  the  hof)e 
of  lucre,  we  have  seen  a  wretch  seduced  to  his  fate,  under  the  pretext  that  he  was  to  share 
in  amusement  and  convivialitv  :  and,  for  gold,  we  have  seen  the  meanest  of  wretches 
deprived  of  life,  and  their  miserable  remains  cheated  of  the  grave. 


6i6  PREFACE    TO 

The  loftier,  if  equally  cruel,  feelings  of  pride,  ambition,  and  love  of  vengeance,  were 
the  idols  of  our  forefathers,  while  tlie  caitiffs  of  our  city  lx;nd  to  Mammon,  the  meanest  of 
the  spirits  who  fell.  The  criminals,  tlierefore,  of  former  times,  drew  their  hellish  inspira- 
tion from  a  loftier  source  than  is  known  to  modern  villains.  The  fever  of  unsated  ambi- 
tion, the  frenzy  of  imgratified  revenge,  the  fc>fcn<idu)>i  inQcnium  Scotoritm,  stigmatized 
by  our  jurists  and  our  legislators,  held  life  but  as  passing  breath  ;  and  such  enormities  as 
now  sound  like  tiie  acts  of  a  madman,  were  tlien  the  familiar  deeds  of  every  offended 
noble.     With  these  observations  we  proceed  to  our  story. 

John  Muir,  or  Mure,  of  Auciiiiidrane,  the  contriver  and  executor  of  the  following 
cruelties,  was  a  gentleman  of  an  ancient  family  and  a  good  estate  in  the  west  of  Scotland ; 
bold,  ambitious,  treaciierous  to  tiie  last  degree,  and  utterly  unconscientious,  —  a  Richard 
the  Third  in  private  life,  inaccessible  alike  to  pity  and  remorse.  Mis  view  was  to  raise  the 
power  and  extend  tlie  grandeur  of  liis  own  family.  This  gentleman  had  married  the  daugh- 
ter of  Sir  Thomas  Kennedy  of  Barganie,  wiio  was,  excepting  the  liarl  of  Cassilis,  the  most 
important  person  in  all  Carrick,  the  district  of  Ayrshire  which  he  inhabited,  and  where  tlie 
name  of  Kennedy  held  so  great  a  sway  as  to  give  rise  to  the  popular  rhyme ;  — 

"  'Twixt  Wigton  niul  the  town  of  Air, 
Portiiatrick  and  the  Cruives  of  Cree, 
No  man  need  think  for  to  bide  there, 
Unless  he  court  .Saint  Kennedie." 

Now,  Mure  of  Auchindrane,  who  had  promised  himself  high  advancement  by  means  of 
his  father-in-law,  Barganie,  saw,  with  envy  and  resentment,  tliat  his  intiuence  remained 
second  and  inferior  to  tlie  House  of  Cassilis,  chief  of  all  the  Kennedys.  The  Earl  was 
indeed  a  minor,  but  his  authority  was  maintained,  and  his  affairs  well  managed,  by  his 
uncle,  .Sir  Thomas  Kennedy  of  CuUayne,  tlie  brother  of  the  deceased  Earl,  and  tutor  and 
guardian  to  the  present.  This  worthy  gentleman  supported  his  nephew's  dignity  and  the 
credit  of  the  house  so  effectually,  that  IJarganie's  consequence  was  much  thrown  into  the 
shade,  and  the  ambitious  Auchindrane,  his  son-in-law,  saw  no  better  remedy  than  to 
remove  so  formidable  a  rival  as  CuUayne  by  violent  means. 

For  this  purpose,  in  the  year  of  Clod  1597,  he  came  with  a  party  of  followers  to  the 
town  of  Maybole  (where  .Sir  Tiiomas  Kennedy  of  CuUayne  then  resided),  and  lay  in  am- 
bush in  an  orchard,  through  which  he  knew  his  destined  victim  was  to  pass,  in  returning 
homewards  from  a  house  where  he  was  engaged  to  sup.  Sir  Thomas  Kennedy  came 
alone,  and  unattended,  when  he  was  suddenly  lired  upon  by  .Auchindrane  and  his  accom- 
plices, who,  having  missed  their  aim,  drew  their  swords,  and  rushed  upon  him  to  slay 
him.  But  the  party  thus  assailed  at  disadvantage,  had  the  good  fortune  to  hide  himself 
for  that  time  in  a  ruinous  house,  where  he  lay  concealed  till  the  inhabitants  of  the  place 
came  to  his  assistance. 

Sir  Thomas  Kennedy  prosecuted  Mure  for  this  assault,  who,  finding  himself  in  danger 
from  the  law,  made  a  sort  of  apology  and  agreement  with  the  Eord  of  CuUayne,  to  whose 
daughter  he  united  his  eldest  son,  in  testimony  of  the  closest  friendship  in  the  futute. 
This  agreement  was  sincere  on  the  part  of  Kennedy,  who,  after  it  had  been  entered  into, 
showed  hiiTiself  .Auchindrane's  friend  and  assistant  on  all  occasions.  But  it  was  most 
false  and  treacherous  on  that  of  Mure,  who  continued  to  nourish  the  purpose  of  murdering 
his  new  friend  and  ally  on  the  first  opportunity. 

Auchindrane's  first  attempt  to  effect  this  was  by  means  of  the  young  Gilbert  Kenneay 
of  Barganie  (the  old  Barganie,  .\iichindrane's  father-in-law,  was  dead),  vvhom  he  persuaded 
to  brave  the  Earl  of  Cassilis,  as  one  who  usurped  an  undue  influence  over  the  rest  of  the 
name.  Accordingly,  the  hot-headed  youth,  at  the  instigation  of  Auchindrane.  rode  past 
the  gate  of  the  Earl  of  Cassilis,  without  waiting  on  his  chief,  or  sending  him  any  message 
of  civility.  This  led  to  mutual  defiance,  being  regarded  by  the  Earl,  according  to  the 
ideas  of  the  time,  as  a  personal  insult.  Both  parties  took  the  field  with  their  followers,  at 
the  head  of  about  two  hundred  and  fifty  men  on  each  side.  Barganie,  with  the  rashness  of 
headlong  courage,  and  .\uchindrane,  fired  by  deadly  enmity  to  the  House  of  Cassilis, 
made  a  precipitate  attack  on  the  Earl,  whose  men  were  strongly  posted,  and  under  cover. 
They  were  received  by  a  heavy  fire.  Barganie  was  slain.  Mure  of  Auchindrane,  severely 
wounded  in  the  thigh,  liecame  unable  to  sit  his  horse,  and,  the  leaders  thus  slain  or 
disabled,  their  party  drew  off  without  continuing  the  action.  It  must  lie  particularly 
observed,  that  Sir  Thomas  Kennedy  remained  neuter  in  this  quarrel,  considering  his  con 


AUCHINDRANE.  6j7 

nection  with  Auchindrane  as  too  intimate  to  be  broken  even  by  his  desire  to  assist  his 
nephew. 

For  this  temperate  and  honorable  conduct  he  met  a  vile  reward ;  for  Auchindrane,  in 
resentment  of  tlie  loss  of  his  relative  Barganie,  and  the  downfall  of  his  ambitious  hopes, 
continued  his  practices  against  the  life  of  Sir  Thomas  of  Cullayne,  though  totally  innocent 
of  contributing  to  either.     Chance  favored  his  wicked  purpose. 

The  Knight  of  Cullayne,  (inding  himself  obliged  to  goto  Edinburgh  on  a  particular 
day,  sent  a  message  by  a  servant  to  Mure,  in  which  he  told  him,  in  the  most  unsuspecting 
confidence,  the  purpose  of  his  journey,  and  named  the  road  which  he  proposed  to  take, 
inviting  Mure  to  meet  him  at  Duppill,  to  the  west  of  the  town  of  Ayr,  a  place  appointed, 
for  the  purpose  of  giving  him  any  commissions  which  he  might  have  for  Edinburgh,  and 
assuring  his  treacherous  ally  he  would  attend  to  any  business  which  he  might  have  in  the 
Scottish  metropolis  as  anxiously  as  to  his  own.  Sir  Thomas  Kennedy's  message  was 
carried  to  the  town  of  Maybole,  where  his  messenger,  for  some  trivial  reason,  had  the 
impost  committed  to  writing  by  a  schoolmaster  in  that  town,  and  despatched  it  to  its 
destination  by  means  of  a  poor  student,  named  Dalrymple,  instead  of  carrying  it  to  the 
house  of  Auchindrane  in  person. 

This  suggested  to  Mure  a  diabolical  plot.  Having  thus  received  tidings  of  .Sir  Thomas 
Kennedy's  motions,  lie  conceived  the  infernal  purpose  of  having  the  conhding  friend  who 
sent  the  information,  waylaid  and  murdered  at  the  place  appointed  to  meet  with  him,  not 
only  in  friendship,  but  for  the  purpose  of  rendering  him  service.  He  dismissed  the  mes 
senger  Dalrymple,  cautioning  the  lad  to  carry  back  the  letter  to  Maybole,  and  to  say  thai 
he  had  not  found  him,  Auchindrane,  in  his  house.  Having  taken  this  precaution,  he 
proceeded  to  instigate  the  brother  of  the  slain  Gilbert  of  Barganie,  Thomas  Kennedy  of 
Drumurghie  by  name,  and  Walter  Mure  of  Cloncaird,  a  kinsman  of  his  own,  to  take  this 
opportunity  of  revenging  Barganie's  death,  'i'he  fiery  young  men  were  easily  induced  t'^ 
undertake  the  crime.  They  waylaid  the  unsuspecting  Sir  Thomas  of  Cullayne  at  the 
place  appointed  to  meet  the  traitor  Auchindrane,  and  the  murderers  having  in  company 
five  or  six  servants,  well  mounted  and  armed,  assaulted  and  cruelly  murdered  him  with 
many  wounds.  They  then  plundered  the  dead  corpse  of  his  purse,  containing  a  thousand 
nierks  in  gold,  cut  off  the  gold  buttons  which  he  wore  on  his  coat,  and  despoiled  the  body 
of  some  valuable  rings  and  jewels. 

The  revenge  due  for  his  uncle's  murder  was  keenly  pursued  by  the  Earl  of  Cassilis. 
As  the  murderers  fled  from  trial,  they  were  declared  outlaws  :  which  doom,  being  pro- 
nounced by  three  blasts  of  a  horn,  was  called  "  being  put  to  the  horn,  and  declared  the 
king's  rebel."  Mure  of  Auchindrane  was  strongly  susix-ctcd  of  having  been  the  instigator 
of  the  crime.  But  he  conceived  there  could  be  no  evidence  to  prove  his  guilt  if  he  could 
keep  the  boy  Dalrymple  out  of  the  way,  who.delivered  the  letter  which  made  him  acquainted 
.with  Cullayne's  journey,  and  the  place  at  which  he  meant  to  halt.  On  the  contrary,  he 
saw,  that  if  the  lad  could  be  produced  at  the  trial,  it  would  afford  ground  of  fatal  presump- 
tion, since  it  could  be  then  proved  that  persons  so  nearly  connected  with  him  as  Kennedy 
and  Cloncaird  had  left  his  house,  and  committed  the  murder  at  the  very  spot  which 
Cullayne  had  fixed  for  their  meeting.  . 

To  avoid  this  imminent  danger.  Mure  brought  Dalrymple  to  his  house,  and  detained 
him  there  for  several  weeks.  But  the  youth  tiring  of  this  confinement.  Mure  sent  him  to 
reside  with  a  friend,  Montgomery  of  Skellmorly,  who  maintained  him  under  a  borrowed 
name,  amid  the  desert  regions  of  the  then  almost  savage  island  of  Arran.  Being  confi- 
dent in  the  absence  of  this  material  witness,  Auchindrane,  instead  of  flymg,  like  his  agents 
Drumurghie  and  Cloncaird,  presented  himself  boldly  at  the  bar,  demanded  a  fair  trial, 
and  offered  his  person  in  combat  to  the  death  against  any  of  I.ord  Cassihs's  friends  \yho 
might  impugn  his  innocence.  This  audacity  was  successful,  and  he  was  dismissed  with- 
put  trial.  _,  ,  ,  .... 

Still,  however.  Mure  did  not  consider  himself  safe,  so  long  as  Dalrymple  was  within 
the  realm  of  Scotland  ;  and  the  danger  grew  more  pressing  when  he  learned  that  the  lad 
had  become  impatient  of  the  restraint  which  he  sustained  in  the  island  of  Arran,  and 
returned  to  some  of  his  friends  in  Ayrshire.  Mure  no  sooner  heard  of  this  than  he  again 
obtained  possession  of  the  boy's  person,  and  a  second  time  concealed  hini  at  .Auchindrane, 
until  he  found  an  opportunity  to  transport  him  to  the  Low  Countries,  where  he  contrived 
to  have  him  enlisted  in  Buccleuch's  regiment,  trusting,  doubtless,  that  some  one  of  the 
numerous  chances  of  war  might  destroy  the  poor  young  man  whose  life  was  so  dangerous 
to  him. 


6i8  PREFACE    TO 

\ 

But  after  five  or  six  years'  uncertain  safety,  bought  at  the  expense  of  so  much  violence 
and  cunning,  Auchindrane's  fears  were  exasperated  into  frenzy,  when  he  found  this  dan- 
gerous witness,  having  escaped  from  all  the  {Xjrils  of  climate  and  battle,  had  left,  or  been 
discharged  from,  the  Legion  of  Borderers,  and  had  again  accomplished  his  return  to  Ayr- 
shire. There  is  ground  to  suspect  that  Dalrymple  knew  the  nature  of  the  hold  which  he 
possessed  over  Auchindrane,  and  was  desirous  of  extorting  from  his  fears  some  better  pro- 
vision than  he  had  found  either  in  Arran  or  the  Netiierlands.  But  if  so,  it  was  a  fatal 
experiment  to  tamper  with  tlie  fears  of  such  a  man  as  Auchindrane,  who  determined  to  rid 
himself  effectually  of  this  unhappy  young  man. 

Mure  now  lodged  him  in  a  house  of  his  own,  called  Chapeldonan,  tenanted  by  a  vassal 
and  connection  of  his,  called  James  Bannatyne.  This  man  he  commissioned  to  meet  him 
at  ten  o'clock  at  night  on  the  sea-sands  near  Girvan,  and  bring  with  him  the  unfortunate 
Dalrymple,  the  object  of  his  fear  and  dread.  The  victim  seems  to  have  come  with  Banna- 
tyne without  the  least  suspicion,  though  such  might  have  been  raised  by  the  time  and 
place  appointed  for  the  meeting.  When  Bannatyne  and  Dalrymple  came  to  the  appointed 
spot,  Auchindrane  met  them,  accompanied  by  his  eldest  son,  James.  Old  Auchindrane, 
having  taken  Bannatyne  aside,  imparted  his  bloody  purpose  of  ridding  himself  of  Dal- 
rymple forever,  by  murdering  him  on  the  spot.  His  own  life  and  honor  were,  he  said, 
endangered  by  the  manner  in  which  this  inconvenient  witness  repeatedly  thrust  himself 
back  into  Ayrshire,  and  nothing  could  secure  his  safety  but  taking  the  lad's  life,  in  which 
action  he  requested  James  Bannatyne's  assistance.  Bannatyne  felt  some  compunction, 
and  remonstrated  against  the  cruel  expedient,  saying,  it  would  be  better  to  transport 
Dalrymple  to  Ireland,  and  take  precautions  against  his  return.  While  old  Auchindrane 
seemed  disposed  to  listen  to  this  proposal,  his  son  concluded  that  the  time  was  come  for 
accomplishing  the  purpose  of  their  meeting,  and  without  waiting  the  termination  of  his 
father's  conference  with  Bannatyne,  he  rushed  suddenly  on  Dalrymple,  beat  him  to  the 
ground,  and,  kneeling  down  on  him,  with  his  father's  assistance  accomplished  the  crime 
by  strangling  the  unhappy  object  of  their  fear  and  jealousy.  Bannatyne,  the  witness,  and 
partly  the  accomplice,  of  the  murder,  assisted  them  in  their  attempt  to  make  a  hole  in  the 
sand,  with  a  spade  which  they  had  brought  on  purpose,  in  order  to  conceal  the  dead  body. 
But  as  the  tide  was  coming  in,  the  hole  which  they  made  filled  with  water  before  they 
could  get  the  body  buried,  and  tlie  ground  seemed  to  their  terrified  consciences  to  refuse 
to  be  accessory  to  concealing  their  crime.  Despairing  of  hiding  the  corpse  in  the  manner 
they  proposed,  the  nuii-derers  carried  it  out  into  the  sea  as  deep  as  they  dared  wade,  and 
there  abandoned  it  to  the  billows,  trusting  that  a  wind,  which  was  blowing  off  the  shore, 
would  drive  these  remains  of  their  crime  out  to  sea,  where  they  would  never  more  be  heard 
of.  But  the  sea,  as  well  as  the  land,  seemed  unwilling  to  conceal  their  cruelty.  After 
floating  for  some  hours,  or  days,  the  dead  body  was,  by  the  wind  and  tide,  again  driven  on 
shore,  near  the  very  spot  where  the  murder  had  been  committed. 

This  attracted  general  attention,  and  when  the  corpse  was  known  to  be  that  of  the 
same  William  Dalrymple  whom  .\uchindrane  had  so  often  spirited  out  of  the  country,  or 
concealed  when  he  was  in  it,  a  strong  and  general  suspicion  arose,  that  this  young  person 
had  met  with  foul  play  from  the  bold,  bad  man  who  had  shown  himself  so  much  interested  in 
his  absence.  It  was  always  said  or  supposed,  that  the  dead  body  had  bled  at  the  approach 
of  a  grandchild  of  Mure  of  .Auchindrane,  a  girl  who,  from  curiosity,  had  come  to  look  at 
a  sight  which  others  crowded  to  see.  The  bleeding  of  the  murdered  corpse  at  the  touch 
of  the  murderer,  was  a  thing  at  that  time  so  much  believed,  that  it  was  admitted  as  a  proof 
of  guilt ;  but  I  know  no  case,  save  that  of  Auchindrane,  in  which  the  phenomenon  was 
supposed  to  be  e.xtended  to  the  approach  of  the  innocent  kindred ;  nor  do  I  think  that  the 
fact  itself,  though  mentioned  by  ancient  lawyers,  was  ever  admitted  to  proof  in  the  pro- 
ceedings against  Auchindrane. 

It  is  certain,  however,  that  Auchindrane  found  himself  so  much  the  object  of  suspicion 
from  this  new  crime,  that  he  resolved  to  fly  from  justice,  and  suffer  himself  to  be  declared 
a  rebel  and  outlaw  rather  than  face  a  trial.  But  his  conduct  in  preparing  to  cover  his 
flight  with  another  motive  than  the  real  one,  is  a  curieus  picture  of  the  men  and  manners 
of  the  times.  He  knew  well  that  if  he  were  to  shun  his  trial  for  the  murder  of  Dalrymple, 
the  whole  country  would  consider  him  as  a  man  guilty  of  a  mean  and  disgraceful  crime  in 
putting  to  death  an  obscure  lad,  against  whom  he  had  no  personal  quarrel.  He  knew, 
besides,  that  his  powerful  friends,  who  would  have  interceded  for  him  had  his  offence  been 
merely  burning  a  house,  or  killing  a  neighbor,  would  not  plead  for  or  stand  by  him  in  so 
pitiful  a  concern  as  the  slaughter  of  this  wretched  wanderer 


AUCH/NDRA.YE. 


619 


Accordingly,  Mure  sought  to  provide  himself  with  some  ostensible  cause  for  avoidine 
law,  with  which  the  feelings  of  his  kindred  and  friends  might  sympathize ;  and  none 
occurred  to  hini  so  natural  as  an  assault  upon  some  friend  and  adherent  of  the  Earl  of 
Cassihs.  Should  he  kill  such  a  one,  it  would  be  indeed  an  unlawful  action,  but  so  far  from 
being  infamous,  would  be  accounted  the  natural  consequence  of  the  avowed  quarrel  be- 
tween the  families.  Witii  this  purpose,  Mure,  with  the  assistance  of  a  relative,  of  whom 
he  seems  always  to  have  had  some  ready  to  e.\ecute  his  worst  purposes,  beset  Hugh  Ken- 
nedy of  Garriehorne,  a  follower  of  the  Earls,  against  whom  they  had  especial  ill-will  fired 
their  pistols  at  him,  and  usetl  other  means  to  put  him  to  death.  Dut  Garriehorne,  a  stout- 
hearted man,  and  well  armed,  defended  himself  in  a  very  different  manner  from  the  unfor- 
tunate Knight  of  Cullayne,  and  beat  off  the  assailants,  wounding  young  Auchindrane  in 
the  right  iiand,  so  that  he  well-nigh  lost  the  use  of  it. 

But  though  .\uchindrane"s  purpose  did  not  entirely  succeed,  he  availed  himself  of  it  to 
circulate  a  report,  that  if  he  could  obtain  a  pardon  for  firing  upon  a  feudal  enemy  with 
pistols,  weapons  declared  unlawful  by  Act  of  Parliament,  he  would  willingly  stand  his 
trial  for  the  death  of  Dalrymple,  respecting  which  he  protested  his  total  innocence.  The 
King,  however,  was  decidedly  of  opinion  that  the  Mures,  both  father  and  son,  were  alike 
guilty  of  both  crimes,  and  used  intercession  with  the  Earl  of  Abercorn,  as  a  person  of 
power  in  those  western  counties,  as  well  as  in  Ireland,  to  arrest  and  transmit  them  pris- 
oners to  Edinburgh.  In  consequence  of  the  EarPs  exertions,  old  Auchindrane  was  made 
prisoner,  and  lodged  in  the  tolbooth  of  Edinburgh. 

Young  .Auchindrane  no  sooner  heard  that  liis  father  was  in  custody,  than  he  became  as 
apprehensive  of  Bannatyne  (the  accomplice  of  Dalryniple's  murder)  telling  tales,  as  ever 
his  father  had  been  of  Dalrymple.  He  therefore  hastened  to  him,  and  prevailed  on  him  to 
pass  over  for  a  while  to  the  neighboring  coast  of  Ireland,  finding  him  money  and  means 
to  accomplish  the  voyage,  and  engaging  in  the  mean  time  to  take  care  of  his  affairs  in 
Scotland.  Secure,  as  tliey  thought,  in  this  precaution,  old  .Auchindrane  persisted  in  his 
innocence,  and  his  son  found  security  to  stand  his  trial.  Both  apjjeared  with  the  same 
confidence  at  the  day  appointed,  and  braved  the  public  justice,  hoping  to  be  put  to  a 
formal  trial,  in  which  Auchindrane  reckoned  upon  an  acquittal  for  want  of  the  evidence 
which  he  had  removed.  The  trial  was,  however,  postponed,  and  Mure  the  elder  was  dis- 
missed, under  high  security  to  return  when  called  for. 

But  King  James,  being  convinced  of  the  guilt  of  the  accused,  ordered  young  Auchin- 
drane, instead  of  being  sent  to  trial,  to  be  examined  under  the  force  of  torture,  in  order  to 
compel  him  to  tell  whatever  he  knew  of  the  things  charged  against  hiin.  He  was  accor- 
dingly severely  tortured  ;  but  the  result  only  served  to  show  that  such  examinations  are  as 
useless  as  they  are  cruel.  .A  man  of  weak  resolution,  or  of  a  nervous  habit,  would  prob- 
ably have  assented  to  any  confession,  however  false,  rather  than  have  endured  the  extremity 
of  fear  and  pain  to  which  Mure  was  subjected.  But  young  Auchindrane,  a  strong  and 
determined  ruffian,  endured  the  torture  with  the  utmost  firmness,  and  by  the  constant 
audacity  with  which,  in  spite  of  the  intolerable  pain,  he  continued  to  assert  his  innocence, 
he  spread  so  favorable  an  opinion  of  his  case,  that  the  detaining  him  in  prison,  instead 
of  bringing  him  to  ojjen  trial,  was  censured  as  severe  and  oppressive.  James,  however, 
remained  firmly  persuaded  of  his  guilt,  and  by  an  e.xertion  of  authority  quite  inconsis- 
tent with  our  present  laws,  commanded  young  Auchindrane  to  be  still  detained  in  close 
custody  till  further  light  could  be  thrown  on  these  dark  proceedings.  He  was  detained 
accordingly  by  the  King's  express  personal  command,  and  against  the  opinion  even  of  his 
privy  councillors.     This  exertion  of  authority  was  much  murmured  against. 

In  the  meanwhile,  old  Auchindrane,  being,  as  we  have  seen,  at  liberty  on  pledges, 
skulked  about  in  the  west  feeling  how  little  security  he  had  gained  by  Dalrymple's  murder, 
and  that  he  had  placed  himself  by  that  crime  in  tiie  power  of  Bannatyne,  whose  evidence 
concerning  the  death  of  Dalrymple  could  not  be  less  fatal  than  what  Dalrymple  might 
have  told  concerning  .Auchindrane'S  accession  to  the  conspiracy  against  Sir  Thomas  Ken- 
nedy of  Cullayne.  But  though  the  event  had  shown  the  error  of  his  wicked  policy,  .Auch- 
indrane could  think  of  no  better  mode  in  this  case  than  that  which  had  failed  in  relation 
to  Dalrymple.  When  any  man's  life  became  inconsistent  with  his  own  safety,  no  idea 
seems  to  have  occurred  to  this  inveterate  ruffian,  save  to  murder  the  person  by  whom  he 
might  himself  be  in  any  way  endangered.  He  therefore  attempted  the  Ufe  of  James  Ban- 
natyne by  more  agents  than  one.  Nay.  he  had  nearly  ripened  a  plan  by  which  one  Penny- 
cuke  was  to  be  employed  to  slav  Bannatyne,  while,  after  the  deed  was  done,  it  was  devised 
that  Mure  of  Auchnull,  a  connection  of  Bannatyne,  should  be  instigated  to  slay  Penny- 


620  PREFACE   TO 

cuke ;  and  thus  close  up  the  train  of  murders  by  one,  which,  flowing  in  the  ordinary 
course  of  deadly  feud,  should  have  nothing  in  it  so  particular  as  to  attract  much 
attention. 

But  the  justice  of  Heaven  would  bear  this  complicated  train  of  iniquity  no  longer. 
Bannatyne,  knowing  with  what  sort  of  men  he  had  to  deal,  kept  on  his  guard,  and  by  his 
caution  disconcerted  more  than  one  attempt  to  take  his  life,  while  anotlier  miscarried  by 
the  remorse  of  Pennycuke,  the  agent  whom  Mure  employed.  At  lengtii  Baimatyne,  tiring 
of  this  state  of  insecurity,  and  in  despair  of  escaping  such  repeated  plots,  and  also  feeling 
remorse  for  the  crime  to  which  he  had  been  acccr^ory,  resolved  rather  to  submit  himself 
to  the  severity  of  the  law,  than  remain  the  object  of  the  principal  criminal's  practices. 
He  surrendered  himself  to  tiie  Earl  of  Atercorn,  and  was  transported  to  Edinburgh,  where 
he  confessed  Ixjfore  the  King  and  council  all  the  particulars  of  tlie  murder  of  Dalrymple, 
and  the  attempt  to  hide  his  lx)dy  by  committing  it  to  the  sea. 

When  Bannatyne  was  cifronted  with  the  two  Mures  lx;fore  the  Privy  Council,  they 
denied  with  vehemence  every  part  of  the  evidence  he  had  given,  and  affirmed  that  the  wit- 
ness had  Ijeen  bribed  to  destroy  them  by  a  false  tale.  Hannatyne's  behavior  seemed  sincere 
and  simple,  tliat  of  .Auchindrane  more  resolute  and  crafty.  The  wretched  accomplice  fell 
upon  his  knees,  invoking  God  to  witness  that  all  the  land  in  .Scotland  could  not  have  bribed 
him  to  bring  a  false  accusation  against  a  master  whom  he  had  served,  loved,  and  followed 
in  so  many  dangers,  and  calling  upon  Auchindrane  to  honor  Ciod  by  confessing  the  crime 
he  had  committed.  Mure  the  elder,  on  the  other  hand,  boldly  replied,  tiiat  he  hoped  God 
would  not  so  far  forsake  him  as  to  permit  him  to  confess  a  crime  of  which  he  was  innocent, 
and  exhorted  Bannatyne  in  his  turn  to  confess  the  practices  by  which  he  had  been  induced 
to  devise  such  falsehood  against  him. 

The  two  Mures,  father  and  son,  were  therefore  put  upon  their  solemn  trial  along  with 
Bannatyne,  in  1611,  and,  after  a  great  deal  of  evidence  had  Ix-en  brought  in  sup|K)rt  of  Ban 
natyne's  confession,  all  these  were  found  guilty.  The  elder  .Auciiindrane  was  convicted  of 
counselling  and  directing  tiie  murder  of  Sir  Thomas  Kennedy  of  Cullayne,  and  also  of  the 
actual  murder  of  the  lad  Dalrymple.  Bannatyne  and  the  young  Mure  were  found  guilty 
of  the  latter  crime,  and  all  three  were  sentenced  to  be  beheaded.  Bannatyne,  however,  the 
accomplice,  received  the  King's  pardon,  in  consequence  of  his  voluntary  surrender  and 
confession.  The  two  Mures  were  both  executed.  The  younger  was  affected  by  the  remon 
strances  of  the  clergy  wlio  attended  him,  and  he  confessed  the  guilt  of  which  he  was 
accused.  The  father,  also,  was  at  length  brought  to  avow  the  fact,  but  in  otlier  res- 
piects  died  as  impenitent  as  he  had  lived; — and  so  ended  this  dark  and  extraordinary 
tragedy. 

The  Lord  Advocate  of  the  day,  Sir  Thomas  Hamilton,  afterwards  successively  Earl  of 
Melrose  and  of  Haddington,  seems  to  have  busied  himself  much  in  drawing  up  a  state- 
ment of  this  foul  transaction,  for  the  purpose  of  vindicating  to  the  people  of  Scotland  the 
severe  course  of  justice  observed  by  King  James  VI.  He  assumes  the  task  in  a  high  tone 
of  prerogative  law,  and  on  the  whole,  seems  at  a  loss  whether  to  attribute  to  Providence, 
or  to  his  most  sacred  Majesty,  tlie  greatest  share  in  bringing  to  light  these  mysterious  vil 
lanies,  but  rather  inclines  to  the  latter  opinion.  There  is.  I  believe,  no  printed  copy  of 
the  intended  tract,  which  seems  never  to  have  been  publislied ;  but  the  curious  will  be 
enabled  to  judge  of  it,  as  it  appears  in  the  next  fasciculus  of  Mr.  Robert  Pitcairn's  very 
interesting  publications  from  the  Scottish  Criminal  Record. 

The  family  of  .Auchindrane  did  not  become  extinct  on  the  death  of  the  two  homicides. 
The  last  descendant  existed  in  the  eighteenth  century,  a  poor  and  distressed  man.  The 
following  anecdote  shows  that  he  had  a  strong  feeling  of  his  situation  ;  — 

Thjre  was  in  front  of  the  old  castle  a  huge  ash-tree,  called  the  Dule-tree  {mourning-tree) 
of  Auchindrana,  probably  because  it  was  the  place  where  the  baron  executed  the  criminals 
who  fell  under  his  jurisdiction.  It  is  descriljed  as  having  been  the  finest  tree  in  the  neigh- 
borhood. This  last  representative  of  the  family  of  .\uchindrane  had  the  misfortune  to  be 
arrested  for  payment  of  a  small  debt ;  and,  unable  to  discharge  it,  was  preparing  to  accom- 
pany the  messenger  (bailiff)  to  the  jail  of  Ayr.  The  servant  of  the  law  had  compassion 
for  his  prisoner,  and  offered  to  accept  of  this  remarkable  tree  as  of  value  adequate  to  the 
discharge  of  the  debt.  "  What,"  said  the  debtor,  "  sell  the  Dule-tree  of  Auchindrane.  I 
will  sooner  die  in  the  worst  dungeon  of  your  prison."  In  this  luckless  character  the  line 
of  Auchindrane  ended.  The  family,  blackened  with  the  crimes  of  its  predecessors,  became 
extinct,  and  the  estate  passed  into  other  hands. 


A  UCHIXDRANE. 


621 


DRAMATIS  PERSONM. 

John  Mure  of  Auchindrane,  an  Ayrshire  Baron.  He  has  been  a  follower  of  the 
Regent.  Earl  of  Morton,  during  the  Civil  Wars,  and  hides  an  oppressive,  ferocious, 
and  tiyiscr  up  ulcus  disposition,  under  some  pretences  to  strictness  of  life  atid  doctrine, 
which,  however,  ttever  influence  his  conduct.  He  is  in  danger  from  the  law,  awing  to 
his  having  been  formerly  active  in  the  assassination  of  the  Earl  of  Cassilis. 

Philip  Mure,  his  Son,  a  wild,  debauched  profligate,  professing  and  practising  a  contempt 
for  his  father's  hypocrisy,  while  he  is  as  fierce  and  licentious  as  Auchindrane  himself. 

GiFFORn,  their  Relation,  a  Courtier. 

QuF.NTiN  BLANE,rt  Youth,  educated  for  a  clergyman,  but  Sent  by  Auchindrane /<>  j^rw 
in  a  Band  of  Auxiliaries  in  the  wars  of  the  Netherlands,  and  lately  employed  as  Clerk 
or  Cotnpt roller  to  the  Regiment  —  disbanded,  however,  and  on  his  return  to  his  native 
Country.  He  is  of  a  mild,  gentle,  and  rather  feeble  character,  liable  to  be  influenced 
by  any  person  of  stronger  mind  who  will  take  the  trouble  to  direct  him.  He  is  sonu- 
what  of  a  nervous  temperament,  varying  from  sadness  to  gayety,  according  to  the  im- 
pulse of  the  moment ;  an  amiable  hypochondriac. 

HiLDEBRANP,  «  stout  old  Englishman,  who,  by  feats  of  courage,  has  raised  himself  to 
the  rank  of  Scrgeant-Major  (then  of  greater  consequence  than  at  present).  He,  too, 
has  been  disbanded,  but  cannot  bring  himself  to  believe  that  he  has  lost  his  command 
over  his  Resiment. 


Abraham, 
Williams, 
Jenkins, 
And  Others. 


Privates  dismissed  from  the  same  Regiment  in  which  Quentin  and 
Hildebrand  had  served.  These  are  mutinous,  and  are  much  disposed 
to  remember  former  quarrels  with  their  late  officers. 


Neil  MacLellan,  Keeper  of  Auchindrane  Forest  and  Game. 

Earl  of  Dunbar,  commanding  an  Army  as  Lieutenant  of  James  I,  for  execution  of 
Justice  on  Offenders. 

Guards,  Attendants,  etc.,  etc. 

Marion,  HT/iro/NEiL  MacLellan. 
Isabel,  their  daughter,  a  Girl  of  six  years  old. 
Other  Children  and  Peasant  Women. 


ACT  I. —Scene  I. 
A  rocky  Bay  on  the  Coast  of  Carrick,  in 
Ayrshire,  not  far  from  the  Point  of 
Tttrnberry.  The  sea  comes  in  upon 
a  hold,  rocky  Shore.  The  remains  of  a 
small  half-ruined  Tcnver  are  seen  on 
the  right  hand,  overhanging  the  sea. 
There  is  a  Vessel  at  a  distance  in  the 
offing.  A  Boat  at  the  bottom  of  the 
Stage  lands  eight  or  ten  persons,  dressed 
like  disbanded,  and  in  one  or  two 
eases  like  disabled.  Soldiers.  They 
come  straggling  for'ioard  with  their 
knapsacks  and  bundles.  IIlLDE- 
BRAND,  the  Sergeant  belonging  to  the 
party,  a  stout  elderly  man,  stands  by 
the  boat,  as  if  superintending  the 
disembarkation.  QuENTIN  remains 
apart. 


Abraham.  Farewell  the  flats  of  Hol- 
land, and  right  welcome 

The  cliffs  of  Scotland  !     Fare  thee  well, 
black  beer 

And  Schiedam  gin !  and  welcome  two- 
penny 

Oatcakes  and  usquebaugh. 

Williams  {who  wants  an  arm).  Fare- 
well the  gallant  field,  and  "  For- 
ward, pikemen !  " 

For  the  bridge-end,  the  suburb,  and  the 
lane  — 

And, "  Bless  your  honor,  noble  gentleman, 

Remember  a  poor  soldier !  " 

Abr.  My  tongue  shall  never  need  to 
smooth  itself 

To  such  poor  sounds,  while  it  can  boldly 
say, 

"  Stand  and  deliver !  " 


622 


DRAMATIC  PIECES. 


Act  I. 


WiU  Hush !  the  sergeant  hears  you. 
Abr.  And  let  him  hear;  he  makes  a 

bustle  yonder. 
And  dreams  of  his  authority,  foi^etting 
We  are  disbanded  men,  o'er  whom  his 

halberd 
Has  not  such  influence  as  the  beadle's 

baton. 
We  are  no  soldiers  now,  but  every  one 
The  lord  of  his  own  person. 

Wll_  A  wretched  lordship  —  and  our 

freedom  such 
As  that  of  the  old  cart-horse,  when  the 

owner 
Turns  him  upon  the  common.     I  for  one 
Will  still  continue  to  respect  the  sergeant. 
And  the  comptroller,  loo,  —  while  the 

cash  lasts. 
Abr.  I  scorn  them  both.     I  am  too 

stout  a  Scotsman 
To  bear  a  Southron's  rulean  instant  longer 
Than  discipline  obliges;  and  for  Quenlin, 
Quentin,    the    quillman,    Quentin,    the 

comptroller. 
We  have  no  regiment  now ;  or,  if  we  had, 
Quentin's  no  longer  clerk  to  it. 

WiL.  For  shame !  for  shame  !  —  What, 

shall  old  comrades  jar  thus. 
And  on  the  verge  of  parting,  and  for- 
ever?— 
Nay,  keep  thy  temper,  Abraham,  tho'  a 

bad  one. — 
Good  Master  Quentin,  let  thy  song  last 

night 
Give  us  once  more  our  welcome  to  old 

Scotland. 
Abr.  Ay,  they  sing  light  whose  task 

is  telling  money. 
When  dollars  clink  for  chorus. 

Que.  I've  done  with  counting  silver, 

honest  Abraham, 
As  thou,  I  fear,  with  pouching  thy  small 

share  on't. 
But  lend  your  voices,  lads,  and  I  will 

sing 
As  blithely  yet  as  if  a  town  were  won; 
As  if  upon  a  6eld  of  battle  gain'd. 
Oar  banners    waved   victorious.  —  {^He 

singif  and  the  reU  bear  chorus. ) 

SONG. 
Hither  we  come. 
Once  slaves  to  the  drum. 


But  no  longer  we  list  to  its  rattle; 
Adieu  to  the  wars, 
With  their  slashes  and  scars, 

The  march,  and  the  storm,  and  the  battle. 

There  are  some  of  us  maim'd. 

And  some  that  are  lamed. 
And  some  of  old  aches  are  complaining: 

But  we'll  take  up  the  tools. 

Which  we  flung  by  like  fools, 
'Gainst  Don  Spaniard  to  go  a-campaign- 
ing. 

Dick  Hawthorn  doth  vow 

To  return  to  the  plough. 
Jack  Steele  to  his  anvil  and  hammer; 

The  weaver  shall  find  room 

At  the  wight-wapping  loom. 
And  your  clerk  shall  teach  writing  and 
grammar. 

Abr.  And  this  is  all  that  thou  canst 

do,  gay  Quentin? 
To  swa^er  o'er  a  herd  of  parish  brats. 
Cut   cheese   or  dibble   onions  with   thy 

poniard. 
And  turn  the  sheath  into  a  ferula? 

Que.  I  am  the  prodigal  in  holy  wTit; 
I  cannot  work  —  to  beg  I  am  ashamed. 
Besides,  good  mates,  I  care  not  who  may 

know  it, 
I'm    e'en    as    fairly    tired    of  this  same 

fighting. 
As   the   poor  cur  that's  worried  in  the 

shambles 
By  all  the  mastiff  d<^  of  all  the  butchers ; 
Wherefore,  farewell  sword,  poniard,  pet- 

ronel. 
And  welcome  poverty,  and  peaceful  labor. 
Abr.    Clerk    Quentin,    if   of    fighting 

thou  art  tired. 
By  mv  good  word,  thou'rt  quickly  satis- 
fied, 
For  thou'st  seen  but  little  on't. 

Wii_  Thou  dost  belie   him  —  I    have 

seen  him  f^ht 
Bravely  enough  for  one  in  his  condition. 
Abr.  What!  he?  that  counter-casting, 

smock -faced  boy? 
What  was  he  but  the  colonel's  scribbling 

drudge. 
With  men  of  straw  to  stuff  the  regimeni 

roll; 


Scene  I. 


A  VCHINDRANE. 


«»3 


With  dpherings  unjust  to  cheat  his  com- 
rades, 

And   cloak   false  musters  for  our  noble 
captain? 

He  bid  farewell  to  sword  and  petronel ! 

He  should  have  said,  farewell  my  pen 
and  standish. 

These,  with  the  rosin  used  to  hide  era- 
sures. 

Were  the  best  friends  he  left  in  camp 
behind  him. 
Que.  The  sword  you  scoff  at  is  not 
far,  but  scorns 

The  threats  of  an  unmanner'd  mutineer. 
Ser.  {iniir poses).  We'll  have  no  brawl- 
ing. —  Shall  it  e'er  be  said. 

That  being  comrades  six  long  years  to- 
gether. 

While  gulping  down  the  frowsy  fogs  of 
Holland, 

We  lilted  at  each  other's  throats  so  soon 

As  the   first    draught   of   native   air   re- 
fresh'd  them? 

No !  by  Saint  Dunstan,  I  forbid  the  com- 
bat. 

You  all,  methinks,  do  know  this  trusty 
halberd; 

For  I  opine,  that  every  back  amongst  you 

Hath  felt  the  weight  of  the  tough  ashen 
staff, 

Endlong  or  overthwart.    Who  is  it  wishes 

.\  remembrancer  now  ?     (Raises  his  hal- 
berd.) 
.\br.  Comrades,  have  you  ears 

To  hear  the  old  man  bully?  —  eyes  to  see 

His  staff  rear'd  o'er  your  heads,  as  o'er 
the  hounds 

The  huntsman  cracks  his  whip? 

Wii^  Well  said! — stout  Abraham  has 
the  right  on't. — 

I  tell  thee,  sergeant,  we  do  reverence  thee. 

And  pardon  the  rash  humors  thou  hast 
caught. 

Like  wiser  men,  from  thy  authority. 

'Tis  ended,  howsoe'er,  and  well  not  suffer 

A  word  of  sergeantr)',  or  halberd-staff. 

Nor  the  most  pett)'  threat  of  discipline. 

If  thou  wilt  lay  aside  thy  pride  of  ofiBce, 

.\nd  drop  thy  wont  of  swaggering  and 
commanding. 

Thou  art  our  comrade  still  for  good  or  evil. 

Else  take  thy  course  apart,  or  i*ith  the 
clerk  there  — 


A  sergeant  thou,  and  he  being  all  thy  regi- 
ment. 
Ser.  Is't  come  to  this,  false  knaves? 
And  think  you  not. 
That  if  you  bear  a  name  o'er  other  sol- 
diers. 
It  was  because  you  follow'd  to  the  charge 
One  that  had  real  and  skill  enough  to 

lead  you 
Where  fame  was  won  by  danger? 

WiL.  We  grant  thy  skill   in  leading, 
noble  sergeant. 
Witness  some  empty  boots  and  sleeves 

amongst  us. 
Which  else  had  still  been  tenanted  with 

limbs 
In  the  full  quantity;  and  for  the  arguments 
With  which  you  used  to  back  our  resolu- 
tion. 
Our  shoulders  do  record  them.  At  a  word. 
Will  you  conform,  or  must  we  part  our 
company  ? 
Ser.  Conform  to  you  ?     Base  dogs !    I 
would  not  lead  you 
A  bolt-flight  farther  to  be  made  a  general. 
Mean  mutineers!    when  you  swill'd  off 

the  dregs 
Of  my  poor  sea-stores,  it  was:  —  "  NoMe 

Sergeant !  — 
Heaven  bless   old   Hildebrand!  —  we'll 

follow  him. 
At  least,  until  we  safely  see  him  lodged 
Within  the  merry  bounds  of  his  own  Ei^- 
land ! " 
Wll^  Ay,  truly,  sir;  but,  mark,  the  ale 
was  mighty. 
And  the  Geneva  potent.  Such  stout  liquor 
Makes  violent  protestations.      Skink  it 

round. 
If  you  have  any  left,  to  the  same  tune. 
And  we  may  find  a  chorus  for  it  still. 
Abr.  We  lose  our  time.  —  Tell  us  at 
once,  old  man. 
If  thou  wilt  march  with  us,  or  stay  with 
Quentin  ? 
Ser.  Out,  mutineers!     HHshonor  dog 

your  heels ! 
Abr.  Wilful  will  have  his  way.   Adieu, 
stout  Hildebrand ! 

[  The  Soldiers  go  off  laughing^ 
and  taking  leaze,  with  mockery, 
of  the  Sergeant  a«</QuENTm, 
who  remain  on  the  stage.  ] 


6^4 


DRAMATIC  PIECES. 


Act  I. 


Ser.    {after  a    pause).     Fly   you    not 

with  the  rest !  —  fail  you  to  follow 
Yon  goodly  friendship  and  fair  example  ? 
Come,   take    your    wild-goose    flight.     I 

know  you  Scots, 
Like  your  own  sea-fowl,  seek  your  course 

together. 
Que.   Faith,  a  poor  heron  I,  who  wing 

my  flight 
In  loneliness,  or  with  a  single  partner; 
And  right  it  is  that  I  should  seek  for  soli- 
tude, 
Bringing  but  evil  luck  on  them  I  herd  with. 
Ser.    Thou'rt     thankless.       Had    we 

landed  on  the  coast. 
Where  our  course  bore  us,  thou  wert  far 

from  home; 
But  the  fierce  wind  that  drove  us  round 

the  island, 
Barring  each  port  and  inlet  that  we  aim'd 

at, 
Hath  wafted  thee  to  harbor;   for  I  judge 
This  is  thy  native  land  we  disembark  on. 
Que.  True,  worthy  friend.    Each  rock, 

each  stream   I  look  on, 
Each  bosky  wood,  and  every  frowning 

tower, 
Awakens  some  young  dream  of  infancy. 
Yet  such  is  my  hard  hap,  I  might  more 

safely 
Have  look'd  on  Indian  cliffs,  or  Afric's 

desert, 
Than  on  my  native  shores.      I'm  like  a 

babe 
Doom'd  to  draw  poison  from  my  nurse's 

bosom. 
Ser.  Thou  dream'st,  young  man.    Un- 
real terrors  haunt. 
As  I  have  noted,  giddy  brains  like  thine — 
Flighty,  poetic,  and  imaginative  — 
To  whom  a  minstrel  whim  gives  idle  rap- 
ture, 
And,  when  it  fades,  fantastic  misery. 
Que.   But  mine  is  not  fantastic.     I  can 

tell  thee. 
Since  I  have  known  thee  still  my  faithful 

friend, 
In  part  at  least  the  dangerous  plight  I  stand 

in. 
Ser.  And  I  will  hear  thee  willingly,  the 

rather, 
That  I  would  let  these  vagabonds  march 

on. 


Nor  join  their  troop  again.     Besides,  good 

sooth, 
I'm  wearied  with  the  toil  of  yesterday. 
And  revel  of  last  night.  —  And  I  may  aid 

thee; 
Yes,  I  may  aid  thee,  comrade,  and  per- 
chance 
Thou  may'st  advantage  me. 

Que.   May  it  prove  well  for  both  ! — But 

note,  my  friend, 
I  can  but  intimate  my  mystic  story. 
Some  of  it  lies  so  secret, — even  the  winds 
That  whistle  round  us  must  not  know  the 

whole  — 
An  oath  !  —  an  oath  !  — 

Ser.  That  must  be  kept,  of  course. 
I  ask  but  that  which  thou  may'st  freely 

tell. 
Que.  I  was  an  orphan  boy,  and  first  saw 

light 
Not  far  from  where  we  stand  —  my  lin- 
eage low. 
But  honest  in  its  poverty.     A  lord, 
The  master  of  the  soil  for  many  a  mile. 
Dreaded    and    powerful,   took  a    kindly 

charge 
For  my  advance  in  letters,  and  the  qualities 
Of  the  poor  orphan  lad  drew  some  ap- 
plause. 
The  knight  was  proud  of  me,  and,  in  his 

halls, 
I  had  such  kind  of  welcome  as  the  great 
Give  to  the  humble,  whom  they  love  to 

point  to 
As  objects  not  unworthy  their  protection. 
Whose  progress  is  some  honor  to  their 

patron  — 
A  cure  was  spoken   of,  which   I  might 

serve. 
My  manners,  doctrine,  and  acquirements 

fitting. 
Ser.  Hitherto  thy  luck 
Was  of  the  best,  good  friend.     Few  lords 

had  cared 
If  thou  couldst  read  thy  grammar  or  thy 

psalter : 
Thou  hadst  been  valued  couldst  thou  scour 

a  harness. 
And  dress  a  steed  distinctly. 

Que.  My  old  master 

Held  different  doctrine,  at  least  it  seem'd 

so  — 
But  he  was  mix'd  in  many  a  deadly  feud — 


SCENR   I. 


AUCHINDRANE, 


625 


And  here  my  tale  grows  mystic.  I  became 
Unwitting  and  unwilling,  the  depositary, 
Of  a  dread  secret,  and  the  knowledge  on't 
Has  wreck'd  my  peace  forever.  It  be- 
came 
My  patron's  will,  that  I,  as  one  who  knew 
More  than  I  should,  must  leave  the  realm 

of  Scotland, 
And  live  or  die  within  a  distant  land. 
Ser.  Ah  !  thou  hast  done  a  fault  in  some 

wild  raid. 
As  you  wild  Scotsmen  call  them. 

Que.  Comrade,  nay; 

Mine  was  a  peaceful  part,  and  happ'd  by 

chance. 
I  must  not  tell  you  more.     Enough,  my 

presence 
Brought  danger  to  my  benefactor's  house. 
Tower  after  tower  conceal'd  me,  willing 

still 
To  hide  my  ill-omen' d  face  with  owls  and 

ravens, 
And  let  my  patron's  safety  be  the  purchase 
Of  my  severe  and  desolate  captivity. 
So  thought  I,  svhen  dark  Arran,  with  its 

walls 
Of  native  rock,  enclosed  me.     There  I 

lurk'd, 
A  peaceful  stranger  amid  armed  clans. 
Without  a  friend  to  love  or  to  defend  me. 
Where  all  beside  were  link'd  by  close  alli- 
ances. 
At  length  I  made  my  option  to  take  service 
In  that  same  legion  of  auxiliaries 
In  which  we  lately  served  the  Belgian. 
Our  leader,  stout  Montgomery,  hath  been 

kind 
Thro'  full  six  years  of  warfare,  and  as- 

sign'd  me 
More  peaceful  tasks  than  the  rough  front 

of  war. 
For  which  my  education  little  suited  me. 
Ser.  Ay,  therein  w.is  Montgomery  kind 

indeed; 
Nay,  kinder  than  you  think,  my  simple 

Quentin. 
The    letters  which  you    brought  to   the 

Montgomery, 
Pointed  to  thrust  thee  on  some  desperate 

service, 
Which  should  most  likely  end  thee. 
Que.     Bore  I  such  letters?  —  Surely, 

comrade,  no. 


Full  deeply  was  thewriterboundtoaid  me. 
Perchance  he  only  meant  to  prove  my 

mettle; 
And  it  was  but  a  trick  of  my  bad  fortune 
That  gave  his  letters  ill  interpretation. 
Ser.  Ay,  but  thy  better  angel  wrought 

for  good, 
Whatever  ill  thy  evil  fate  design'd  thee. 
Montgomery  pitied  thee,  and  changed  thy 

service 
In  the  rough  field  for  labor  in.  the  tent. 
More  fit  for  thy  green  years  and  peaceful 

habits. 
Que.  Even  there  his  well-meant  kind- 
ness injured  me. 
My  comrades  hated,  undervalued  me. 
And  whatsoe'er  of  servicel  could  do  them. 
They   guerdon'd    with    ingratitude    and 

envy  — 
Such  my  strange  doom,  that  if  I  serve  a 

man 
At  deepest  risk,  he  is  my  foe  forever ! 
Ser.  Hast  thou  worse  fate  than  others 

if  it  were  so? 
Worse  even  than  me,  thy  friend,  thine 

officer,  — 
Whom  yon  ungrateful  slaves  have  pitch'd 

ashore. 
As  wild  waves  heap  the  sea-weed  on  the 

beach, 
And  left  him  here,  as  if  he  had  the  pest 
Or  leprosy,  and  death  were  in  his  com- 
pany? 
Que.  They  think  at  least  you  have  the 

worst  of  plagues. 
The  worst  of  leprosies,  — they  think  you 

poor. 
Ser.   They   think   like   lying   villains 

then; —  I'm  rich, 
And  they  too  might  have  felt  it.     I've' a 

thought  — 
But  stay  —  what  plans  your  wisdom  for 

yourself  ? 
Que.  My  thoughts  are  well-nigh  des- 
perate.    But  I  purpose 
Return  to  my  stern  patron  —  there  to  tell 

him 
That  wars,  and  winds,  and  waves,  have 

cross'd  his  pleasure, 
.\nd  cast  me  on  the  shore  from  whence  he 

banish 'd  me; 
Then  let  him  do  his  will  and  destine  for  me 
A  dungeon  or  a  grave. 


626 


DRAMATIC  PIECES. 


Act  I. 


Ser.  Now,  by  the  rood,  thou  art  a 
simple  fool ! 

I  can  do  better  for  thee.  Mark  me, 
Quentin. 

I  took  my  license  from  the  noble  regiment, 

Partly  that  I  was  worn  with  age  and  war- 
fare. 

Partly  that  an  estate  of  yeomanry, 

Of  no  great  purchase,  but  enough  to  live 
on, 

lias  call'd  me  owner  since  a  kinsman's 
death. 

It  lies  in  merry  Yorkshire,  where  the 
wealth 

Of  fold  and  furrow,  proper  to  Old  Eng- 
land, 

Stretches  by  streams  which  walk  no  slug- 
gish pace. 

But  dance  as  light  as  yours.  Now,  good 
friend  Quentin, 

This  copyhold  can  keep  two  quiet  inmates. 

And  I  am  childless.  Wilt  thou  be  my  son  ? 
Que.  Nay,  you  can  only  jest,  my 
worthy  friend ! 

What  claim  have  I  to  be  a  burden  to  you? 
Ser.  The  claim  of  him  that  wants,  and 
is  in  danger. 

On  him  that  has,  and  can  afford  protec- 
tion. 

Thou  wouldst  not  fear  a  foeman  in  my 
cottage. 

Where  a  stout  mastiff  slumber'd  on  the 
hearth. 

And  this  good  halberd  hung  above  the 
chimney  ? 

But  come — I  have  it — thou  shall  earn  thy 
bread 

Duly,  and  honorably,  and  usefully. 

Our  village  schoolmaster  hath  left  the 
parish. 

Forsook  the  ancient  school -house  with  its 
yew-trees. 

That  lurk'd  beside  a  church  two  centuries 
older,  — 

So  long  devotion  took  the  lead  of  knowl- 
edge; 

And  since  his  little  flock  are  shepherdless, 

'Tis  thou  shall  be  promoted  in  his  room ; 

And  rather  than  thou  wanlest  scholars, 
man. 

Myself  will  enter  pupil.     Better  late. 

Our  proverb  says,  than  never  to  do  well. 

And  look  you,  on  the  holydays  I'd  tell. 


To  all  the  wondering  boors  and  gaping 

children. 
Strange  tales  of  what  the  regiment  did 

in  Flanders, 
And  thou  shouldst  say  Amen,  and  be  my 

warrant 
That  I  speak  truth  to  them. 

Que.   Would  I  might  take  thy  offer ! 

But,  alas ! 
Thou  art  the  hermit  who  compell'd  a  pil- 
grim. 
In  name  of  heaven  and  heavenly  charily. 
To  share  his  roof  and  meal,  but  found 

too  late 
That  he  had  drawn  a  curse  on  him  and  his. 
By  sheltering   a   wretch   foredoom'd  of 

heaven ! 
Ser.  Thou  talk'st  in  riddles  to  me. 
Que.  If  I  do, 

'Tis  that  I  am  a  riddle  to  myself. 
Thou  know'st  I  am    by  nature   born    a 

friend 
To  glee  and  merriment,  can  make  wild 

verses; 
The  jest  or  laugh  has  never  stopp'd  with 

me, 
When  once  'twas  set  a  rolling. 

Ser.  I  have  known  thee 

A  blithe  companion  still,  and  wonder  now 
Thou  shouldst  become  thus  crestfallen. 
Que.  Does  the  lark  sing  her  descant 

when  the  falcon 
Scales  the  blue  vault  with  bolder  wing 

than  hers. 
And  meditates  a  stoop  ?  The  mirth  thou  'st 

noted 
Was  all  deception, fraud. —  Hated  enough 
For  other  causes,  I  did  veil  my  feelings 
Beneath  the  mask   of  mirth,  —  laugh'd, 

sung,  and  caroll'd, 
To  gain  some  interest  in  my  comrades' 

bosoms. 
Although  mine  own  was  bursting. 

Ser.  Thou'rt  a  hypocrite 

Of  a  new  order. 

Que.  But  harmless  as  the  innoxious 

snake, 
WTiich  bears  the  adder's  form,  lurks  in 

his  haunts. 
Yet  neither  hath  his  fang-teeth  nor  his 

poison. 
Look  you,  kind  Hildebrand,  I  would  seem 

merry. 


Scene  l. 


A  UCHINDRANE. 


62J 


Lest  other  men  should,  tiring  of  my  sad- 
ness, 

Expel  me  from  them,  as  the  hunted  wether 

Is  driven  from  the  flock. 

Ser.  Faith,  thou  hast  borne  it  bravely 
out. 

Had  I  been  ask'd  to  name  the  merriest 
fellow 

Of  all  our  muster-roll  —  that  man  wert 
thou. 
Que.  See'st  thou,  my  friend,  yon  brook 
dance  down  the  valley. 

And  sing  blithe  carols  over  broken  rock 

And  tiny  waterfall,  kissing  each  shrub 

And  each  gay  flower  it  nurses  in  its  pas- 
sage, — 

Where,  thinkst  thou,  is  its  source,  the 
bonny  brook?  — 

It  flows  from  forth  a  cavern,  black  and 
gloomy. 

Sullen  and   sunless,  like   this  heart   of 
mine. 

Which  others  see  in  a  false  glare  of  gayety. 

Which  I  have  laid  before  you  in  its  sad- 
ness. 
Ser.  If   such  wild  fancies  dog  thee, 
wherefore  leave 

The  trade  where  thou   wert   safe    midsi 
others'  dangers. 

And  venture  to  thy  native  land,  where  fate 

Lies  on  the  watch  for  thee?     Had  old 
Montgomery 

Been  with  the  regiment,  thou  hadst  had 
no  conge. 
Que.  No,  'tis  most  likely.  —  But  I  had 
a  hope, 

A  poor,  vain  hope,  that  I  might  live  ob- 
scurely 

In  some  far  corner  of  my  native  Scotland, 

Which,  of  all  others,  splinter'd  into  dis- 
tricts, 

Differing  in  manners,  families,  even  lan- 
guage, 

Seem'd   a  safe    refuge    for   the   humble 
wretch 

Whose  highest  hope  was  to  remain  un- 
heard of. 

But  fate  has  baflHed  me  —  the  winds  and 
waves. 

With  force  resistless,  have  impell'd  me 
hither  — 

Have  driven  me  to  the  clime  most  dan- 
gerous to  me: 


And  I  obey  the  call,  like  the  hurt  deer. 

Which  seeks  instinctively  his  native  lair, 

Tho'  his  heart  tells  him  it  is  but  to  die 
there. 
Ser.  'Tis   false,   by  Heaven,   young 
man  !     This  same  despair, 

Tho'  showing  resignation  in  its  banner, 

Is  but  a  kind  of  covert  cowardice. 

Wise  men  have  said,  that  tho'  our  stars 
incline,  ^ 

They  cannot  force  us.  —  Wisdpm  is  the 
pilot. 

And  if  he  cannot  cross,  he  may  evade 
them. 

You  lend  an  ear  to  idle  auguries. 

The  fruits  of  our  last  revels — still  most 
sad 

Under  the  gloom  that  follows  boisterous 
mirth, 

As  earth  looks  blackest   after  brilliant 
sunshine. 
Que.  No,  by  my  honest  word.    Ijoin'd 
the  revel, 

And  aided  it  with  laugh  and  song  and 
shout. 

But  my  heart  revell'd  not;    and,  when 
the  mirth 

Was  at  the  loudest,  on  yon  galliot's  prow 

I  stood  unmarked,  and  gazed  upon  the 
land. 

My  native  land  —  each  cape  and  cliff  I 
knew. 

"Behold  me  now,"  I  said,  "your  des- 
tined victim !  ' ' 

So  greets  the  sentenced  criminal  the  head- 
man. 

Who  slow  approaches  with  his  lifted  axe. 

"Hither  I  come,"   I  said,  "ye  kindred 
hills, 

Whose  darksome  outline  in  a  distant  land 

Haunted  my  slumbers;  here  I  stand,  thou 
ocean, 

Whose  hoarse  voice,  murmuring  in  my 
dreams,  required  me; 

See  me  now  here,  ye  winds,  whose  plain- 
tive wail. 

On  yonder  distant  shores,  appear'd  to  call 
me  — 

Summon 'd,  behold  me."    And  the  winds 
and  waves. 

And  the  deep  echoes  of  the  distant  moun- 
tain. 

Made  answer: — "  Come  and  die !  " 


628 


DRAMATIC  PIECES. 


Act  I. 


Ser.  Fantastic  all !   Poor  boy,  thou  art 
distracted 
With    the   vain   terrors   of    some    feudal 

tyrant, 
VVhose  frown  hath  been  from  infancy  thy 

bugbear. 
Why  seek  his  presence? 

Que.  Wherefore  does  the  moth 

Fly  to  the  scorching  taper?  — why  the 

.  bird. 
Dazzled  by  lights  at  midnight,  seek  the 

net?  — 
Why  does  the  prey,  which  feels  the  fas- 
cination 
Of  the  snake's  glaring  eye,  drop  in  his 
jaws? 
Ser.  Such  wild  examples  but  refute 
themselves. 
Let  bird,  let  moth,  let  the  coil'd  adder's 

Resist  the  fascination  and  be  safe. 

Thou  goest  not  near  this  Baron  —  if  thou 
goest, 

I  will  go  with  thee.      Known  in  many  a 
field. 

Which  he  in  a  whole  life  of  petty  feud 

Has  never  dream'd  of,  I  will  teach  the 
knight 

To  rule  him  in  this  matter — be  thy  war- 
rant. 

That  far  from  him,  and  from  his  petty 
lordship, 

You  shall  henceforth  tread  English  land, 
and  never 

Thy  presence  shall  alarm  his  conscience 
more. 
Que.   'Twere  desperate  risk  for  both. 
I  will  far  rather 

Hastily  guide  thee  thro'  this  dangerous 
province, 

And  seek  thy  school,  thy  yew-trees,  and 
thy  churchyard;  — 

The  last,  perchance,  will  be  the  first  I  find. 
Ser.  I  would  rather  face  him, 

Like  a  bold  Englishman  that  knows  his 
right, 

And  will  stand  by  his  friend.     And  yet 
'tis  folly  — 

Fancies  like  these  are  not  to  be  resisted; 

'Tis  better  to  escape  them.    Many  a  pres- 
age, 

Too  rashly  braved,  becomes  its  own  ac- 
complishment. 


Then  let  us  go  —  But  whither  ?    My  old 

head 
As  little  knows  where  it  shall  lie  to-night 
As  yonder  mutineers  that  left  their  officer ; 
As  reckless  of  his  quarters  as  these  bil- 
lows. 
That  leave  the  withcr'd  sea-weed  on  the 

beach, 
And  care  not  where  they  pile  it. 

Que.  Think  not  for  that,  good  friend. 

We  are  in  Scotland, 
And  if  it  is  not  varied  from  its  wont. 
Each  cot,  that  sends  a  curl  of  smoke  to 

heaven. 
Will    yield   a  stranger    quarters   for   the 

night. 
Simply  because  he  needs  them. 

Sek.   But  are  there  none  within  an  easy 

walk 
Give  lodgings  here  for  hire  ?  for  I  have  left 
Some  of  the  Don's  piastres  (tho'  I  kept 
The   secret  from  yon  gulls),  and  I  had 

rather 
Pay  the  fair  reckoning  I  can  well  afford. 
And  my  host  takes  with  pleasure,  than  I'd 

cumber 
Some  iioor  man's  roof  with  me  and  all 

my  wants. 
And  tax  his  charity  beyona  discretion. 
Que.    Some  six  miles  hence  there  is  a 

town  and  hostelry. 
But  you  are  wayworn,  and  it  is  most  likely 
Our  comrades  must  have  fill'd  it. 

Ser.  Out  upon  them  !  — 

Were  there  a  friendly  mastiff  who  would 

lend  me 

Half  of  his  supper,  half  of  his  poor  kennel, 
I  would  help  Honesty  to  pick  his  bones, 
And  share  his  straw,  far  rather  than  I'd 

sup 
On  jolly  fare  with  these  base  varlets ! 
Que.    We'll    manage    better;    for  our 

Scottish  dogs, 
Tho'  stout  and  trusty,  are  but  ill-instructed 
In  hospitable  rights.  —  Here  is  a  maiden, 
A  little  maid,  will  tell  us  of  the  country. 
And  sorely  it  is  changed  since  I  left  it, 
If  we  should  fail  to  find  a  harlwrage. 

Enter  ISABEL  MacLellan,  a  girl  of 
about  six  years  old,  bearing  a  milk-pail 
on  her  head ;  she  stops  on  seeing  the 
Sergeant  ^m/QuENTiN. 


Scene  II. 


A  UCHINDRANE. 


629 


Que.  There's   something  in  her  look 

that  doth  remind  me  — 
But  'tis  not  wonder  I  find  recollections 
In  all  that  here  I  look  on. — Pretty  maid  — 
Ser.  You're  slow,  and  hesitate.    I  will 

be  spokesman.  — 
Good  even,  my  pretty  maiden — canst  thou 

tell  us, 
Is  there  a  Christian  house  would  render 

strangers, 
For  love  or  guerdon,  a  night's  meal  and 

lodging? 
ISA.   Full  surely,  sir;  we  dwell  in  yon 

old  house 
Upon  the  cliff  —  they  call  it  Chapeldonan. 

(^Points  to  (he  buildittg.) 

Our  house  is  large  enough,  and  if  our 

supper 
Chance  to  be  scant,  you  shall  have  half 

of  mine, 
For,  as   I    think,  sir,  you    have  been  a 

soldier. 
Up  yonder  lies  our  house ;  I'll  trip  before. 
And    tell    my    mother    she    has    guests 

a-coming; 
The  path  is  something  steep,  but  you  shall 

see 
I'll  be  there  first.     I  must  chain  up  the 

dogs,  too; 
Nimrod    and    Bloodylass    are    cross    to 

strangers. 
But  gentle  when  you  know  them. 

[Exit,anJis  seen  partially  ascend- 
ing to  the  Castle. 

Ser.  You  have  spoke 

Your    country  folk  aright,  both  for  the 

dogs 
And  for  the  people.    We  had  luck  to  light 
On  one  too  young  for  cunning  and  for 

selfishness.  — 
He's  in  a  reverie  —  a  deep  one  sure. 
Since  the  gilje  on  his  country  wakes  him 

not.  — 
Bestir  thee,  Quentin ! 

Que.  'Twas  a  wondrous  likeness ! 

Ser.  Likeness!  of  whom?  I'll  warrant 
thee  of  one 
Whom  thou  hast  loved  and  lost.     Such 

fantasies 
Live  long  in  brains  like  thine,  which  fash- 
ion visions 


Of  woe  and  death  when  they  are  cross'd 

in  love. 
As  most  men  are  or  have  been. 

Que.  The  guess  has  touch 'd  me,  tho* 

it  is  but  slightly, 
'Mongst  other  woes:   I  knew  in  former 

days, 
A  maid  that  view'd  me  with  some  glance 

of  favor; 
But  my  fate  carried  me  to  other  shores, 
And  she  has  since  been  weddfed.     I  did 

think  on't 
But  as  a  bubble  burst,  a  rainbow  vanish'd; 
It  adds  no  deeper  shade  to  the  dark  gloom 
Which  chills  the  springs  of  hope  and  life 

within  me. 
Our  guide  hath  got  a  trick  of  voice  and 

feature 
Like  to  the  maid  I  spoke  of  —  that  is  all. 
Ser.  She  bounds  before  us  like  a  game- 
some doe. 
Or  rather  as  the  rock -bred  eaglet  soars 
Up  to  her  nest,  as  if  she  rose  by  will, 
Without  an  effort.    Now  a  Netherlander, 
One  of  our  Frogland  friends,  viewing  the 

scene. 
Would  take  his  oath  that  tower,  and  rock, 

and  maiden. 
Were  forms  too  light  and  lofty  to  be  real. 
And  only  some  delusion  of  the  fancy. 
Such  as  iHen  dream  at  sunset.     I  myself 
Have   kept    the   level   ground  .so  many 

years, 
I  have  well-nigh  forgot  the  art  to  climb, 
Unless  assisted  by  thy  younger  arm. 

[  They  go  off  as  if  to  ascend  to  the 
Tower,  the  SERGEANT  leaning 
upon  Quentin. 

Scene  II 
Scene  changes  to  the  Front  of  the  OUlTower. 
Isabel  comes  forward  with  her  Mother^ 
— Marion  speaking  as  they  advance. 
Mar.  I  blame  thee  not,  my  child,  for 
bidding  wanderers 
Come  share  our  food  and  shelter,  if  thy 

father 
Were  here  to  welcome  them;  but,  Isabel, 
He  waits  upon  his  lord  at  Auchindrane, 
And  comes  not  home  to-night. 

ISA.  What  then,  my  mother? 

The  travellers  do  not  ask  to  see  my  father ; 


630 


DRAMATIC  PIECES. 


Act  I. 


Food,  shelter,  rest,  is  all  the  poor  men 

want, 
And  we  can  give  them  these  without  my 
father. 
Mar.  Thou  canst  not  understand,  nor 
I  explain, 
Why  a  lone  female  asks  not  visitants 
What    time    her    husband's     absent.  — 

{Aparl.)     My  poor  child, 
And  if  thou'rt  wedded  to  a  jealous  hus- 
band, 
Thou'lt  know  too  soon  the  cause. 

ISA.   (^partly    overhearing    what    her 
mother  says)  — - 
Ay,  but  I  know  already  —  Jealousy 
Is  when   my  father   chides,  and  you  sit 
weeping. 
Mar.  Out,  little  spy !  thy  father  never 
chides ; 
Or, if  he  does, 'tis  when  his  wife  deservesit. 
But  to  our  strangers;  they  are  old  men, 

Isabel, 
That  seek  this  shelter,  are  they  not? 

Isa.  One  is  old  — 

Old  as  this  tower  of  ours,  and  worn  like 

that. 
Bearing  deep  marks  of  battles  long  since 
fought. 
Mar.  Some  remnant  of  the  wars;  he's 
welcome,  surely, 
Bringing  no  quality  along  with  him 
Which  can  alarm  suspicion.  —  Well,  the 
other  ? 
Isa.  a  young  man,  gentle-voiced  and 
gentle-eyed. 
Who  looks  and  speaks  like  one  the  world 

has  frown'd  on; 
But  smiles  when  you  smile,  seeming  that 

he  feels 
Joy  in  your  joy,  tho'  he  himself  is  sad. 
Brown  hair,  and  downcast  looks. 

Mar.    (^alarmed).     'Tis   but    an    idle 
thought  —  it  cannot  be  ! 
(^Listens.)  I  hear  his  accents — It  is  all 

too  true  — 
My  terrors  were  prophetic !  —     I'll  com- 
pose myself. 
And  then  accost  him  firmly.    Thus  it  must 
be. 

[  She  retires  hastily  into  the  Toiver. 
—  The  voices  of  the  Sergeant 
rt«f/QuENTiN  are  heard  ascend- 
ing behind  the  Scenes. 


Que.  One  effort  more  —  we  stand  upon 
the  level. 
I've  seen  thee  work  thee  up  glacis  and 

cavalier 
Steeper  than  this  ascent,  when  cannon, 

culverine, 
Musket,  and  hackbut,  shower 'd  their  shot 

upon  thee. 
And  form'd,  with  ceaseless  blaze,  a  fiery 

garland 
Round    the    defences   of    the    post   you 
storm'd. 

[  They  come  on  the  Stage,  and  at 
the  same  time  Marion  re-enters 
from  the  To2uer. 

Ser.  Truly  thou  speak'st.      I  am  the 

tardier 
That  I,  in  climbing  hither,  miss  the  fire. 
Which  wont  to  tell  me  there  was  death  in 

loitering.  —  J 

Here  stands,  methinks,  our  hostess.  1 

\_IIe goes  forward  to  address  MAR- 
ION.    QUENTIN,  struck  on  see- 
ing her,  keeps  back. 
Ser.  Kind  dame,  yon  little  lass  hath 

brought  you  strangers, 
Willing  to  be  a  trouble,  not  a  charge  to 

you.  J 

We    are   disbanded   soldiers,    but    have         I 

means  1 

Ample  enough  to  pay  our  journey  home- 
ward. 
Mar.  We  keep  no  house  of  general 

entertainment. 
But  know  our    duty,   sir,   to    locks  like 

yours, 
Whiten'd  and  thinn'd   by  many  a  long 

campaign. 
Ill  chances  that  my  husband  should  be 

absent  — 
(^Apart.) — Courage  alone  can  make  me 

struggle  thro'  it  • — 
For  in  your  comrade,  tho'  he  hath  forgot 

me, 
I  spy  a  friend  whom  I  have  known  in 

school-days, 
And  whom  I  think  MacLellan  well  re- 
members. • — ■ 
(^She  goes  up  to  Qu ENTIN.)     You  see  a 

woman's  memory 
Is   faith  fuller    than   yours:    for   Quentin 

Blane 


Scene  II. 


A  UCHINDRANE. 


631 


Hath   not    a    greeting    left    for    Marion 
Harkness. 
Que.  {with  effort).     I  seek,  indeed,  my 
native  land,  good  Marion, 

Butseek  it  like  a  stranger.    All  is  changed, 

And  thou,  thyself  — 

Mar.  You  left  a  giddy  maiden. 

And   find,    on   your  return,  a  wife   and 
mother. 

Thine  old  acquaintance,  Quentin,  is  my 
mate  — 

Stout  Niel  MacLellan,  ranger  to  our  lord. 

The  Knight  of  Auchindrane.      He's  ab- 
s!ent  now. 

But  will   rejoice  to  see  his  former  com- 
rade. 

If,  as  I  trust,  you  tarry  his  return. 

{Apart.)     Heaven  grant  he  understand 
my  words  by  contraries  ! 

He    must   remember   Niel   and    he  were 
rivals; 

He   must    remember    Niel  and  he  were 
foes; 

He  must  remember  Niel  is  warm  of  tem- 
per. 

And  think,  instead  of  welcome,  I  would 
blithely 

Bid  him,  God  speed  you.     But  he  is  as 
simple 

And  void  of  guile  as  ever. 

Que.  Marion,  I  gladly  rest  within  your 
cottage. 

And  gladly  wait  returnof  Niel  MacLellan, 

To  clasp  his  hand,  and  wish  him  happi- 
ness. 

Some  rising  feelings  might  perhaps  pre- 
vent this  — 

But 'tisa peevish  part  to  grudge  our  friends 

Their  share  of  fortune  because  we  have 
miss'd  it; 

I  can  wish  others  joy  and  happiness. 

Though  I  must  ne'er  partake  them. 
Mar.   Hut  if  it  grieve  you  — 
Que.   No  !  do  not  fear.     The  brightest 
gleams  of  hope 

That  shine  on  me  are  such  as  are  reflected 

From  those  which  shine  on  others. 

[  The  Sergeant  and  Quentin  en- 
ter the  Tcnver  with  the  little  girl. 
Mar.  {comes  forward,  and  speaks  in 
agitation  )  — 

Even  so  !  the  simple  youth  has  miss'd  my 
meaning : 


I  shame  to  make  it  plainer,  or  to  say, 
In  one  brief   word.  Pass  on.  —  Heaven 

guide  the  bark. 
For  we  are  on  the  breakers ! 

\_Exit  into  the  To7ver. 

ACT  II.  — Scene  I. 

A  Withdrawing  Apartment  in  the  Castle 
of  Auchindrane.  Servants  place  a 
J'able,  with  a  Flask  of  Wine  and 
Drinking-  Cups, 

Enter  MuRE  of  AuCHiNDRANE,  with 
Albert  Gifforu,  his  Relation  and 
Visitor.  7 'hey  place  themselves  by  the 
Table,  after  some  complimentary  cere- 
mony. At  some  distance  is  heard  the 
noise  of  revelling. 

AucH.  We're  better  placed  for  confi- 
dential talk, 

Than  in  the  hall  fill'd  with  disbanded 
soldiers. 

And  fools  and  fiddlers  gather'd  on  the 
highway,  — 

The  worthy  guests  whom  Philip  crowds 
my  hall  with. 

And  with  them  spends  his  evening. 
GiF.   But  think  you  not,  my  friend,  that 
your  son  Philip 

Should  be  participant  of  these  our  coun- 
sels, 

Being  so  deeply  mingled  in  the  danger  — 

Your  house's  only  heir — your  only  son? 
AuCH.   Kind   cousin    Gifford,   if   thou 
lack'st  good  counsel 

At  race,  at  cockpit,  or  at  gambling  table, 

Or  any  freak  by  which  men  cheat  them- 
selves 

As  well  of  life  as  of  the  means  to  live. 

Call  for  assistance  upon  Philip  Mure; 

But  in  all  serious  parley  spare  invoking 
him. 
GiF.  You  speak  too  lightlyof  my  cousin 
Philip; 

All  name  him  brave  in  arms. 

AucH.  A  second  Bevis; 

But  I,  my  youth  bred  up  in  graver  fashions, 

Mourn  o'er  the  mode  of  life  in  which  he 
spends. 

Or  rather  dissipates,  his  time   and  sub- 
stance. 

No  vagabond  escapes  his  search  —  The 
soldier 


632 


DRAMATIC  PIECES. 


Act  II. 


Spurn'd  from  the  service,  henceforth  to 

be  ruffian 
Upon  his  own  account,  is  Philip's  com- 
rade; 
The  fiddler,  whose  crack'd  crowd  has  still 

three  strings  on't; 
The  balladeer,  whose  voice  has  still  two 

notes  left; 
Whate'er   is    roguish,    and    whate'er    is 

vile, 
Are   welcome  to  the   board  of  Auchin- 

drane. 
And    Philip  will  return  them  shout  for 

shout, 
And  pledge  for  jovial  pledge,  and  song 

for  song, 
Until  the  shame-faced  sun  peep  at  our 

windows. 
And  ask:  "  What  have  we  here?  " 
GiF.  You  take  such  revel  deeply;  — 

we  are  Scotsmen, 
Far  known  for  rustic  hospitality. 
That    mind    not    birth    or    titles    in    our 

guests: 
The    harper    has    his    seat    beside    our 

hearth. 
The  wanderer  must  find  comfort  at  our 

board. 
His  name  unask'd,his pedigree  unknown; 
So  did  our  ancestors,  and  so  must  we. 
AucH.  All  this  is  freely  granted,  worthy 

kinsman; 
And  prithee  do  not  think  me  churl  enough 
To  count  how  many  sit  beneath  my  salt. 
I've  wealth  enough  to  (ill  my  father's  hall 
Each  day  at  noon,  and   feed  the  guests 

who  crowd  it; 
I  am  near  mate  with  those  whom  men 

call  Lord, 
Tho'  a  rude  western  knight.     But  mark 

me,  cousin, 
Altho'  I  feed  wayfaring  vagabonds, 
I  make  them  not  mycomrades.    Such  as  I, 
Who  have  advanced  the  fortunes  of  my 

line. 
And  swell'd  a  baron's  turret  to  a  palace. 
Have  oft  the  curse  awaiting  on  our  thrift. 
To  see,  while  yet  we  live,  the  things  which 

must  l)e 
At   our   decease  —  the   downfall   of    our 

family, 
The  loss  of  land  and  lordship,  name  and 

knighthood, 


The  wreck  of  the  fair  fabric  we  have  built, 

By  a  degenerate  heir.     Philip  has  that 

Of  inborn  meanness  in  him,  that  he  loves 
not 

The  company  of  betters  nor  of  equals  ; 

Never  at  ease,  unless  he  liears  the  bell. 

And  crows  the  loudest  in  the  company. 

He's  mesh'd,  too,  in  the  snares  of  every 
female 

Who  deigns  to  cast  a  passing  glance  on 
him  — 

Licentious,  disrespectful,  rash,  and  prof- 
ligate. 
GiF.   Come,  my  good  coz,  think  we  too 
have  been  young. 

And  I  will  swear  that  in   your   father's 
lifetime 

You  have  yourself  been  trapp'd  by  toys 
like  these. 
AuCH.   A  fool   I  may  have  been  —  but 
not  a  madman; 

I  never  play'd  the  rake  among  my  fol- 
lowers. 

Pursuing   this    man's   sister,  that    man's 
wife: 

And  therefore  never  saw  I  man  of  mine. 

When  summon'd  to  obey  my  best,  grow 
restive. 

Talk  of  his  honor,  of  his  peace  destroy'd. 

And,    while   obeying,    nmtter  threats   of 
vengeance. 

But  now  the  humor  of  an  idle  youth, 

Disgusting  trusted  followers,  sworn  de- 
pendants, 

Plays  football   with    his    honor    and  my 
safety. 
GiF.   I'm  sorry  to  find  discord  in  your 
house. 

For  I  had  hoped,  while  bringing  you  cold 
news. 

To  find  you  arm'd  in  union  'gainst   the 
danger. 
AucH.   What   can   man   speak    that    I 
would  shrink  to  hear. 

And   where   the    danger   I    would    deii;n 
to  shun?      {lit-  rises.') 

What  should  appal  a  man  iniircd  to  perils. 

Like    the   l>old  climlier  on  the  crags  of 
Ailsa  ? 

Winds  whistle  past  him,  billows  rage, be- 
low. 

The  sea-fowl  sweep  around,  with  shriek 
and  clang. 


Scene  I. 


AUCHINDRANE. 


633 


One  single  slip,  one  unadvised  pace, 
One  qualm  of  giddiness — and  peace  be 

with  him ! 
But  he  whose  grasp  is  sure,  whose  step 

is  firm. 
Whose  brain  is  constant  —  he  makes  one 

proud  rock 
The  means  to  scale  another,  till  he  stand 
Triumphant  on  the  peak. 

GiF.  And  so  I  trust 

Thou  wilt  surmount  the  danger  now  ap- 
proaching, 
Which  scarcely  can  I  frame  my  tongue 

to  tell  you. 
Though  I  rode  here  on  purpose. 

Aucn.     Cousin,  I  think  thy  heart  was 

never  coward. 
And  strange  it  seems  thy  tongue  should 

take  such  semblance. 
I've  heard  of  many  a  loud-mouth'd,  noisy 

braggart, 
Whose  hand  gave  feeble  sanction  to  his 

tongue; 
But  thou  art  one  whose  heart  can  think 

bold  things. 
Whose    hand   can   act   them  —  but  who 

shrinks  to  speak  them  ! 
GiF.  And  if  I  speak  them  not,  'tis  that 

I  shame 
To  tell  thee  of  the  calumnies  that  load 

thee. 
Things  loudly  spoken  at  the  city  Cross  — 
Things  closely  whisper'd  in   our  Sover- 
eign's ear  — • 
Things  which  the  plumed  lord  and  flat- 

capp'd  citizen 
Do  circulate  amid  their  different  ranks  — 
Things  false,  no  doubt;    but,  falsehoods 

while  I  deem  them. 
Still  honoring  thee,   I  shun  the  odious 

topic. 
AUCH.     Shun   it    not,    cousin;    'tis  a 

friend's  best  office 
To  bring  the  news  we  hear  unwillingly. 
The  sentinel,  who  tells  the  foe's  approach, 
And  wakes  the  sleeping  camp,  does  but 

his  duty: 
Be  thou  as  l)old  in  telling  me  of  danger. 
As  I  shall  be  in  facing  danger  told  of. 
GiF.   I  need  not  bid  thee  recollect  the 

death-feud 
That  raged  so  long  betwixt  thy  house  and 

Cassilis; 


I  need  not  bid  thee  recollect  the  league. 
When  royal  James  himself  stood  mediator 
Between  thee  and  Earl  Gilbert. 

AucH.    Call  you  these  news?  —  You 

might  as  well  have  told  me 
That  old  King  Coil  is  dead,  and  craved 

at  Kylesfeld, 
I'll  help  thee  out  —  King  James  com- 
manded us 
Henceforth  to  live  in  peace,  made  ub  clasp 

hands  too. 
O,  sir,  when  such  an  union  hath  been 

made. 
In  heart  and  hand  conjoining  mortal  foes, 
Under  a  monarch's  royal  mediation, 
The  league  is  not  forgotten.     And  with 

this 
What  is  there  to  be  told?    The  King 

commanded  — 
"  Be  friends."     No  doubt  we  were  so  — 

Who  dares  doubt  it  ? 
GiF.  You  speak  but  half  the  tale. 
AuCH.   By  good  Saint  Trimon,  but  I'll 

tell  the  whole ! 
There  is  no  terror  in  the  tale  for  me  — 
Go  speak  of  ghosts  to  children  !  —  This 

Earl  Gilbert 
(God  sain  him)  loved  Heaven's  peace 

as  well  as  I  did. 
And  we  were  wondrous  friends  whene'er 

we  met 
At  church  or  market,  or  in  burrows  town. 
Midst  this,  our  good  Lord  Gilbert,  Earl 

of  Cassilis, 
Takes  purpose  he  would  journey  forth  to 

Edinburgh. 
The  King  was  doling  gifts  of  abbey-lands. 
Good  things  that  thrifty  house  was  wont 

to  fish  for. 
Our  mighty  Earl  forsakes  his  sea-wash'd 

castle, 
Passes  our  borders  some  four  miles  from 

hence ; 
And,  holding  it  unwholesome  to  be  fast- 

ers 
Long   after   sunrise,    lo !   the    Earl  and 

train 
Dismount,  to  rest  their  nags  and  eat  their 

breakfast. 
The  morning  rose,  the  small  birds  caroll'd 

sweetly  — 
The  corks  were  drawn,  the  pasty  brooks 

incision  — 


634 


DRAMATIC  PIECES. 


Act  II. 


His  lordship  jests,  his  train  are  choked 

with  laughter; 
When,  —  wondrous  change  of  cheer,  and 

most  unlook'd  for. 
Strange  epilogue  to  bottle  and  to  baked 

meat !  — 
Flash'd  from  the  greenwood  half  a  score 

of  carabines; 
And  the  good  Earl  of   Cassilis,   in  his 

breakfast, 
Had  nooning,  dinner,  supper,  all  at  once, 
Even  in  the  morning  that  he  closed  his 

journey; 
And  the  grim  sexton,  for  his  chamberlain, 
Made  him  the  bed  which  rests  the  head 

forever. 
GiF.  Told  with  much  spirit,  cousin  — 

some  there  are 
Would  add,    and   in  a   tone  resembling 

triumph. 
And  would  that  with  these  long  estab- 

lish'd  facts 
My  tale  began  and  ended !   I  must  tell 

you. 
That  evil -deeming  censures  of  the  events. 
Both  at  the  time  and  now,  throw  blame 

on  thee  — 
Time,  place,  and  circumstance,  they  say, 

proclaim  thee, 
Alike,  the  author  of  that  morning's  am- 
bush. 
AUCH,   Ay,  'tis  an  old  belief  in  Carrick 

here, 
Where  natives  do  not  always  die  in  bed, 
That  if  a  Kennedy  shall  not  attain 
Methuselah's  last  span,  a  Mure  has  slain 

him; 
Such  is  the  general  creed  of  all  their  clan. 
Thank  Heaven,  that  they  are  bound  to 

prove  the  charge 
They  are  so  prompt  in  making.     They 

have  clamor'd 
Enough    of    this  before,    to    show   their 

malice. 
But  what  said  these  coward  pickthanks 

when  I  came 
Before  the  King,  before  the  Justicers, 
Rebutting  all  their  calumnies,  and  daring 

them 
To  show  that  I  knew  aught  of  Cassilis' 

journey  — 
Which  way  he  meant  to  travel  —  where 

to  halt  — 


Without  which  knowledge  I  possess'd  no 
means 

To  dress  an  ambush  for  him?     Did  I  not 

Defy  the  assembled  clan  of  Kennedys, 

To  show,  by  proof  direct  or  inferential, 

Wherefore  they  slander'd  me  with   this 
foul  charge? 

My  gauntlet   rung  before    them   in    the 
court. 

And  I  did  dare  the  best  of  them  to  lift  it. 

And  prove  such  charge  a  true  one  —  Did 
I  not? 
GiF.   I  saw  your  gauntlet  lie  before  the 
Kennedys, 

Who  looked  on  it  as  men  do  on  an  adder. 

Longing  to  crush,  and  yet  afraid  to  grasp 
it. 

Not  an    eye  sparkled  —  not  a  foot  ad- 
vanced — 

No  arm  was  stretch'd  to  lift  the  fatal  sym- 
bol. 
AucH.  Then,  wherefore  do  the  hildings 
murmur  now? 

Wish  theytosee  again,  how  one  lx)ld  Mure 

Can  baflle  and  defy  their  assembled  valor? 
GlF.  No;    but  they  speak  of  evidence 

suppress'd. 
AuCH.  Suppress'd  !  —  what  evidence  ? 
—  by  whom  suppress'd? 

What  Will-o'- Wisp  —  what  idiot  of  a  wit- 
ness. 

Is  he  to  whom  they  trace  an  empty  voice. 

But  cannot  show  his  person  ? 

GiF.  They  pretend. 

With  the  King's  leave,  to  bring  it  to  a 
trial ; 

Averring  that  a  lad  named  Quentin  Blane 

Brought  thee  a  letter  from  the  murder'd 
Earl, 

With  friendly  greetings,   telling   of   his 
journey. 

The  hour  which  he  set  forth,  the  place  he 
halted  at,  — 

Affording  thee  the  means  to  form  the  am- 
bush, 

Of  which  your  hatred  made  the  applica- 
tion. 
AucH.  A  prudent  Earl,  indeed,  if  such 
his  practice. 

When  dealing  with  a  recent  enemy ! 

And  what  should  he    propose  by  such 
strange  confidence 

In  one  who  sought  it  not? 


Scene  I. 


A  UCHINDRANE. 


GiF.   His  purposes  were  kindly,  say  the 
Kennedys  — 

Desiring  you  would  meet  him  where  he 
halted. 

Offering  to  undertake  whate'er  commis- 
sions 

You  listed  trust  him  with,  for  court  or 
city: 

And,  thus  apprised  of  Cassilis'  purposed 
journey, 

And  of  his  halting- place,  you  placed  the 
ambush, 

Prepared  the  homicides 

AuCH.  They're  free  to  say  their  pleas- 
ure.    They  are  men 

Of  the  new  court  —  and  I  am  but  a  frag- 
ment 

Of  stout  old  Morton's  faction.     It  is  rea- 
son 

That    such    as    I    be    rooted    from    the 
earth, 

That  they  may  have  full  room  to  spread 
their  branches. 

No  doubt,   'tis  easy  to  find  strolling  va- 
grants 

To   prove  whate'er  they  prompt.     This 
Quentin  lilane  — 

Did  you  not  call  him  so.-*  —  why  comes 
he  now? 

And  wherefore  not  before?     This  must 
be  answer'd  — 

{Abruptly.)  —  Where  is  he  now? 

GiF.  AVjroad  —  they  say  —  kidnapp'd. 

By  you  kidnapp'd,  that  he  might  die  in 
Flanders. 

But  orders  have  been  sent  for  his  dis- 
charge. 

And  his  transmission  hither. 

AucH.    {tjsstdming    an    air    of  com- 
posure). — 

When  they  produce  such  witness,  cousin 
Gifford, 

We'll   be   prepared  to  meet  it.     In  the 
meanwhile, 

The  King  doth   ill    to    throw  his    royal 
sceptre 

In  the  accuser's  scale,  ere  he  can  know 

How  justice  shall  incline  it. 

GiF.  Our  sage  prince 

Resents,  it  may  be,  less  the  death  of  Cas- 
silis, 

Than  he  is  angry  that  the  feud  should 
burn. 


635 

'Be 


After    his    royal    voice   had    said, 

quench'd:  " 
Thus  urging  prosecution  less  for  slaughter. 
Than  that,  being  done  against  the  King's 

command. 
Treason  is  mix'd  with  homicide. 

AuCH.  Ha!  ha!  most  true,  my  cousin. 
Why,  well   consider'd,   'tis  a   crime  so 

great 
To  slay  one's  enemy,  the  King  forbidding 

Like  parricide,  it  should  be  held  impos- 
sible. 

'Tis  just  as  if  a  wretch  retain 'd  the  evil. 

When  the  King's  touch  had  bid  the  sores 
be  heal'd; 

And   such   a  crime  merits    the  stake  at 
least. 

What !    can   there  be  within  a  Scottish 
bosom 

A  feud  so  deadly,  that  it  kept  its  ground 

When  the  King  said,  "  Be  friends!  "   It 
is  not  credible. 

Were  I  King  James,  I  never  would  be- 
lieve it; 

I'd  rather  think  the  story  all  a  dream. 

And  that  there  was  no  friendship,  feud, 
nor  journey. 

No  halt,  no  ambush,  and  no  Earl  of  Cas- 
silis, 

Than     dream     anointed      Majesty     has 
wrong !  — 
GiF.  Speak  within  door,  coz. 
AucH.  O,  true.  —  {Aside. )  —  I 

shall  betray  myself 

Even   to   this    half-bred    fool.— I   must 
have  room. 

Room  for  an  instant,  or  I  suffocate.  — 

Cousin,  I  prithee  call  our  Philip  hither  — 

Forgive  me;    'twere  more  meet   I  sum- 
mon'd  him 

Myself;    but  then  the  sight  of   yonder 
revel 

Would  chafe  my  blood,  and  I  have  need 

of  coolness. 

GiF.  I  understand  thee  — I  will  bring 

him  straight.  [Exit. 

AuCH.  And  if  thou  dost,  he's  lost  his 

ancient  trick 

To   fathom,    as   he   wont,   his   five-pint 
flagons.  — 

This  space  is  mine  —  O  for  the  power  to 
fill  it, 


636 


DRAMATIC  PIECES. 


Act  II. 


Instead  of  senseless  rage  and  empty  curses, 
With  the  dark  spell  which  witches  learn 

from  fiends, 
That  smites  the  object  of  their  hate  afar. 
Nor  leaves  a  token  of  its  mystic  action, 
Stealing  the  soul  from  out  the  unscathed 

body, 
As  lightning  melts  the  blade,  nor  harms 

the  scabbard  ! 
—  'Tis  vain  to  wish  for  it  —  Each  curse 

of  mine 
Falls  to  the  ground  as  harmless  as  the 

arrows 
Which  children  shoot  at  stars !  The  time 

for  thought. 
If  thought  could  aught  avail  me,  melts 

away. 
Like  to  a  snowball  in  a  schoolboy's  hand. 
That  melts  the  faster  the  more  close  he 

grasps  it !  — 
If  I  had  time,  this  Scottish  Solomon, 
Whom  some  call  son  of  David  the  Musi- 
cian,* 
Might  find  it  perilous  work  to  march  to 

Carrick. 
There's  many  a  feud  still  slumbering  in 

its  ashes. 
Whose  embers  are  yet  red.     Nobles  we 

have. 
Stout  as  old  Graysteel,  and  as  hot    as 

Bothwell; 
Here  too  are  castles  look  from  crags  as 

high 
On  seas  as   wide    as    Logan's.     So  the 

King  — 
Pshaw  !  He  is  here  again  — 
Enter  GiFFORD. 

GiF.  I  heard  you  name 

The  King,  my  kinsman;  know,  he  comes 
not  hither. 
AUCH.  {affecting  indifference).     Nay, 
then  we  need  not  broach  our  barrels, 
cousin, 
Nor  purchase  us  new  jerkins.  —  Comes 
not  Philip? 
GiF.  Yes,  sir.     He  tarries  but  to  drink 
a  service 
To  his  good  friends  at  parting. 

AuCH.   Friends  for  the  beadle  or  the 
sheriff-officer. 

*  An  allusion  to  the  calumnious  report  that 
James  VI.  was  son  to  Queen  Mar)-  by  Rizzio. 


Well,  let  it  pass.     Who  comes,  and  how 
attended, 

Since  James  designs  not  westward? 
GiF.  O    you  shall    have,   instead,   his 
fiery  functionary, 

George   Home  that  was,  but  now   Dun- 
bar's great  Earl; 

He    leads   a  royal    host,   and    comes   to 
show  you 

How  he  distributes  justice  on  the  Border, 

Where  judge  and  hangman  oft   reverse 
their  office, 

And  the  noose  does  its  work  before  the 
sentence. 

But  I  have  said  my  tidings  best  and  worst. 

None  but  yourself  can  know  what  course 
the  time 

And   peril  may  demand.      To  lift   your 
banner. 

If  I  might  be  a  judge,   were  desperate 
game : 

Ireland  and  Galloway  offer  you  conven- 
ience 

For  flight,  if  flight  be  thought  the  better 
remedy; 

To  face  the  court  requires  the  conscious- 
ness 

And  confidence  of  innocence.    You  alone 

Can  judge  if  you  possess  these  attributes. 

(.7  7toise  behind  the  scenes.) 

AuCH.   Philip,  I  think,  has  broken  up 
his  revels; 
His  ragged  regiment  are  dispersing  them, 
Well   liquor'd  doubtless.      They're  dis- 
banded soldiers. 
Or  some  such  vagabonds.  — •  Here  comes 
the  gallant. 

Enter  Philip.  He  has  a  buff-coat  and 
head-piece,  wears  a  S7vord  and  dagger, 
with  pistols  at  his  girdle.  He  appears 
to  be  affected  by  liquor,  but  to  be  by  no 
means  intoxicated. 

AucH.  You  scarce   have   been    made 
known  to  one  another, 
Altho'  you  sate  together  at  the  board.  — 
Son  Philip,  know  and  prize  our  cousin 
Gifford. 
Phi.   {tastes  the  wi/te  on  the  table).  — 
If    you    had   praised  him,    sir,  you    had 

been  loth 
To  have  welcomed  him  in  bastard  Alicant. 


Scene  I. 


AUCHINDRANE. 


6^ 


I'll  make  amends,  by  pledging  his  good 
journey 

In  glorious  Burgundy.  — The  stirrup-cup, 
ho! 

And  bring  my  cousin's  horses  to  the  court. 
AUCH.  {Jraws  him  aside).  — 

The  stirrup-cup !     He  doth  not  ride  to- 
night — 

Shame    on    such   churlish   conduct   to   a 
kinsman ! 
Phi.  (aside  to  his  fut/ter).     I've  news 
of  pressing  import. 

Send   the   fool   off.  —  Stay,   I   will  start 
him  for  you. 

(To  Gl¥.)   Yes,   my    kind    cousin,   Bur- 
gundy is  better, 

On  a  night-ride,  to  those  who  thread  our 
moors, 

And  we  may  deal  it  freely  to  our  friends. 

For  we  came  freely  by  it.    Yonder  ocean 

Rolls  many  a  purple  cask  upon  our  shore 

Rough  with  embossed  shells  and  shagged 
sea -weed. 

When  the  good  skipper  and  his  careful 
crew 

Have  had  their  latest  earthly  draught  of 
brine, 

And  gone  to  quench,  or  to  endure  their 
thirst, 

Where  nectar's  plenty,  or  even  water's 
scarce. 

And  filter'd  to  the  parched  crew  by  drops- 
ful. 
AucH.  Thou'rt  mad,  son  Philip!  Gif- 
ford's  no  intruder. 

That  we  should  rid  him  hence  by  such 
wild  rants: 

My  kinsman  hither  rode  at  his  own  dan- 
ger, 

To  tell  us  that  Dunbar  is  hasting  to  us. 

With  a  strong  force,  and  with  the  King's 
commission, 

To  enforce  against  our  house  a  hateful 
charge. 

With  every  measure  of  extremity. 

Phi.  And    is    this    all    that  our  good 
cousin  tells  us? 

I  can   say   more,  thanks  to   the  ragged 
regiment. 

With  whose  good  company  you  have  up- 
braided me, 

On  whose  authority,  I  tell  thee,  cousin, 
Dunbar  is  here  already. 


GiF.  Already? 

Phi.  Yes,  gentle  coz.     And  you,  my 

sire,  be  hasty 
In  what  you  think  to  do. 

AucH.  I  think  thou  darest  not  jest  on 

such  a  subject. 
Where  hadst  thou  these  fair  tidings? 
Phi.  Where    you,    too,    might    have 

heard  them,  noble  father, 
Save  that  your  ears,  nail'd  to  our  kins- 
man's lips. 
Would  list  no  coarser  accents.     O,  my 

soldiers. 
My  merry  crew  of  vagabonds,  forever  ! 
Scum   of    the   Netherlands,  and   wash'd 

ashore 
Upon  this  coast  like  unregarded  sea-weed, 
They  had  not  been  two  hours  on  Scottish 

land. 
When,  lo !  they  met  a  military  friend, 
An   ancient   fourier,  known  to  them  of 

old. 
Who,  warm'd  by  certain  stoups  of  search- 
ing wine, 
Inform'd  his  old  companions  that  Dunbar 
Left  Glasgow  yesterday,  comes  here  to- 
morrow ; 
Himself,  he  said,  was  sent  a  spy  before. 
To    view    what    preparations    we    were 

making. 
Auch.  (/oGiF.).  If  this l)e sooth,  good 

kinsman,  thou  must  claim 
To  take  a  part  with  us  for  life  and  death. 
Or  speed  from   hence,  and  leave  us  to 

our  fortune. 
GiF.   In  such  dilemma. 
Believe  me,  friend,  I'd  choose  upon  the 

instant  — 
But  1  lack  harness,  and  a  steed  to  charge 

on. 
For  mine  is  overtired,  and,  save  my  page. 
There's  not  a  man  to  back  me.     But  I'll 

hie 
To  Kyle,  and  raise  my  vassals  to  your  aid. 

Phi.   'Twill  \vi  when  the  r.its. 
That  on  these  tidings  fly  this  house  of 

ours. 
Come  back  to  pay  their  rents.  —  {Apart. ) 
AucH.  Courage,  cousin  !  — 

Thou  goest  not  hence  ill  mounted  for  thy 

need; 
Full    forty   coursers    feed    in   my    wide 

stalls  — 


638 


DRAMATIC  PIECES. 


Act  II. 


The  best  of  them  is  yours  to  speed  your 
journey. 
Phi.  Stand  not  on  ceremony,  good  our 
cousin, 
When  safety  signs,  to  shorten  courtesy. 
GiF.    (/o    AUCH.).     Farewell,    then, 
cousin;    for  my  tarrying  here 
Were  ruin  to  myself,  small  aid  to  you; 
Yet  loving  well  your  name  and  family, 
I'd  fain  — 

Phi.  Be  gone?  — that  is  our  object, 
too  — 
Kinsman,  adieu. 

\^Exit  GiFFORD,   Philip   calls 
after  him. 

You  Yeoman  of  the  stable. 
Give    Master  Gifford  there  my   fleetest 

steed. 
Yon  cut-tail'd  roan,  that  trembles  at  a 
spear.  — 

(  Trampling  of  the   horse  heard 
going  off.) 
Hark  !  he  departs.      How  swift  the  das- 
tard rides, 
To  shun  the  neighborhood  of  jeopardy  ! 
(^He  lays  aside  the  appearance  of 
levity   which    he    has    hitherto 
•worn,    and    says     very    seri- 
ously) — 

And,  now,  my  father  — 
AuCH.   And    now,    my    son  —  thou'st 
ta'en  a  perilous  game 
Into  thine  hands,  rejecting  elder  coun- 
sel, — 
How  dost  thou  mean  to  play  it? 

Phi.   Sir,  good  gamesters  play  not 
Till  they  review  the  cards  which  fate  has 

dealt  them, 
Computing  thus  the  chances  of  the  game. 
And  woefully  they  seem  to  weigh  against 
us. 
AucH.   Exile's  a  passing  ill,  and  may 
be  borne; 
And  when  Dunbar  and  all  his  myrmidons 
Are  eastward  turn'd,  we'll  seize  our  own 
again. 
Phi.  Would  that  were  all  the  risk  we 
had  to  stand  to  ! 
But  more  and  worse,  —  a  doom  of  trea- 
son, forfeiture. 
Death    to    ourselves,    dishonor    to    our 
house. 


Is  what  the  stern  Justiciary  menaces; 

And,  fatally  for  us,  he  hath  the  means 

To  make  his  threatenings  good. 

AucH.    It    cannot    be.       I    tell    thee, 
there's  no  force 

In  Scottish  law  to  raze  a  house  like  mine, 

Coeval  with  the  time  the  Lords  nf  Gal- 
loway 

Submitted  them  unto  the  Scottish  sceptre. 

Renouncing  rights  of  Tanistry  and  Bre- 
hon. 

Some  dreams  they  have  of  evidence  — ■ 
some  suspicion; 

But  old  Montgomery  knows  my  purpose 
well. 

And  long  before  their  mandate  reach  the 
camp 

To  crave  the  presence  of  this  mighty  wit- 
ness. 

He  will  be  fitted  with  an  answer  to  it. 
Phi.  Father,  what  we   call    great,   is 
often  ruin'd 

By  means  so  ludicrously  disproportion'd. 

They  make  me  think  upon  the  gunner's 
linstock, 

Which,  yielding  forth  a  light  about  the 
size 

And    semblance    of    the  glowworm,  yet 
applied 

To  powder,  blew  a  palace  into  atoms, 

Sent  a  young  King  —  a  young  Queen's 
mate,  at  least  — 

Into  the  air,  as  high  as  e'er  flew  night- 
hawk. 

And  made  such  wild  work  in  the  realm 
of  Scotland, 

As  they  can  tell  who  heard,  —  and  you 
were  one 

Who  saw,  perhaps,  the  night-flight  which 
began  it. 
AucH.   If   thou  hast  naught  to  speak 
but  drunken  folly, 

I  cannot  listen  longer. 

Phi.   I  will  speak  brief  and  sudden.  — 
There  is  one 

Whose  tongue  to  us  has  the  same  peril- 
ous force 

Which   Bothwell's  powder  had  to  Kirk 
of  Field; 

One   whose  least   tones,   and   those   but 
peasant  accents. 

Could  rend  the  roof  off  our  fathers'  castle. 

Level  its  tallest  turret  with  its  base; 


Scene  I. 


A  UCHINDRANE. 


And  he  that  doth  possess  this  wondrous 

power 
>lceps  this  same  night  not  five  miles  dis- 
tant from  us. 
AUCH.  (ivho  had  looked  on  PHILIP  laith 

much    appearance    of  astonishment 

and  doubt,  exclaims).  — 
Then    thou    art    mad    indeed!   Ha!  ha! 

I'm  glad  on't. 
1  purchase  an  escape  from  what  I  dread, 
.  vvi  by  the  frenzy  of  my  only  son. 
J        Phi.  I  thank  you,  but  agree  not  to  the 

bargain. 
You  rest  on  what  yon  civet  cat  has  said: 
Yon  silken  doublet,  stuff'd  with  rotten 

straw. 
Told  you  but  half  the  truth,  and  knew 

no  more. 
But  my  good  vagrants  had  a  perfect  tale. 
They  told  me,  little  judging  the  impor- 
tance, 
That  Quentin  Blane  had  been  discharged 

with  them. 
They  told  me,  that  a  quarrel  happ'd  at 

landing, 
And  that  the  youngster  and  an  ancient 

sergeant 
Had  left  their  company,  and  taken  refuge 
In     Chapeldonan,    where     our     ranger 

dwells ; 
They  saw  him  scale  the  cliff  on  which  it 

stands. 
Ere  they  were  out  of  sight;   the  old  man 

with  him, 
And  therefore  laugh  no  more  at  me  as 

mad; 
But  laugh,  if  thou  hast  list  for  merriment. 
To  think  he  stands   on    the    same    land 

with  us. 
Whose  absence  thou  wouldst  deem  were 

cheaply  purchased 
With  thy  soul's  ransom  and  thy  body's 

danger. 
AuCH.   'Tis  then  a  fatal  truth.     Thou 

art  no  yelper 
To  open  rashly  on  so  wild  a  scent; 
Thou'rt    the   young   bloodhound,   which 

careers  and  springs. 
Frolics  and   fawns,  as  if    the   friend   of 

man, 
But  seizes  on  his  victim  like  a  tiger. 
Phi.  No  matter  what  I  am  —  I'm  as 

you  bred  me; 


So  let  that  pass  till  there  be  time  to  mend 

me. 
And  let  us  speak  like  men,  and  to  the 

purpose. 
This  object  of  our  fear  and  of  our  dread. 
Since   such   our  pride    must   own   him, 

sleeps  to-night 
Within  our  power:  —  to-morrow  in  Dun- 
bar's, 
And  we  are  then  his  victims. 
AucH.  He  is  ours  to-night. 
Phi.  He   is.     I'll  answer  that   Mac- 

Lellan's  trusty. 
AucH.  Yet  he  replied  to  you  to-day 

full  rudely. 
Phi.  Yes!  the  poor  knave  has  got  a 
handsome  wife, 
And  is  gone  mad  with  jealousy. 

AucH.  Fool !  —  when  we  need  the  ut- 
most faith,  allegiance, 
Obedience, and  attachment  in  our  vassals. 
Thy  wild  intrigues  pour  gall  into  their 

hearts. 
And  turn  their  love  to  hatred ! 

Phi.   Most  reverend  sire,  you  talk  of 
ancient  morals, 
Preach'd  on  by  Knox,  and  practised  by 

Glencairn.* 
Respectable,  indeed,  but  somewhat  musty 
In  these  our  modern  nostrils.  In  our  days 
If  a  young  baron  chance  to  leave  his  vassal 
The  sole  possessor  of  a  handsome  wife, 
'Tis  sign  he  loves  his  follower;  and  if  not, 
He  loves  his  follower's  wife,  which  often 

proves 
The  surerbond  of  patronage.    Take  either 

case. 
Favor  flows  in  of  course,  and  vassals  rise. 

AucH.  Philip,  this  b  infamous. 
And  what  is  worse,  impolitic.    Take  ex- 
ample: 
Break  not  God's  laws  or  man's  for  each 
temptation 

»  Alexander,  Fifth  Earl  of  Glencairn,  called 
"The  Good  Earl,"  concurred  in  the  Reforma- 
tion, asisting  the  Reformers  with  pen  and  sword. 
He  had  a  chief  command  in  the  army  raised 
against  Queen  Mary  in  June,  1567  and  demol- 
ished the  altar,  broke  the  images,  tore  down  the 
pictures  and  committed  other  acts  of  iconoclasuc 
vandalism  in  the  Chapel  royal  of  Holyrood-house 
after  the  Queen  was  conducted  to  Lfjchleven. 
He  was  the  author  of  a  satirical  poem  against  the 
Roman  Catholics  called  "The  Hermit  of  All* 
reit"  (Loretto).     He  died  in  1574. 


640 


DRAMATIC  PIECES. 


Act  II. 


That  youth  and  blood  suggest.     I  am  a 

man  — 
A  weak  and  erring  man; —  full  well  thou 

know'st 
That  I  may  hardly  term  myself  a  pattern 
Even  to  my  son;    yet  thus  far  will  I  say, 
I  never  swerved  from  my  integrity, 
Save  at  the  voice  of  strong  necessity, 
Or  such  o'erpowering  view  of  high  ad- 
vantage 
As  wise  men  liken  to  necesssity, 
In  strength  and  force  compulsive.     No 

one  saw  me 
Exchange  my  reputation  for  my  pleasure. 
Or  do  the  devil's  work  without  his  wages. 
I  practised  prudence,  and  paid  tax  to  vir- 
tue, 
By    following   her   behests,  save    where 

strong  reason 
Compell'd  a  deviation.     Then,  if  preach- 
ers 
At  times  look'd  sour,  or  elders  shook  their 

heads, 
They  could  not  term  my  walk  irregular; 
For  I  stood  up  still  for  the  worthier  cause, 
A  pillar,  tho'  a  flaw'd  one,  of  the  altar, 
Kept  a  strict  walk,  and  led  three  hundred 
horse. 
Phi.  Ah,  these  three  hundred  horse  in 
such  rough  times 
Were  better  commendation  to  a  party 
Than  all  your  efforts  at  hypocrisy, 
Betray'd  so  oft  by  avarice  and  ambition. 
And  dragg'd  to  open  shame.      But,  right- 
eous father. 
When  sire  and  son  unite  in  mutual  crime, 
And  join  theireffortstothe  same  enormity. 
It  is  no  time  to  measure  other's  faults. 
Or  fix  the  amount  of  each.     Most  moral 

father. 
Think  if  it  be  a  moment  to  weigh 
The  vices  of  the  Heir  of  Auchindrane, 
Or  take  precaution  that  the  ancient  house 
Shall  have  another  heir  than  the  sly  cour- 
tier 
That's  gaping  for  the  forfeiture. 

AuCH.  We'll  disappoint  him,  Philip, — 
We'll  disappoint  him  yet.     It  is  a  folly, 
A  wilful  cheat,  to  cast  our  eyes  behind. 
When  time,  and  the  fast  flitting  oppor- 
tunity, 
Call  loudly  —  nay,  compel  us  to  look  for- 
ward: 


Why  are  we  not  already  at  MacLellan's, 

Since  there  the  victim  sleeps? 

Phi.  Nay,  soft,  I  pray  thee. 

I  had  not  made  your  piety  my  confessor. 

Nor  enter'd  in  debate  on  these  sage  coun- 
sels. 

Which  you're  more  like  to  give  than  I  to 
profit  by, 

Could  I  have  used  the  time  more  use- 
fully; 

But  first  an  interval  must  pass  between 

The  fate  of  Quentin  and  the  little  artifice 

That  shall  detach  him  from  his  comrade, 

The  stout  old  soldier  that  I  told  you  of. 
AuCH.   How  work  a  point  so  difficult 

—  so  dangerous? 
Phi.  Tis  cared  for.     Mark,  my  father, 
the  convenience 

Arising  from  mean  company.     My  agents 

Are  at  my  hand,  like  a  good  workman's 
tools. 

And  if  I  mean  a  mischief,  ten  to  one 

That  they  anticipate  the  deed  and  guilt. 

Well    knowing    this,  when  first  the  va- 
grants' tattle 

Gave  me  the  hint  that  Quentin  was  so 
near  us, 

Instant    I  sent  MacLellan,  with  strong 
charges 

To  stop  him  for  the  night,  and  bring  me 
word. 

Like  an  accomplish'd  spy,  how  all  things 
stood, 

Lulling  the  enemy  into  security. 

Auch.  There  was  a  prudent  general ! 
Phi.   MacLellan  went  and  came  within 
the  hour. 

The  jealous  bee,  which  buzzes  in  hisnight- 
cap. 

Has  humm'd  to  him,  this  fellow,  Qui-ntin 
Blane, 

Had  been  in  schoolboy  ilays  an  humble 
lover 

Of  his  own  pretty  wife  — 

AucH.  Most  fortunate ! 

The  knave  will  be  more  prompt  to  serve 
our  purpose. 
Phi.  No  doubt  on't.     Mid  the  tidings 
he  brought  back. 

Was  one  of  someimportance.   Theoldman 

Is  flush  of  dollars;  this  I  caused  him  tell 

Among   his   comrades,   who  became  as 
eager 


Scene  I. 


A  UCHINDRANE. 


641 


To  have  him  in  their  company,  as  e'er 
They  had  lx;en  wild  to  part  with  him.    And 

in  brief  space, 
A  letter's  framed  by  an  old  hand  amongst 

them, 
Familiar  with   such   feats.     It  bore    the 

name 
And  character  of  old  Montgomery, 
Whom  he  might  well  supjx)se  at  no  great 

distance, 
CommandinghisoldSergeantHildebrand, 
By  all  the  ties  of  late  authority, 
Conjuring  him  by  ancient  soldiership. 
To  hasten  to  his  mansion  instantly. 
On  business  of  high  import,  with  a  charge 
To  come  alone  — 

AucH.    Well,  he  sets  out,  I  doubt  it 

not:   what  follows? 
Phi.  I  am  not  curious  into  others'  prac- 
tices, — 
So  far  I'm  an  economist  in  guilt, 
As  you,  my  sire,  advise.     But  on  the  road 
To  old  Montgomery's  he  meets  his  com- 
rades ; 
They  nourish  grudge  against  him  and  his 

dollars. 
And    things    may    hap,    which    counsel, 

learn'd  in  law. 
Call   Robbery  and  Murder.     Should  he 

live, 
He  has  seen  naught  that  we  would  hide 

from  him. 
AucH.   Who  carries  the  forged  letter  to 

the  veteran? 
Phi.    Why,  Niel   MacLellan,  who  re- 

turn'd  again 
To  his  own  tower,  as  if  to  pass  the  night 

there. 
They  pass'd  on  him,  or  tried  to  pass,  a 

story. 
As  if  they  wish'd  the  sergeant's  company. 
Without  the  young  comptroller's  —  that 

is  Qucntin's, 
And  he  became  an  agent  of  their  plot. 
That  he  might  better  carry  on  our  own. 
AucH.  There's  life  in  it  —  yes,  there  is 

life  in't; 
And  we  will  have  a  mounted  party  ready 
To  scour  the  moors  in  quest  of  the  banditti 
That  kill'd  the  poor  old  man  —  they  shall 

die  instantly. 
Dunbar  shall  see  us  use  sharp  justice  here 
As  well  as  he  in  Teviotdale.    You  are  sure 


You  gave  no  hint  nor  impulse  to  their 
purpose  ? 
Phi.  It  needed  not.     The  whole  pack 
oped  at  once 

Upon  the  scent  of   dollars.  —  But  time 
comes 

When  I  must  seek  the  tower,  and  act  with 
Niel 

What  farther's  to  be  done. 

AucH.  Alone  with  him  thou  goest  not. 
He  lx;ars  grudge  — 

Thou  art  my  only  son,  and  on  a  night 

When    such   wild    passions   are   so    free 
abroad, 

When  such  wild  deeds  are  doing,  'tis  but 
natural 

I  guarantee  thy  safety.  —  I'll  ride  with 
thee. 
Phi.  E'en  as  you  will,  my  lord.     But 
—  pardon  me  — 

If  you  will  come,  let  us  not  have  a  word 

Of  conscience,  and  of  pity,  and  forgive- 
ness ; 

Fine  words  to-morrow,  out  of  place  to- 
night. 

Take  counsel,  then —  leave  all  this  work 
to  me; 

Call  up  your  household,  make  fit  prepara- 
tion, 

In  love  and  peace,  to  welcome  this  E^rl 
Justiciar, 

As  one  that's  free  of  guilt.     Go,  deck  the 
castle 

As    for  an  honor'd  guest.     Hallow  the 
chapel 

(If  they  have  power  to  hallow  it)  with 
thy  prayers. 

Let  me  ride  forth  alone,  and  ere  the  sun 

Comes  o'er  the  eastern  hill,  thou  shalt 
accost  him: 

"Now  do  thy  worst,  thou  oft-returning 

spy. 

Here's  naught  thou  canst  discover.  ' 
Auch.  Yet  goest  thou  not  alone  with 
that  MacLellan ! 

He  deems  thou  bcarest  will  to  injure  him, 

And  seek'st  occasion  suiting  to  such  will. 

Philip,  thou   art   irreverent,   fierce,   ill- 
nurtured, 

Stain'd  with  low  vices,  which  disgust  a 
father; 

Yet  ridest  thou  not  alone  with  yonder 
man,  — 


642 


DRAMATIC  PIECES. 


Act  III. 


Come  weal,  come  woe,  myself  will  go 

with  thee. 
\Exit^  and  calls  to  horse  behind  the 

scene. 
Phi.  (^alone^.     Now  would  I  give  my 

fleetest  horse  to  know 
What  sudden  thought  roused  this  pater- 
nal care, 
And  if  'tis  on  his  own  account  or  mine; 
'Tis  true,  he  hath  the  deepest  share  in  all 
That's  likely  now  to  hap,  or  which  has 

happcn'd. 
Yet  strong  thro'  Nature's  universal  reign, 
The  link  which  binds  the  parent  to  the 

offspring: 
The  she-wolf  knows  it,  and  the  tigress 

owns  it. 
So  that  dark  man,  who,  shunning  what  is 

vicious. 
Ne'er  turned  aside  from  an  atrocity. 
Hath  still  some  care  left  for  his  hapless 

offspring. 
Therefore  'tis  meet,  tho'  wayward,  light, 

and  stubborn. 
That  I  should  do  for  him  all  that  a  son 
Can  do  for  sire  —  and  his  dark  wisdom 

join'd 
To  influence  my  bold  courses,  'twill  l^e 

hard 
To  break  our  mutual  purpose.  —  Horses 

there!  ^Exit. 

ACT  HI. —Scene   I. 

//  is  Moonlight.  The  Scene  is  the  Beach 
beneath  the  Tower  luhich  was  exhibited 
in  the  first  scene,  —  the  Vessel  is  gone 
from  her  anchorage.  AUCHINDRANE 
and  Philip,  as  if  dismounted  from 
their  horses,  cotne  forruard  cautiously. 
Phi.  The  nags  are  safely  stow'd. 
Their  noise  might  scare  him; 
Let   them  be  safe,  and  ready  when  we 

need  them. 
The    business    is   but   short.     We'll   call 

MacLellan, 
To  wake  him, and  in  quiet  bring  him  forth, 
If  he  be  so  disposed;    for  here  are  waters 
Enough  to  drown,  and  sand  enough  to 

cover  him. 
But  if  he  hesitate,  or  fear  to  meet  us, 
By  heaven  I'll  deal  on  him  in  Chajieldo- 
nan 


With  my  own  hand !  — 

AUCH.  Too  furious  boy !  —  alarm  or 

noise  undoes  us: 
Our  practice  must  be  silent  as  'tis  sudden. 
Bethink    thee    that    conviction    of    this 

slaughter 
Confirms  the  very  worst  of  accusations 
Our  foes  can  bring  against  us.      Where- 
fore sho'ild  we. 
Who   by   birth    and    fortune   mate   with 

nobles. 
And  are  allied  with  them,  take  this  lad's 

life,  — 
His  peasant  life,  —  unless  to  quash  his 

evidence. 
Taking  such  pains  to  rid  him  from  the 

world. 
Who  would,  if  spared,  have  fix'd  a  crime 

upon  us. 
Phi.   Well,  I  do  own  me  one  of  those 

wise  folks, 
Who  think  that  when  a  deed  of  fate  is 

plann'd 
The  execution  cannot  be  too  rapid. 
But  do  we  still  keep  purpose  ?    Is't  deter- 
mined 
He   sails    for    Ireland  —  and    without   a 

wherry? 
Salt  water  is  his  passport  —  is  it  not  so? 
AuCH.   I  would  it  could  be  otherwise  ! 
Might  he  not  go  there  while  in  life  and 

limb. 
And  breathe  his  span  out  in  another  air? 
Many  seek  Ulster  never  to  return  — 
Why  might  this  wretched  youth  not  harbor 

there? 
Phi.  With  all  my  heart.      It  is  small 

honor  to  me 
To  be  the  agent  in  a  work  like  this.  — 
Yet  this  poor  caitiff,  having  thrust  himself 
Into  the  secrets  of  a  noble  house, 
And  twined  himself   so  closely  with  our 

safety. 
That  we  must  perish,  or  that  he  must  die, 
I'll  hesitate  as  little  on  the  action. 
As  I  would  do  to  slay  the  animal 
Whose  flesh  supplies  my  dinner,     'Tis  as 

harmless. 
That   deer  or  steer,   as   is   this    Quentin 

Blane, 
And  not  more  necessary  is  its  death 
To  our  accommodation  —  so  we  slay  it 
Without  a  moment's  pause  or  hesitation. 


Scene  I. 


AUCHINDRANE. 


643 


AucH.  'Tis  not,  my  son,  the    feeling 

call'd  remorse, 
That  now  lies  tugging  at  this  heart  of  mine. 
Engendering  thoughts  that  stop  the  lifted 

hand. 
Have  I  not  heard  John  Knox  pour  forth 

his  thunders 
Against    the  oppressor  and  the  man  of 

blood 
In  accents  of  a  minister  of  vengeance? 
Were  not  his  fiery  eyeballs  turned  on  me, 
As  if   he  said  expressly:    "Thou'rt   the 

man  ?  ' ' 
Yet  did  my  solid  purpose,  as  I  listen 'd, 
Remain  unshaken  as  that  massive  rock. 
Phi,  Weil,  then,  I'll  understand  'tis 

not  remorse,  — 
As  'tis  a  foible  little  known  to  thee,  — 
That    interrupts    thy    purpose.       What, 

then,  is  it? 
Is't    scorn,    or    is't    compassion?      One 

thing's  certain,  — 
Either  the  feeling  must  have  free  indul- 
gence. 
Or  fully  be  subjected  to  your  reason  — 
There  is  no  room  for  these  same  treach- 
erous courses. 
Which  men  call  moderate  measures. 
We    must   confide   in   Quentin,  or  must 

slay  him. 
AucH.   In  Ireland  he  might  live  afar 

from  us. 
Phi.    Among   Queen    Mary's   faithful 

partisans, 
Your  ancient  enemies,  the  haughty  Ham- 

iltons. 
The    stern    MacDonnells,  and    resentful 

Graemes  — 
With  these  around  him,  and  with  Cassilis' 

death 
Exasperating  them  against  you,  think,  my 

father. 
What  chance  of  Quentin's  silence. 

AuCH.     Too  true  —  too  true.      He  is 

a  silly  youth,  too^ 
Who    had   not  wit   to  shift   for  his  own 

living  — 
A  bashful  lover,  whom  his  rivals  laugh'd 

at  — 
Of    pliant    temper,    which    companions 

played  on  — 
A    moonlight    waker,    and    a    noontide 

dreamer  — 


A  torturer  of  phrases  into  sonnets. 
Whom  all  might  lead  that  chose  to  praise 

his  rhymes. 
Phi.  I  marvel  that  your  memory  has 

room 
To  hold  so  much   on   such  a   worthless 

subject. 
AuCH.  Base    in    himself,  and    yet  so 

strangely  link'd 
With  me  and  with  my  fortunes,  that  I've 

studied 
To  read  him  thro'  and  thro',  as  I  would 

read 
Some  paltry  rhyme  of  vulgar  prophecy. 
Said  to  contain  the  fortunes  of  my  house; 
And  let  me   speak   him   truly: — He  is 

grateful. 
Kind,  tractable,  oliedient  —  a  child 
Might  lead  him  by  a  thread  —  He  shall 

not  die ! 
Phi.  Indeed !  —  then  have  we  had  our 

midnight  ride 
To  wondrous  little  purpose. 

AucH.     By  the  blue  heaven. 
Thou  shalt  not  murder  him,  cold,  selfish 

sensualist ! 
Yon  pure  vault  speaks  it  —  yonder  sum- 
mer moon. 
With  its  ten  million  sparklers,  cries.  For- 
bear ! 
The  deep  earth  sighs  it  forth  —  Thou  shalt 

not  murder ! 
Thou  shalt  not  mar  the  image  of   thy 

maker ! 
Thou  shalt  not  from  thy  brother  take  the 

life. 
The  gracious  gift  which  God  alone  can 

give ! 
Phi.     Here  is  a  worthy  guerdon  now, 

for  stuffing 
His    memory    with    old    saws    and   holy 

sayings ! 
They  come  upon  him  in  the  very  crisis. 
And  when  his  resolution  should  be  firmest, 
They  shake  it  like  a  palsy.  —  I^t  it  be. 
He'll  end  at  last  by  yielding  to  temptation. 
Consenting  to  the  thing  which  must  be 

done, 
With   more   remorse  the  more  he  hesi- 
tates. — 
(  To  his  Father,  who  has  stood  fixed  after 

his  last  speech^  — 
Well,  sir,  'tis  fitting  you  resolve  at  last. 


644 


DRAMATIC  PIECES. 


Act  III. 


How  the  young  clerk  should  be  disposed 

upon; 
Unless  you  would  ride  home  to  Auchin- 

drane, 
And  bid    them   rear  the  Maiden  in  the 

court-yard, 
That  when  Dunbar  comes,  he  have  naught 

to  do 
But  bid  us  kiss  the  cushion  and  the  heads- 
man. 
AucH.     It  is  too  true. — There  is  no 

safety  for  us. 
Consistent  with  the  unhappy  wretch's  life  ! 
In  Ireland  he  is  sure  to  find  my  enemies. 
Arran    I've    proved  —  the    Netherlands 

I've  tried, 
But  wilds   and  wars  return  him  on   my 

hands. 
Phi.  Vet  fear  not,  father,  we'll  make 

surer  work; 
The  land  has  caves,  the  sea  has  whirlpools. 
Where  that  which  they  suck  in  returns  no 
more. 
AuCH.   I  will  know  naught  of  it,  hard- 
hearted boy  ! 
Phi.   Hard-hearted!   Why  —  my  heart 

is  soft  as  yours; 
But  then  they  must  not  feel  remorse  at 

once  — 
We  can't  afford  such  wasteful  tenderness : 
I  can  mouth  forth  remorse  as  well  as  you. 
Be  executioner,  and  I'll  be  chaplain. 
And  say  as  mild  and   moving  things  as 

you  can; 
But  one  of  us  must  keep  his  steely  temper. 
AucH.  Do  thou  the  deed  —  I  cannot 

look  on  it. 
Phi.  So  be  it.     Walk  with  me  —  Mac- 

Lellan  brings  him. 
The  boat  lies  moor'd  within  that  reach  of 

rock, 
And  'twill  require  our  greatest  strength 

combined 
Toiaunch  it  from  the  beach.     Meantime, 

MacLellan 
Brings  our  man  hither.  —  See  the  twink- 
ling light 
That  glances  in  the  tower. 

AucH.     Let  us  withdraw — for  should 

he  spy  us  suddenly, 
He  may  suspect  us,  and  alarm  the  family. 
Phi.   Fear    not  —  MacLellan    has    his 

trust  and  confidence, 


Bought  with  a  few  sweet  words  and  wel- 
comes home. 

AucH.  But  think  you  that  the  Ranger 
may  be  trusted? 

Phi.  I'll  answer  for  him, — Let's  go 
float  the  shallop. 

[  They  go  off,  and  as  they  leave  the 
Stage,  NIacLkllan  is  seen  de- 
scending from  the  Tower  with 
QlJENTiN.  The  former  bears  a 
dark  lantern.  They  come  upon 
the  Stage. 

Mac.   (^showi7ig  the  light), — 
So  —  bravely  done  —  that's  the  last  ledge 

of  rocks, 
And  we  are  on  the  sands.  —  I  have  broke 

your  slumbers 
Somewhat  untimely. 

Que.  Do  not  think  so,  friend. 

These  six  years  past  I  have  been  used  to 

stir 
When  the  reveille  rung;  and  that,  believe 

me, 
Chooses  the  hours  for  rousing  mo- at  ran- 
dom. 
And,  having  given  it  summons,  yields  no 

license 
To  indulge  a  second  slumber.    Nay  more, 

I'll  tell  thee. 
That,  like  a  pleased  child,  I  was  e'en  too 

happy 
For  sound  repose. 

Mac.  The  greater  fool  were  you. 

Men  should  enjoy  the  moments  given  to 

slumber; 
For  who  can  tell  how  soon  may  be  the 

waking, 
Or  where  we  shall  have  leave  to  sleep 

again  ? 
Que.  The  God  of  Slumber  comes  not 

at  command. 
Last  night  the  blood  danced  merry  thro' 

my  veins: 
Instead  of  finding  this  our  land  of  Carrick 
The  dreary  waste  my  fears  had   appre- 
hended, 
I    saw    thy    wife,    Macl^ellan,    and    thy 

daughter. 
And  had  a  brother's  welcome;  saw  thee, 

too, 
Renew'd   my  early  friendship  with   you 

both, 


Scene  I. 


A  UCHIiWDRANE. 


645 


And  felt  once  more  that  I  had  friends  and 
country. 

So  keen  the  joy  that  tingled  thro'  my  sys- 
tem, 

Join'd  with  the  searching  powers  of  yon- 
der wine. 

That  I  am  glad  to  leave  my  feverish  lair, 

Altho'   my  hostess   smooth'd  my  couch 
herself. 

To  cool   my  brow  upon  this  moonlight 
beach, 

Gaze  on  the  moonlight  dancing  on  the 
waves. 

Such  scenes  are  wont  to  soothe  me  into 
melancholy; 

But  such  the  hurry  of  my  spirits  now. 

That    everything   I  look    on    makes   me 
laugh. 
Mac.  I've  seen  but  few  so  gamesome, 
Master  Quentin, 

Being  roused  from  sleep  so  suddenly  as 
you  were. 
Que.  Why,  there's  the  jest  on't.    Your 
old  castle's  haunted. 

In  vain   the    host  —  in  vain   the  lovely 
hostess, 

In  kind  addition  to  all  means  of  rest, 

Add  their  best  wishes  for  our  sound  re- 
pose. 

When  some  hobgoblia  brings  a  pressing 
message :  — 

Montgomery  presently  must  see  his  ser- 
geant, 

And    up    gets    Hildcbrand,   and    off    he 
trudges. 

I  can't  but  laugh  to  think  upon  the  grin 

With  which  he  doff 'd  the  kerchief  he  had 
twisted 

Around  his  brows,  and  put  his  morion 
on  — 

Ha!  ha!  ha!  ha! 

Mac.   I'm    glad    to    see    you    merry, 

Quentin. 
Que.  Why,  faith,  my  spirits  are  but 
transitory, 

And  you  may  live  with  me  a  month  or 
more. 

And  never  see  me  smile.      Then  some 
such  trifle 

As    yonder    little    maid  of   yours  would 
laugh  at, 

Will  serve  me  for  a  theme  of  merriment  — 

Even  now,  I  scarce  can  keep  my  gravity; 


We  were  so  snugly  settled  in  our  quarters. 
With  full  intent  to  let  the  sun  be  high 
Ere  we  should  leave  our  beds  —  and  first 

the  one 
And  then  the  other's  summon'd  briefly 

forth 
To  the  old  tune,  "  Black  Bandsmen,  up 

and  march !  " 
Mac.  Well,  you  shall  sleep   anon  — 

rely  upon  it  — 
And  make  up  time  misspent.    Meantime, 

methinks. 
You  are  so  merry  on  your  broken  slum- 
bers. 
You  ask'd  not  why  I  call'd  you. 

Que.  I  can  guess. 

You  lack  my  aid  to  search  the  weir  for 

seals. 
You  lack  my  company  to  stalk  a  deer. 
Think  you  I  have  forgot  your  sylvan  tasks, 
Which  ofl  you   have   permitted   me   to 

share. 
Till  days  that  we  were  rivals? 

Mac.  You  have  memory 

Of  that  too  !  — 

Que.       Like  the  memory  of  a  dream, 
Delusion  far  too  exquisite  to  last. 

Mac.  You  guess  not  then  for  what  I 

call  you  forth ! 
It  was  to  meet  a  friend  — 

Que.  What  friend?   Thyself  excepted, 
The   good  old   man   who's  gone  to  see 

Montgomery, 
And  one  to  whom  I  once  gave  dearer  title, 
I  know  not    in  wide  Scotland   man  or 

woman 
Whom  I  could  name  a  friend. 

Mac.  Thou  art  mistaken. 

There  is  a  Baron,  and  a  powerful  one  — 

Que.  There  flies  my  fit  of  mirth.   You 

have  a  grave 
And  alter'd  man  before  you. 

Mac.  Compose  yourself,  there   is  no 

cause  for  fear,  — 
He  will  and  must  speak  with  you. 

Que.  Spare  me  the  meeting,  Niel,  — 

I  cannot  see  him. 
Say,  I'm  just  landed  on  my  native  earth; 
Say,  that  I  will  not  cumber  it  a  day; 
Say,  that  my  wretched  thread  of  poor  ex- 
istence 
Shall  be  drawn  out  in  solitude  and  exile. 
Where  never  memory  of  so  mean  a  thing 


646 


DRAMATIC  PIECES. 


Act  III. 


Again  shall  cross  his  path  —  but  do  not 

ask  nie 
To  seek  or  speak  again  with  that  dark 
man ! 
Mac.  Your  fears  are  now  as  foolish  as 
your  mirth  — 
What    should    the    powerful    knight    of 

Auchindrane 
In  common  have  with  such  a  man  as  thou  ? 
Que.  No  matter  what  —  Enough,  I  will 

not  see  him. 
Mac.   He  is  thy  master,  and  he  claims 

obedience. 
Que.   My  master?     Ay,  my  task-mas- 
ter —  Ever  since 
I  couKl  write   man,  his  hantl   hath  been 

upon  me; 
No  step  I've  made  but  cumber'd  with  his 

chain. 
And  I  am  weary  on't  —  I  will  not  see  him. 
Mac.  You   must  and  shall — there  is 

no  remeily. 
Que.  Take  heed  that  you  compel  me 
not  to  find  one. 
I've  seen  the  wars  since  we  had  strife  to- 
gether; 
To  put  my  late  experience  to  the  test 
Were  something  dangerous — lla!   I  am 
betray'd ! 

[  While  the  latter  part  of  this  dia- 
logue is  passim^,  Auchindrane 
andVnw.W  enter  on  the  Stage 
from  behind  and  suddenly  pre- 
sent themselves. 

AuCH.   What  says  the  runagate? 
Que.   {laying  aside  all  appearance  of 
resistance^.  — 
Nothing.     You  are  my  fate; 
And  in  a  shape  more  fearfully  resistless 
My  evil  angel  could  not  stand  before  me. 
AuCH.     And  so  you  scruple,  slave,  at 
my  command, 
To  meet  me  when  I  deign  to  ask  thy  pres- 
ence? 
Que.     No,  sir;    I  had  forgot — I  am 
your  bond-slave; 
But  sure  a  passing  thought  of  indepen- 
dence, 
For  which  I've  seen  whole  nations  doing 

battle. 
Was  not,  in  one  who  has  so  long  enjoyed 
it. 


A  crime  beyond  forgiveness. 

AuCH.  We  shall  see: 

Thou  wert  my  vassal,  born  upon  my  land. 
Bred  by  my  Ixjunty. — It  concern'd  me 

highly, 
Thou  know'st  it  did  —  and  yet,  against 

my  charge, 
Again  I  find  thy  worthlessness  in  Scotland. 
Que.  Alas  !  the  wealthy  and  the  power- 
ful know  not 
How  very  dear  to  those  who  have  least 

share  in't 
Is  that  sweet  word  of  country  !     The  poor 

exile 
Feels,  in  each  action  of  the  varied  day, 
Ilis  doom  of  banishment.     The  very  air 
Cools  not  his  brow  as  in  his  native  land; 
The  scene  is  strange,  the  food  is  loathly 

to  him; 
The  language  —  nay,  the  music  jars  his 

ear. 
Why  should  I,  guiltless  of  the  slightest 

crime. 
Suffer  a  punishment  which,  sparing  life. 
Deprives  that  life  of  all  which  men  hold 

dear  ? 
AucH.   Hear  ye  the  serf  I  bred  begin 

to  reckon 
Upon    his    rights    and   pleasures !     Who 

am  I  — 
Thou  abject,  who  am  I,  whose  will  thou 

thwartest? 
Phi.  Well  spoke,  my  pious  sire.    There 

goes  remorse  ! 
Let  once  thy  precious  pride  take  fire,  and 

then, 
Macl^llan,  you  and    I  may  have  small 

trouble. 
Que.  Your  words  are  deadly,  and  your 

power  resistless; 
I'm  in  your  hands  —  but,  surely,  less  than 

life 
May  give  you  the  security  you  seek. 
Without  commission  of  a  mortal  crime. 
AucH.  Who  is't  would  deign  to  think 

upon  thy  life? 
I  but  require  of  thee  to  speed  to  Ireland, 
Where  thou  may'st  sojourn  for  some  little 

space. 
Having  due  means  of  living  dealt  to  thee. 
And,  when  it  suits   the  changes  of   the 

times. 
Permission  to  return. 


SCENIi    I. 


A  VCHINDRANE. 


647 


Que.  Noble  my  lord, 

I  am  too  weak  to  combat  with  your  pleas- 
ure; 
Yet  O,  for  mercy's  sake,  and  for  the  sake 
Of  that  dear  land  which  is  our  common 

mother. 
Let  me  not   part  in  darkness  from   my 

country  ! 
I'nss  but  an  hour  or  two,  and  every  cape. 
Headland,  and  bay,  shall  gleam  with  new- 
born light, 
And  I'll  take  boat  as  gayly  as  the  bird 
That  soars  to  meet  the  morning. 
Grant  me  but  this — to  show  no  darker 

thoughts 
Are  on  your  heart  than  those  your  speech 

expresses ! 
Phi.  a  modest  favor,  friend,  is  this  you 

ask ! 
Are  we  to  pace  the  beach  like  watermen. 
Waiting  your  worship's  pleasure  to  take 

boat?      ' 
No,  l>y  my  faith  !  you  go  upon  the  instant. 
The  boat  lies  ready,  and  the  ship  receives 

you 
Near  to  the  Point  of  Turnberry.  —  Q>me, 

we  wait  you; 
Bestir  you  ! 

Que.  I  olHjy.  Then  farewell,  Scotland! 
And   Heaven  forgive  my  sins,  and  grant 

that  mercy 
Which  mortal  man  deserves  not ! 

AUCH.     {^spi-aks  aside  to  his  Son).  — 

What  signal 
Shall  let  me  know  'tis  done? 

Phi.  When  the  light  is  quench'd, 

Your  fears  for  Quentin  Blane  are  at  an 

end  — 
{To  Que.)  Come,  comrade,  come,  we 

must  begin  our  voyage. 
Que.  But  when  —  O  when  to  end  it ! 

[//?  s^oes  off  reluctantly  -with  Ph  1  i.r  P 
and  MacLellan.  Auchin- 
DRANE  stands  looking  after 
them.  The  Moon  becomes  over- 
clouded, and  the  Stai^e  dark. 
AUCHINDRANE,  who  has  gazed 
txedlv  and  eagerly  after  those 
who  have  left  the  Stage,  becomes 
animated,  and  speaks. 

AuCH.   It  is  no  fallacy  !  — The  night  is 
dark. 


The  moon  has  sunk  before  the  deepening 

clouds; 
I  cannot  on  the  murky  beach  distinguish 
The  shallop  from  the  rocks  which  lie  be- 
side it; 
I  cannot  see  tall  Philip's  floating  plume. 
Nor  trace  the  sullen  brow  of  Niel  Mac- 
Lellan; 
Yet  still  that  caitiff 's  visage  is  before  me. 
With  chattering  teeth,  mazed  look,  and 

bristling  hair, 
As  he  stood  here  this  moment !  —  Have  I 

changed 
My  human  eyes  for  those  of  some  night 

prowler. 
The  wolf's,  the  tiger-cat's,  or  the  hoarse 

bird's 
That  spies  its  prey  at  midnight  ?     I  can 

see  him  — 
Yes,  I  can  see  him,  seeing  no  one  else,  — 
And  well  it  is  I  do  so.     In  his  absence, 
Strange  thoughts  of  pity  mingled  with  my 

purpose. 
And  moved    remorse  within    me.  —  But 

they  vanish 'd 
Whene'er  he  stood  a  living  man  before 

me; 
Then  my  antipathy  awaked  within  me. 
Seeing  its  object  close  within  my  reach. 
Till  I  could  scarce  forbear  him.  —  How 

they  linger ! 
The  boat's  not  yet  to  sea !  —  I  ask  myself, 
What  has  the  poor  wretch  done  to  wake 

my  hatred  — 
Docile,  obedient,  and  in  sufferance  pa- 
tient !  — 
As  well  demand  what  evil  has  the  hare 
Done  to  the  hound  that  courses  her  in 

sport. 
Instinct  infallible  supplies  the  reason  — 
And  that  must    plead  my  cause.  —  The 

vision's  gone ! 
Their  boat  now  walks  the  waves;  a  single 

gleam. 
Now  seen,  now  lost,  is  all  that  marks  her 

course ; 
That  soon  shall  vanish  too  —  then  all  is 

over !  — 
Would  it  were  over,  for  in  this  moment  lies 
The  agony  of  ages;  — Now,  'tis  gone  — 
And  all  is  acted  !  No  — she  l>reasts  again 
The  opposing  wave,  and  bears  the  tiny 
sparkle 


648 


DRAMATIC  PIECES. 


An-  III. 


Upon  her  crest  —  {^A  faitit  cry  heard  as 

from  seaward.') 

Ah  !  there  was  fatal  evidence. 
All's  over  now,  indeed! — The   light  is 

quench 'd  — 
And  Quentin,  source  of  all  my  fear,  exists 

not. 
The  morning  tide  shall  sweep  his  corpse 

to  sea, 
And  hide  all  memory  of  this  stern  night's 

work. 

\^He  walks  iu  a  slinv  and  deeply 
meditative  maimer  tenuards  the 
side  of  the  Stage,  and  suddenly 
meets  Marion,  the  wife  of  Mac- 
Lellan,  who  has  deseended front 
the  Castle. 

Now,  how    to  meet    Dunbar  —  Heaven 

guard  my  senses ! 
Stand  !  who  goes  there  ?  —  Do  spirits  walk 

the  earth 
Ere  yet  they've  left  the  body? 

Mar.  Is  it  you. 

My  lord,  on  this  wild  beach  at  such  an 

hour? 
AucH.  It  is  MacLellan's  wife,  in  search 

of  him, 
Or  of  her  lover  —  of  the  murderer. 
Or  of  the  murder'd  man.  —  Go  to,  Dame 

Marion; 
Men  have  their  hunting-gear  to  give  an 

eye  to, 
Their  snares  and  trackings  for  their  game. 

But  women 
Should  shun  the  night  air.     A  young  wife 

also, 
Still  more  a  handsome  one,  should  keep 

her  pillow 
Till  the  sun  gives  example  for  her  waken- 
ing. 
Come,  Dame,   go  back  —  back   to  your 

bed  again. 
Mar.   Hear  me,  my  lord  !   there  have 

been  sights  and  sounds 
That  terrified  my  child  and  me  — Groans, 

screams, 
As  if  of  dying  seamen,  came  from  ocean  — 
A  corpse-light  danced  upon  the  crested 

waves 
For  several  minutes'  space,  then  sunk  at 

once. 
When  we  retired  to  rest  we  had  two  guests, 


Besides  my  husband  Niel  —  I'll  tell  your 

lordship 

Who  the  men  were 

AuCH.  Pshaw,  woman,  can  you  think 
That  I  have  any  interest  in  your  gossips? 
Please  your  own  husband,  and  that  you 

may  please  him, 
Get  thee  to  bed,  and  shut  up  doors,  good 

dame. 
Were  I   MacLellnn,  I   should  scarce  be 

satisfied 
To  find  thee  wandering  here  in  mist  and 

moonlight, 
When  silence  should  l)e  in  thy  haV)ilation, 
And  sleep  upon  thy  pillow. 

Mar.  Good  my  lord, 

This  is  a  holyday.  —  By  an  ancient  custom 
Our  children  seek  the  shore  at  break  of 

clay, 
And  gather  shells,  and  dance,  and  play, 

and  sport  them 
In  honor  of  the  Ocean.     Old  men  say 
The  custom  is  derived  from  heathen  times. 

Our  Isabel 
Is   mistress  of   the   feast,   and    you    may 

think 
She  is  awake  already,  and  impatient 
To  be  the  first  shall  stand  upon  the  beach, 
And  bid  the  sun  good-morrow. 

AuCH.  Ay,  indeed? 

Linger  such  dregs  of  heathendom  among 

you? 
And  hath  Knox  preach'd,  and  Wishart 

died,  in  vain? 
Take  notice,  I   forbid  these  sinful  prac- 
tices. 
And  will  not  have  my  followers  mingle 

in  them. 
Mar.   If  such  your  honor's  pleasure, 

I  must  go 
And  lock  the  door  on  Isabel ;  she  is  wilful. 
And  voice  of  mine  will  have  small  force  to 

keep  her 
From   the   amusement   she    so  long   has 

dream'd  of. 
But  I  must  tell  your  honor,  the  old  people. 
That  were  survivors  of  the  former  race, 
Prophesied  evil  if  this  day  should  jiass 
Without  due  homage  to  tlie  mighty  Ocean. 
AucH.  Folly  and  Papistry.  —  Perhaps 

the  Ocean 
Hath  had  his  morning  sacrifice  already; 
Or  can  you  think  the  dreadful  element, 


Scene  I. 


A  UCHINDRANE. 


649 


Whose  frown  is  death,   whose  roar   the 

dirge  of  navies. 
Will  miss  the  idle  pageant  you  prepare? 
Tve  business  for  you,  too —  the  dawn  ad- 
vances — 
I'd  have    thee  lock    thy    little    child    in 

safety. 
And  get  to  Auchindrane  before  the  sun 

rise; 
Tell  them  to  get  a  royal  banquet  ready, 
As  if  a  king  were  coming  there  to  feast 

him. 
Mar.   I  will  olicy  your  pleasure.     But 

my  husband  — 
AucH.   I  wait  him  on  the  beach,  and 

bring  him  in 
To  share  the  banquet. 

Mar.  But  he  has  a  friend. 

Whom  it  would  ill  liecome  him  to  intrude 
Upon  your  hospitality. 

AucH.   Fear  not;    his  friend  shall  be 

made  welcome  too. 
Should  he  return  with  Niel. 

Mar.   He  must- — he  will  return  —  he 

has  no  option. 
AucH.  {ii/'iirt).   Thus    rashly    do    wc 

deem  of  other's  destiny  — 
lie  has  indeed  no  option ^ — ^but  he  comes 

not. 
Begone  on  thy  commission  —  I  go  this 

way 
To  meet  thy  husband. 

[Marion  ^;^^«  to  her  J'o-wer,  and 
after  entering  it,  is  seen  to  come 
out,  lock  the  door,  and  leave  the 
stage,  as  if  to  cxectUe  AUCHIN- 
DRANE's  commission.  He,  ap- 
parently going  off  in  a  different 
direction,  has  zvatched  her  from 
the  side  of  the  stage,  and  on  her 
departure  speaks. 

Aucn.  Fare  thee  well,  fond  woman. 
Most  dangerous  of  spies  —  thou  prying, 

prating. 
Spying  and  telling  woman  !    I've  cut  short 
Thy  dangerous  testimony  —  Hated  word  ! 
What  other  evidence  have  we  cut  short. 
And  by  what  fated   means,  this   dreary 

morning !  — 
Bright  lances  here  and  helmets  !  —  I  must 

shift 
To  join  the  others.  [Exit. 


Enter  from  the  other  side  the  SERGEANT, 

accompanied -with  an  Officer  and  tivo 

Pikemen. 
Ser.  'Twas  in  good  time  you  came;  a 

minute  later 
The  knaves  had  ta'en  my  dollars  and  my 

life. 
Off.  You  fought  most  stoutly.     Two 

of  them  were  down 
Ere  we  came  to  your  aid. 

Ser.  Gramcrcy;  halberd ! 

And  well  it  happens,  since  your  leader 

seeks 
This  Quentin  Blane,  that  you  have  fall'n 

on  me; 
None  else  can  surely  tell  you  where  he 

hides. 
Being  in  some  fear,  and  bent  to  quit  this 

province. 
Off.  Twill  do  our  Earl  good  service. 

He  has  sent 
Despatches  into  Holland  for  this  Quentin. 
Ser.  I  left  him  two  hours  since  in  yon- 
der tower. 
Under  the  guard  of  one  who  smoothly 

spoke, 
Altho'  he   look'd  but  roughly  —  I  wiJl 

chide  him 
For  bidding  me  go  forth  with  yonder  trai- 
tor. 
Off.  Assure  yourself  'twas  a  concerted 

stratagem. 
Montgomery's    been    at    Holyrood    for 

months. 
And  can  have  sent  no  letter  —  'twas  a  plan 
On  you  and  on  your  dollars,  and  a  base 

one. 
To  which  this   Ranger  was  most  likely 

privy. 
Such  men  as  he  hang  on  our  fiercer  barons. 
The  ready  agents  of  their  lawless  will; 
Boys  of  the  belt,  who  aid  their  master's 

pleasures. 
And  in  his  moods  ne'er  scruple  his  in- 
junctions. 
But  haste,  for  now  we  must  unkennel 

Quentin; 
I've  strictest  charge  concerning  him. 

Ser.  Go  up,  then,  to  the  tower. 
You've  younger  limbs  than  mine;  there 

shall  you  find  him 
Lounging  and  snoring,  like  a  lazy  cur 
Before  a  stable  door;  it  is  his  practice. 


650 


DRAMATIC  PIECES. 


Act  III. 


[  Tlu  Officer  goes  up  to  the  Tower, 
and  after  knocking  without  re- 
ceiving an  anstvcr,  turns  the  key 
which  Marion  had  left  in  the 
lock,  and  enters  ;  ISABEL,  dressed 
as  if  for  her  dance,  runs  out  and 
descends  to  the  Stage  ;  the  OFFI- 
CER follows. 
Off.  There's  no  one  in  the  house,  this 
little  maid 
Excepted  — 

IsA.  And  for  me,  I'm  ther;  no  longer, 
And  will  not   be  again   for  three  hours 

good ;  ' 

I'm  going  to  join  my  playmates  on  the 
sands. 
Off.  (^detaining her) .   You  shall,  when 
you  have  told  to  me  distinctly 
Where  are  the  guests  who  slept  up  there 
last  night. 
ISA.   Why,  there  is   the  old   man,  he 
stands  beside  you. 
The  merry  old  man  with  the  glistening 

hair; 
He  left  the  tower  at  midnight,   for  my 

father 
Brought  him  a  letter. 

Sek.  In  ill  hour  I  left  you. 

I  wish  to  Heaven  that  I  had  stay'd  with 

you! 
There  is  a  nameless  horror  that  comes 

o'er  me.  — 
Speak,    pretty    maiden,     tell     us    what 

chanced  next. 
And  thou  shalt  have  thy  freedom. 

IsA.  After   you   went    last   night,   my 
father 
Grew    moody,   and    refused  to  doff   his 

clothes, 
Or  go  to  bed,  as  sometimes  he  will  do 
When  there  is  aught  lo  chafe  him.     Until 

past  midnight. 
He  wander'd  to  and  fro,  then  call'd  the 

stranger, 
The  gay  young  man,  that  sung  such  m^^rry 

songs, 
Yet  ever  look'd  most  sadly  whilst  he  sung 

them; 
And  forth  they  went  together. 

Off.  And  you've  seen 

Or  heard  naught  of  them  since? 

ISA.   Seen  surely  nothing,  and  I  cannot 
think 


That  they  have  lot   or  share  in  what  I 
heard. 

I  heard  my  mother  praying,  for  the  corpse- 
lights 

Were  dancing  on  the  waves;    and  at  one 
o'clock. 

Just  as  the  Abbey  steeple  toll'd  the  knell. 

There    was    a    heavy    plunge    upon    the 
waters. 

And  some  one  cried  aloud  for  mercy  !  — 
mercy ! 

It  was  the  water-spirit,  sure,  which  prom- 
ised 

Mercy  to  boat  and  fishermen,  if  we 

Perform'd  to-day's  rites  duly.     Let  me 
go  — 

I  am  to  lead  the  ring. 

Off.  (/t;  Ser.).    Detain  her  not.    She 
cannot  tell  us  more; 

To  give  her  liberty  is  the  sure  way 

To     lure     her     parents     homeward.  — 
Strahan,  take  two  men, 

And  should  the  father  or  the  mother  come. 

Arrest  them  l)oth,  or  either.    Auchindrane 

May  come  upon  the  beach;    arrest  him 
also. 

But  do  not  state  a  cause.     I'll  back  again, 

And  take  directions  from  my  Lord  Dun- 
bar. 

Keep  you  upon  the  beach,  and  have  an 
eye 

To  all  that  passes  there. 

[  Exeunt  separately. 

Scene  II. 

Scene  changes  to  a  remote  and  rocky  part 
of  the  Seabeach. 

Enter  AucHiNDRANE,  meeting  Philip. 
AucH.  The  devil's  brought  his  legions 

to  this  beach, 
That    wont  to  be   so  lonely  ;    morions, 

lances, 
Show  in  the  morning  beam  as  thick  as 

glowworms 
At  summer  midnight. 

Phi.  I'm  right  glad  to  see  them, 

Be  they  whoe'er  they  may,  so  they  are 

mortal ; 
For  I've  contended  with  a  lifeless  foe, 
And  I  have  lost  the  battle.     I  would  give 
A  thousand  crowns  to  hear  a  mortal  steel 
Ring  on  a  mortal  harness. 


Scene  II. 


A  UCHINDRANE. 


65 1 


AUCH.    How   now!    art  mad?  or  hast 

thou  done  the  turn  — 
The  turn  we  came  for,  and  must  live  or 

die  by? 
Phi.   'Tis  done,  if  man  can  do  it;   but 

I  doubt 
If  this  unhappy  wretch   have   Heaven's 

permission 
To  die  by  mortal  hands. 

AucH.   Where  is  he?  —  where's  Mac- 

Lellan? 
Phi.  In  the  deep  — 

Both  in  the  deep,  and  what's  immortal 

of  them 
Gone  to  the  judgment  seat,   where  we 

must  meet  them. 

UCH.  MacLellan  dead,  and  Quentin 

too  ?  —  So  be  it 
To  all  that  menace  ill  to  Auchindrane, 
Or  iiave  the  power  to  injure  !  — ^Thy  words 
Are  full  of  comfort,  but   thine  eye  and 

look 
Have  in  this  pallid  gloom  a  ghastliness, 
Which    contradicts    the    tidings   of    thy 

tongue. 
Phi.   Hear  me,  old  man  —  There  is  a 

heaven  alx)ve  us. 
As  you  have  heard  old  Knox  and  Wishart 

preach, 
Tho'  little  to  your  boot.     The   dreaded 

witness 
Is  slain,  and  silent.    But  his  misused  body 
Comes  right  ashore  as  if  to  cry  for  ven- 
geance ; 
It  rides  the  waters  like  a  living  thing. 
Erect,  as  if  he  trode  the  waves  which  bear 

him. 
AuCH.   Thou    speakest    frenzy,    when 

sense  is  most  required. 
Phi.  Hear  me  yet    more!  —  I  say  I 

did  the  deed 
With  all  the  coolness  of  a  practiced  hunter 
When  dealing  with  a  stag.     I  struck  him 

overlxiard, 
And  with  MacLellan's  aid  I  held  his  head 
Under  the  waters,  while  the  Ranger  tied 
The  weights  we  had  provided  to  his  feet. 
We  cast  him  loose  when  life  and  body 

parted, 
And  bade  him  speed  for  Ireland.  But  even 

then. 
As  in  defiance  of  the  words  we  spoke. 
The  body  rose  upright  behind  our  stern, 


One  half  in  ocean,  and  one  half  in  air, 
And  tided  after  as  in  chase  of  us. 

Auch.     It    was   enchantment !  —  Did 

you  strike  at  it? 
Phi.  Once    and  again.       But   blows 

avail'd  no  more 
Than  on  a  wreath  of  smoke,  where  they 

may  break 
The  column  for  a  moment,  which  unites 
And  is  entire  again.     Thus  the  dead  body 
Sunk  down  before  my  oar,  but  rose  un- 

harm'd. 
And  dogg'd  us  closer  still,  as  in  defiance. 
AucH.   'Twas  Hell's  own  work  !  — 
Phi.         MacLellan  then  grew  restive. 
And,  desperate  in  his  fear,  blasphemed 

aloud, 
Cursing  us  both  as  authors  of  his  ruin. 
Myself  was  well-nigh  frantic  while  per- 

sucd 
By  this  dread  shape,  upon  whose  ghastly 

features 
The  changeful  moonbeam  spread  a  grisly 

light. 
And,  baited  thus,  I  took  the  nearest  way 
To  ensure  his  silence,  and  to  quell  his 

noise; 
I  used  my  dagger,  and  I  flung  him  over- 
board, 
And  half-expected  his  dead  carcass  also 
Would  join  the  chase  —  but  he  sank  down 

at  once. 
Auch.  He  had  enough  of  mortal  sin 

about  him 
To  sink  an  argosy. 

Phi.   But  now  resolve  you  what  defence 

to  make, 
If  Quentin's  body  shall  be  recognized; 
For  'tis  ashore  already;   and  he  bears 
Marks  of  my  handiwork  —  so  does  Mac- 
Lellan. 
Auch.  The  concourse  thickens  still  — 

Away,  awayl 
We  must  avoid  the  multitude. 

[  They  rush  ot4t. 

Scene  III. 
Scene  changes  to  another  part  of  the 
Beach,  Children  are  seen  dancing,  and 
Villagers  looking  on.  ISABEL  seems 
to  take  the  management  of  the  Dance. 
ViL.  WOM.  How  well  she  queens  it, 
the  brave  little  maiden  ! 


65- 


DRAMATIC  PIECES. 


Act  III.  Scene  III. 


ViL.  Ay,  they  ail  queen  it  from  their 
very  cradle, 
These  willing  slaves  of  haughty  Auchin- 

drane. 
But  now  I  hear  the  old   man's  reign  is 

ended; — • 
'  ris    well  —  he    has    been     tyrant    long 
enough. 
Second  Vil.  Finlay,  speak  low  —  you 

interrupt  the  sports. 
Third    Vii,.   Look    out    to    sea! — ■ 
There's  something  coming  yonder, 
Hound  for  the  beach,  will  scare  us  from 
our  mirth. 
Fourth  Vil.  Pshaw !  it  is  but  a  sea- 
gull on  the  wing, 
[jet ween  the  wave  and  sky. 

Third  Vil.  Thou  art  a  fool, 

Standing    on    solid    land — 'tis    a    dead 

body. 

Second  Vil.  And  if  it  be,  he  bears  him 

like  a  live  one, 

Not  prone  and  weltering,  like  a  drowned 

corpse, 
But  bolt  erect,  as  if  he  trode  the  waters. 
And  used  them  as  his  path. 

Fourth  Vil.  It  is  a  merman, 

And  nothing  of  this  earth,  alive  or  dead. 

[  By  degrees  all  the  Dancers  break  off 
from  their  sport,  and  stand  gaz- 
ing to  seaioard,  ivhile  an  object, 
imperfectly  seen,  drifts  towards 
the  Beach,  and  at  length  arrives 
among  the  rocks  which  border 
the  tide. 

Third  Vil.   Perhaps  it  is  some  wretch 
who  needs  assistance; 
Jasper,  make  in  and  see. 

Second  Vil.  Not  I,  my  friend; 
E'en  take  the  risk  yourself,  you'd  put  on 
others. 

[HlLDEBRAND/irtj  entered,  and  heard 
the  tiuo  last  words. 
Ser.   What,  are  you  men? 
Fear  ye  to  look  on  what  you  must  be  one 

day? 
I,  who  have  seen  a  thousand  dead  and 

dying 
Within  a  flight-shot  square,  will  teach  you 

how  in  war 
We  look  upon  the  corpse  when  life  has 
left  it. 


\^Ile  goes  to  the  back  scene,  and  seems 
attempting  to  turn  the  body, 
which  has  come  ashore  witJi  its 
face  down-ward. 

Will  none  of  you  come  aid  to  turn   the 
body  ? 
ISA.  You're   cowards    all.  —  I'll    help 
thee,  good  old  man. 

\^She goes  to  aid  the  Sergeant tc//// 
the  body,  and  presently  gives  a 
cry,  and  faints.  Hildebrand 
comes  forzuard.  All  croxvd 
round  him  ;  he  speaks  with  an 
expression  of  horror. 

Ser.  'TisQuentin  Plane  !    Poor  youth, 
his  gloomy  bodings 

Have  been  the  prologue  to  an  act  of  dark- 
ness; 

His  feet  arc  manacled,  his  bosom  stabb'd, 

And  he  is  fijully  murder'd.       The  proud 
Knight 

And  his  dark  Ranger  must  have  done  this 
deed , 

For  which  no  conmion  ruffian  could  have 
motive. 
A   Peasant.    Caution  were  best,  old 
man  — Thou  art  a  stranger, 

The  Knight  is  great  and  powerful. 
Ser.  Let  it  he  so. 

Call'd  on  by  Heaven  to  stand  forth  an 
avenger, 

I  will  not  blench  for  fear  of  mortal  man. 

Have  I  not  seen  that  when  that  innocent 

Had  placed  her  hands  upon  the  murder'd 
body. 

His  gaping  wounds,  that  erst  were  soak'd 
with  brine, 

Burst  forth  with  blood  as  ruddy  as  the 
cloud 

Which  now  the  sun  does  rise  on ! 

Peasant.  What  of  that  ? 

Ser.  Nothing  that  can  affect  the  inno- 
cent child; 

But  murder's  guilt  attaching  to  her  father, 

Since  the  blood  musters  in  the  victim's 
veins 

At  the  approach  of  what  holds  lease  from 
him 

Of  all  that  parents  can  transmit  to  chil- 
dren. 

And  here  comes  one  to  whom  I'll  vouch 
the  circumstance. 


THE   HOUSE    OF  ASPEN. 


653 


The  Earl  of  Dunbar  etiters  with  Sol- 
diers and  others,  having  AUCHIN- 
DRANE  and  I'Hll.l¥  frisoners. 

Dun.  Fetter  the  young  ruffian  and  his 
trait'rous  father ! 

[  They'  are  made  secure. 
AUCH.   Twas  a  lord  spoke  it  —  I  have 

known  a  knight, 
Sir  George  of  Home,  who  had  not  dared 

to  say  so. 
Dun.  "J'is  Heaven,  not  I,  derides  upon 

your  guilt. 
A  harmless  youth  is  traced  within  your 

power, 
Sleeps  in  your  Ranger's  house — his  friend 

at  midnight 
K  spirited  away.     Then  lights  are  seen. 
And  groans  are  heard,  and  corpses  come 

ashore 
Mangled  with  daggers,  while  (/<?  Phi.) 

your  dagger  wears 
The  sanguine  livery  of  recent  slaughter: 
Here,  too,  the  body  of  a  murder'd  victim 


(Whom  none  but  you  had  interest  to  re- 
move) 
Bleeds  on  a  child's   approach,  because 

the  daughter 
Of  one  the  abettor  of  the  wicked  deed;  — 
All  this,  and  other  proofs  corroborative, 
Call  on  us  briefly  to  pronounce  the  doom 
We  have  in  charge  to  utter. 

AucH.  If  my  house  perish.  Heaven's 

will  be  done ! 
I  wish  not  to  survive  it;    but,  O  Philip, 
Would  one  could  pay  the  ransom  for  us 

both! 
Phi.  Father,  'tis  fitter   that  we  both 

should  die. 
Leaving  no  heir  behind.  — The  piety 
Of  a    bless'd    saint,    the   morals    of    an 

anchorite, 
Could  not  atone  thy  dark  hypocrisy. 
Or  the  wild  profligacy  I  have  practised. 
Ruin'd  our  house,  and  shattered  be  our 

towers. 
And  with  them  end  the  curse  our  sins 

have  merited ! 


THE    HOUSE    OF   ASPEN. 

A   TRAGEDY. 


ADVERTLSEMENT. 

This  attempt  at  dramatic  composition  was  executed  nearly  thirty  years  since,  when  the 
magnificent  works  of  Goethe  and  Schiller  were  for  the  first  time  made  known  to  the  British 
public,  and  received,  as  many  now  alive  must  remember,  with  universal  enthusiasm.  What 
we  admire  we  usually  attempt  to  imitate  ;  and  the  author,  not  trusting  to  his  own  efforts, 
borrowed  tlie  substance  of  the  story  and  a  part  of  the  diction  from  a  dramatic  romance 
called  "  Der  heilige  Vehnie  "  (The  Secret  Tribunal),  which  fills  the  sixth  volume  of  the 
"  Sagen  der  \'orzeit''  (Tales  of  Antiquity),  by  Ueit  Weber.  The  drama  must  be  termed 
rather  a  rifacimento  of  the  original  than  a  translation,  since  the  whole  is  compressed,  and 
the  incidents  and  dialogue  are  occasionally  much  varied.  The  imitator  is  ignorant  of  the 
real  name  of  his  ingenious  contemporary,  and  has  been  informed  that  of  Beit  Weber  is 
fictitious.* 

The  late  ^fr.  John  Kenible  at  one  time  had  some  desire  to  bring  out  the  play  at  Drury- 
Lane,  then  adorned  by  himself  and  his  matchless  sister,  who  were  to  have  supported  the 
characters  of  the  unhappy  son  and  mother:  but  great  objections  appeared  to  this  proposal. 
There  was  danger  that  the  mainspring  of  the  stor>-. —  the  binding  engagements  formed  by 
members  of  the  secret  tribunal.  —  might  not  be  sufficiently  felt  by  an  English  audience,  to 
whom  the  nature  of  that  singularly  mysterious  institution  was  unknown  from  early  associa- 
tion.    There  was  also,  according  to  Mr.  Kemble's  experienced  opinion,  too  much  blood,  too 

*  Oeore:e  Wachter,  who  published  various  works  under  the  pseudonym  of  Veit  Weber,  was  lx>m 
in  1763,  and  died  in  1837.  —  Ed. 


6S4  DRAMATIC  PIECES.  Act  I. 

much  of  the  dire  catastrophe  of  Tom  Thumb,  when  all  die  on  the  stage.  It  was,  besides, 
esteemed  perilous  to  place  the  fifth  act  and  the  parade  and  show  of  the  secret  conclave  at 
the  mercy  of  underlings  and  scene-shifters,  who,  by  a  ridiculous  motion,  gesture,  or  accent, 
might  turn  what  should  be  grave  into  farce. 

The  author,  or  rather  the  translator,  willingly  acquiesced  in  this  reasoning,  and  never 
afterwards  made  any  attempt  to  gain  the  honor  of  the  buskin.  The  German  taste,  also, 
caricatured  by  a  number  of  imitators,  who,  incapable  of  copying  the  sublimity  of  the  great 
masters  of  the  school,  supplied  its  place  by  extravagance  and  bombast,  fell  into  disrepute, 
and  received  a  coup  de  grace  from  the  joint  efforts  of  the  late  lamented  Mr.  Canning  and 
Mr.  Frere.  The  effect  of  their  singularly  happy  piece  of  ridicule  called  "  The  Rovers,"  a 
mock  play  which  appeared  in  The  Anti-Jacobin,  was,  that  the  German  school,  with  its 
beauties  and  its  defects,  passed  completely  out  of  fashion,  and  the  following  scenes  were 
consigned  to  neglect  and  obscurity.  Very  lately,  however,  the  writer  chanced  to  look  them 
over  with  feelings  very  different  from  those  of  tlie  adventurous  period  of  his  literary  life 
during  which  they  had  been  written,  and  yet  with  such  as  perhaps  a  reformed  libertine 
might  regard  the  illegitimate  production  of  an  early  amour.  There  is  something  to  be 
ashamed  of,  certainly ;  but,  after  all,  paternal  vanity  whispers  that  the  child  has  a  resem- 
blance to  the  father. 

To  this  it  need  only  be  added,  that  there  are  in  existence  so  many  manuscript  copies  of 
the  following  play,  that  if  it  should  not  find  its  way  to  the  public  sooner,  it  is  certain  to 
do  so  when  the  author  can  no  more  have  any  opportunity  of  correcting  the  press,  and  con- 
sequently at  greater  disadvantage  than  at  present.  Being  of  too  small  a  size  or  conse- 
quence for  a  separate  publication,  the  piece  is  sent  as  a  contribution  to  The  Keepsake., 
where  the  demerits  may  be  hidden  amid  the  beauties  of  more  valuable  articles. 
Abbotsford,  ist  Afiril,  1829. 

DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 

MEN. 

RUDIGER,  Baron  of  Aspen,  an  old  German  warrior. 

George  of  .Aspen,  |  ,,       ^    r>    /• 
„  ,  'J  i>oi!S  to  Kttdteer. 

Henry  of  Aspen,    )  * 

RoDERiC,  Count  of  Maltingen,  chief  of  a  department  of  the  Itivisible  Tribunal,  and 

the  hereditary  enemy  of  the  family  of  Aspen. 
William,  Baron  of  Wolfstcin,  ally  of  Count  Koderic. 
Bertram  of  Ebersdorf,  brother  to  the  fortner  husband  of  the  Baroness  of  Aspen, 

disguised  as  a  Minstrel. 
Duke  of, Bavaria. 

WiCKERD,  I  pf,iif„„ers  of  the  House  of  Aspen. 
Reynold,  )  ■'  ■'       * 

Conrad,  Page  of  Honor  to  Henry  of  Aspen. 
Martin,  Squire  to  George  of  Aspen. 
Hugo,  Squire  to  Count  Roderic. 
Peter,  an  ancient  domestic  of  Rudiger. 
Father  Ludovic,  Chaplain  to  Rudiger. 

women. 
Isabella, /(Jrw^r/v  married  to  Arnolf  of  Ebersdorf,  no7v  wife  of  Rudiger. 
Gertrudk,  Isabella's  niece,  betrothed  to  Henry. 
Soldiers,  Judges  of  the  Invisible  Tribunal,  etc. 

Scene. —  The  Castle  of  Ebersdorf  in  Bavaria,  the  ruins  of  Griefenhaus,  and  the 
adjacent  country. 


ACT  I. —Scene  I. 
An  ancient  Gothic  chamber  in  the  castle 
of  Ebersdorf.  .Spears,  crossboros,  and 
arms,  with  the  horns  of  buffaloes  and 
of  deer,  are  hung  round  the  wall.  An 
antique  buffet  with  beakers  and  stone 
bottles. 


Rudiger,  Baron  of  Aspen,  and  his  lady, 
Isabella,  are  disco7<ered  sitting  at  a 
large  oaken  table. 

RUD.  A  plague  upon  that  roan  horse ! 
II:id  he  not  stumbled  with  me  at  the  ford 
after  our  last  skirmish,  I  had  been  now 
with  my  sons.     And  yonder  the  boys  are, 


Scene  I. 


THE  HOUSE    OF  ASPEN. 


655 


hardly  three  miles  off,  battling  with  Count 
Roderic,  and  their  father  must  lie  here 
like  a  worm-eaten  manuscript  in  a  con- 
vent library  !  Out  upon  it !  Out  upon 
it !  Is  it  not  hard  that  a  warrior,  who 
has  travelled  so  many  leagues  to  display 
the  cross  on  the  walls  of  Zion,  should  be 
now  unable  to  lift  a  spear  before  his  own 
castle  gate? 

ISA.  Dear  husband,  your  anxiety  re- 
tards your  recovery. 

Ruu.  Mayl>e  so;  but  not  less  than 
your  silence  and  melancholy  !  Here  have 
I  sat  this  month,  and  more,  since  that 
cursed  fall !  Neither  hunting  nor  feast- 
ing, nor  lance-breaking  for  me !  And 
my  sons  —  George  enters  cold  and  re- 
served, as  if  he  had  the  weight  of  the 
empire  on  his  shoulders,  utters  Vjy  sylla- 


bles a  cold  "  How  is  it  with 


you.' 


and 


shuts  himself  up  for  days  in  his  solitary 
chamber  — Henry,  my  cheerful  Henry  — 

IsA.  Surely,  he  at  least  — 

RUD.  Even  he  forsakes  me,  and  skips 
up  the  tower  staircase  like  lightning  to 
join  your  fair  ward,  Gertrude,  on  the 
battlements.  I  cannot  blame  him :  for, 
by  my  knightly  faith,  were  I  in  his  place, 
I  think  even  these  bruised  bones  would 
hardly  keep  me  from  her  side.  Still, 
however,  here  I  must  sit  alone. 

ISA.  Not  alone,  dear  husband.  Heaven 
knows  what  I  would  do  to  soften  your 
confinement. 

Rui).  Tell  me  not  of  that,  lady.  When 
I  first  knew  thee,  Isabella,  the  fair  maid 
of  Arnheim  w^as  the  joy  of  her  compan- 
ions, and  breathed  life  wherever  she 
came.  Thy  father  married  thee  to  Arnolf 
of  Ebcrsdorf  —  not  much  with  thy  will, 
'tis  true  —  (^Shc  hides  her  face  S)  Nay  — 
forgive  me,  Isabella  —  but  that  is  over  — 
he  died,  and  the  ties  between  us,  which 
thy  marriage  had  broken,  were  renewed 
—  but  the  sunshine  of  my  Isabella's  light 
heart  returned  no  more. 

ISA.  (^weepitig') .  Beloved  Rudiger,  you 
search  my  very  soul !  Why  will  you  re- 
call past  times  —  days  of  spring  that  can 
never  return?  Do  I  not  love  thee  more 
than  ever  wife  loved  husband  ? 

RtTD.  (^stretches  out  his  arms  —  she  em- 
braces  him').     And    therefore    art    thou 


ever  my  beloved  Isabella.  But  still,  is 
it  not  true?  Has  not  thy  cheerfulness 
vanished  since  thou  hast  become  Lady 
of  Aspen  ?  Dost  thou  repent  of  thy  love 
to  Rudiger? 

ISA.  Alas  !    no  !   never  !  never  ! 

Ruu.  Then  why  dost  thou  herd  with 
monks  and  priests,  and  leave  thy  old 
knight  alone,  when,  for  the  first  time  in 
his  stormy  life,  he  has  rested  for  weeks 
within  the  walls  of  his  castle?  Hast 
thou  committed  a  crime  from  which 
Rudiger's  love  cannot  aljsolve  thee? 

ISA.   O  many  !  many  ! 

Ri;d.  'ITien  be  this  kiss  thy  penance. 
And  tell  me,  Isabella,  hast  thou  not 
founded  a  convent,  and  endowetl  it  with 
the  best  of  thy  late  husband's  lands?  Ay, 
and  with  a  vineyard  which  I  could  have 
prized  as  well  as  the  sleek  monks.  Dost 
thou  not  daily  distribute  alms  to  twenty 
pilgrims?  Dost  thou  not  cause  ten  masses 
to  be  sung  each  night  for  the  repose  of 
thy  late  husband's  soul? 

IsA.   It  will  not  know  repose. 

RuD.  Well,  well — God's  peace  be 
with  Arnolf  of  Ebersdorf;  the  mention 
of  him  makes  thee  ever  sad,  though  so 
many  years  have  passed  since  his  death. 

ISA.  But  at  present,  dear  husband, 
have  I  not  the  most  just  cause  for  anx- 
iety? Are  not  Henry  and  George  —  our 
beloved  sons,  at  this  very  moment  per- 
haps engaged  in  doubtful  contest  with 
our  hereditary  foe,  Count  Roderic  of 
Maltingen? 

RuD.  Now,  there  lies  the  difference; 
you  sorrow  that  they  are  in  danger.  I 
that  I  cannot  share  it  with  them  — 
Hark !  I  hear  horses'  feet  on  the  draw- 
bridge.    Go  to  the  window,  Isabella. 

IsA.  («/  tlu  ■wiudow).  It  is  Wickerd, 
your  squire. 

RUD.  Then  shall  we  have  tidings  of 
George  and  Henry.  {Enter  WiCKKRD. ) 
How  now,  Wickerd?  Have  you  come 
to  blows  yet  ? 

Wic.  Not  yet,  noble  sir. 

RuD.  Not  yet?  —  shame  on  the  boys' 
dallying  —  what  wait  they  for? 

WiC.  The  foe  is  strongly  posted,  sir 
knight,  upon  the  Wolfshill,  near  the  ruins 
of    Griefenhaus:     therefore    your    noble 


656 


DRAMA  riC  PIECES. 


Act  I. 


son,  George  of  Aspen,  greets  you  well, 
and  requests  twenty  more  men-at-arms, 
and,  after  they  have  joined  him,  he  hopes, 
with  the  aid  of  St.  Theodore,  to  send 
you  news  of  victory. 

RUD.  (^attempts  to  rise  hastily').  Saddle 
my  black  barb;  I  will  head  them  myself. 
(5//5  dtntm.)  A  murrain  on  that  stum- 
bling roan  !  I  had  forgot  my  dislocated 
bones.  Call  Reynold,  Wickerd,  and  bid 
him  take  all  whom  he  can  spare  from  de- 
fence of  the  castle  —  (Wickerd  isgoing') 
—  and  ho!  Wickerd,  carry  with  you  my 
black  barb,  and  bid  George  charge  upon 
him.  {Exit  Wickerd.)  Now  see,  Isa- 
bella, if  I  disregard  the  boy's  safety;  I 
send  him  the  best  horse  ever  knight  be- 
strode. When  we  lay  before  Ascalon, 
indeed,  I  had  a  bright  bay  Persian  — 
Thou  dost  not  heed  me. 

ISA.  Forgive  me,  dear  husband:  are 
not  our  sons  in  danger?  Will  not  our 
sins  be  visited  upon  them?  Is  not  their 
present  situation  — 

Ri;d.  Situation?  I  know  it  well:  as 
fair  a  field  for  open  fight  as  I  ever  hunted 
over :  see  here  —  (makes  lines  on  the 
table)  —  here  is  the  ancient  castle  of 
Griefenhaus  in  ruins,  here  the  Wolfshill; 
and  here  the  marsh  on  the  right. 

IsA.  The  marsh  of  Griefenhaus? 

RuD.  Yes;   by  that  the  boys  must  pass. 

ISA.  Pass  there !  {Apart.)  Avenging 
Heaven !  thy  hand  is  upon  us ! 

[  Exit  hastily, 

Rud.  Whither  now?  Whither  now? 
She  is  gone.  Thus  it  goes.  Peter ! 
Peter!  {Enter  Peter.)  Help  me  to 
the  gallery,  that  I  may  see  them  on 
horseback. 

[Exit,  leaning  on  Peter. 

Scene  II. 

The  inner  court  of  the  castle  of  Ebersdorf ; 
a  quadrangle,  surrounded  with  Gothic 
buildings  ;  troopers,  followers  ofl^VDl- 
GER,  pass  and  re-pass  in  haste,  as  if 
preparing  for  an  excursion. 

Wickerd  comes  for^vard. 

Wic.   What,  ho!   Reynold!   Reynold! 
By  our  Lady,  the  spirit  of  the  Seven 


Sleepers    is    upon    him  —  So    ho !     not 
mounted  yet !     Reynold  !^ 

Enter  Reynold. 

Rey.  Here !  Here !  A  devil  choke 
thy  bawling !  thinkst  thou  old  Reynold 
is  not  as  ready  for  a  skirmish  as  thou  ? 

WiC.  Nay,  nay:  I  did  but  jest;  but, 
by  my  sooth,  it  were  a  shame  should  our 
youngsters  have  yoked  with  Count  Rod- 
eric  before  we  graybeards  come. 

Rey.  Heaven  forfend  !  Our  troopers 
are  but  saddling  their  horses;  five  min- 
utes more,  and  we  are  in  our  stirrups, 
and  then  let  Count  Roderic  sit  fast. 

Wic.  A  plague  on  him  !  he  has  ever 
lain  hard  on  the  skirts  of  our  noble 
master. 

Rey.  Especially  since  he  was  refused 
the  hand  of  our  Lady's  niece,  the  pretty 
Lady  Gertrude. 

WiC.  Ay,  marry !  would  nothing  less 
serve  the  fox  of  Maltingen  than  the 
lovely  lamb  of  our  young  Baron  Henry ! 
By  my  sooth,  Reynold,  when  I  look 
upon  these  two  lovers,  they  make  me 
full  twenty  years  younger;  and  when  I 
meet  the  man  that  would  divide  them  ^- 
I  say  nothing  —  but  let  him  look  to  it. 

Rey.    And  how  fare  our  young  lords? 

Wic.  Each  well  in  his  humor —  Baron 
George  stern  and  cold,  according  to  his 
wont,  and  his  brother  as  cheerful  as  ever. 

Rey.  Well !  — Baron  Henry  for  me. 

Wic.  Yet  George  saved  thy  life. 

Rey.  True  —  with  as  nnich  indifference 
as  if  he  had  been  snatching  a  chestnut 
out  of  the  fire.  Now,  Baron  Henry  wept 
for  my  danger  and  my  wounds.  There- 
fore George  shall  ever  command  my  life, 
but  Henry  my  love. 

Wic.  Nay,  Baron  George  shows  his 
gloomy  spirit  even  by  the  choice  of  a 
favorite. 

Rey.  Ay  —  Martin,  formerly  the  squire 
of  Arnolf  of  Ebersdorf,  his  mother's  first 
husband.  —  I  marvel  he  could  not  have 
fitted  himself  with  an  attendant  from 
among  the  faithful  followers  of  his  worthy 
father,  whom  Arnolf  and  his  adherents 
used  to  hate  as  the  Devil  hates  holy  water. 
But  Martin  is  a  good  soldier,  and  has 


Scene  III. 


THE  HOUSE    OF  ASPEN. 


657 


stood  toughly  by  George  in  many  a  hard 
brunt. 

Wic.  The  knave  is  sturdy  enough,  but 
so  sulky  withal.  —  I  have  seen,  brother 
Reynold,  that  when  Martin  showed  his 
moody  visage  at  the  banquet,  our  noble 
mistress  has  dropped  the  wine  she  was 
raising  to  her  lips,  and  exchanged  her 
smiles  for  a  ghastly  frown,  as  if  sorrow 
went  by  sympathy,  as  kissing  goes  by 
favor. 

Rey.  His  appearance  reminds  her  of 
her  first  husband,  and  thou  hast  well 
seen  that  makes  her  ever  sad. 

Wic.  Dost  thou  marvel  at  that?  She 
was  married  to  Arnolf  by  a  species  of 
force,  and  they  say  that  before  his  death 
he  compelled  her  to  swear  never  to  es- 
pouse Rudiger.  The  priests  will  not 
absolve  her  for  the  breach  of  that  vow, 
and  therefore  she  is  troubled  in   mind. 

For,  d'ye  mark  me,  Reynold 

[fitigle  sounds. 

Rey.  a  truce  to  your  preaching  !  To 
horse  !  and  a  blessing  on  your  arms  ! 

Wic.  St.  George  grant  it !     [  Exeunt. 

Scene  III. 

The  gallery  of  the  castle,  terminating  in 
a  large  balcony  commanding  a  distant 
prospect.  —  Voices,  bugle-horns,  kettle- 
drums, trampling  of  horses,  etc.,  are 
heard  without. 

Rudiger,  leaning  on  Peter,  looks  from 
the  balcony.  Gertrude  and  Isa- 
bella are  near  him. 

RuD.  There  they  go  at  length  —  look, 
Isabella!  look,  my  pretty  Gertrude  — 
these  are  the  iron-handed  warriors  who 
shall  tell  Roderic  what  it  will  cost  him  to 
force  thee  from  my  protection  — {Flour- 
ish without.  Rudiger  stretches  his  arms 
from  the  balcony.^  Go,  my  children, 
and  God's  blessing  with  you.  Look  at 
my  black  barb,  Gertrude.  That  horse 
shall  let  daylight  in  through  a  phalanx, 
were  it  twenty  pikes  deep.  Shame  on  it 
that  I  cannot  mount  him !  Seest  thou 
how  fierce  old  Reynold  looks? 

Ger.  I  can  hardly  know  my  friends  in 
their  armor. 


[  Tlu  bugles  and  kettle-drums  are 
heard  as  at  a  greater  distance. 

RuD.  Now  I  could  tell  every  one  of 
their  names,  even  at  this  distance;  ay, 
and  were  they  covered,  as  I  have  seen 
them,  with  dust  and  blood.  He  on 
the  dapple  gray  is  Wickerd  —  a  hardy 
fellow,  but  somewhat  given  to  prating. 
That  is  young  Conrad  who  gallops  so 
fast,  page  to  thy  Henry,  my  girl. 

[Bugles,  etc.,  at  a  greater  distance 
still. 

Ger.  Heaven  guard  them  !  Alas !  the 
voice  of  war  that  calls  the  blood  into 
your  cheeks,  chills  and  freezes  mine. 

RuD.  Say  not  so.  It  is  glorious,  my 
girl,  glorious!  See  how  their  armor 
glistens  as  they  wind  round  yon  hill ! 
how  their  spears  glimmer  amid  the  long 
train  of  dust.  Hark  !  you  can  still  hear 
the  faint  notes  of  their  trumpets  — 
( Bugles  very  faint. )  —  And  Rudiger, 
old  Rudiger  with  the  iron  arm,  as  the 
crusaders  used  to  call  me,  must  remain 
behind  with  the  priests  and  the  women. 
Well!  well!— (5-/«^.) 

"  It  was  a  knight  to  battle  rode, 

And  as  his  war-horse  he  bestrode"  — 

Fill  me  a  bowl  of  wine,  Gertrude;  and 
do  thou,  Peter,  call  the  minstrel  who 
came  last  night.  —  {Sings.) 

"  Off  rode  the  horseman,  dash,  sa,  sa  I 
And  stroked  his  whiskers,  tra,  la  la."  — 

(Peter  goes  out.  —  Rudiger  sits  dotim, 
and  Gertrude  helps  him  with  7vine.) 
Thanks,  my  love.  It  tastes  ever  best 
from  thy  hand.  Isal)ella,  here  is  glory 
and  victory  to  our  boys — {Drinks.)  — 
Wilt  thou  not  pledge  me? 

ISA.  To  their  safety,  and  God  grant 
it !  —  (  Drinks. ) 

Enter  BERTRAM  as  a   minstrel,  with  a 
boy  bearing  his  harp.  —  Also  Petkr. 

RuD.  Thy  name,  minstrel? 

Ber.  Minhold,  so  please  you. 

RuD.  Art  thou  a  German? 

Ber.  Yes,  noble  sir;  and  of  this  prov- 


658 


DRAMATIC  PIECES. 


Act  I. 


RuD.  Sing  me  a  song  of  battle. 

[Bertram  sings  to  the  harp. 

RuD.  Thanks,  minstrel :  well  sung, 
and  lustily.     What  sayst  thou,  Isabella? 

IsA.   I  marked  him  not. 

RuD.  Nay,  in  sooth  you  are  too  anx- 
ious. Cheer  up.  Anil  thou,  too,  my 
lovely  Gertrude:  in  a  few  hours  thy 
Henry  shall  return,  and  twine  his  laurels 
into  a  garland  for  thy  hair.  He  fights 
for  thee,  and  he  must  conquer. 

Ger.  Alas!  must  blood  be  spilled  for 
a  silly  maiden? 

RuD.  Surely;  for  what  should  knights 
break  lances  Ijut  for  honor  and  ladies' 
love  • —  ha,  minstrel  ? 

Ber.  So  please  you  —  also  to  punish 
crimes. 

RuD.  Out  upon  it !  wouldst  have  us  ex- 
ecutioners, minstrel?  Such  work  would 
disgrace  our  blades.  We  leave  male- 
factors to  the  Secret  Tribunal. 

IsA.  Merciful  God  !  Tliou  hast  spoken 
a  word,  Rudiger,  of  dreadful  import. 

Ger.  They  say,  that  unknown  and  in- 
visible themselves,  these  awful  judges  are 
ever  present  with  the  guilty;  that  the  past 
and  the  present  misdeeds,  the  secrets  of 
the  confessional,  nay,  the  very  thoughts 
of  the  heart,  are  before  them;  that  their 
doom  is  as  sure  as  that  of  fate,  the  means 
and  executioners  unknown. 

RuD.  They  say  true  ^  the  secrets  of 
that  association,  and  the  names  of  those 
who  compose  it,  are  as  inscrutable  as  the 
grave:  we  only  know  that  it  has  taken 
deep  root,  and  spread  its  branches  wide. 
I  sit  down  each  day  in  my  hall,  nor  know 
how  many  of  these  secret  judges  may 
surround  me,  all  bountl  by  the  most 
solemn  vow  to  avenge  guilt.  Once,  and 
but  once,  a  knight,  at  the  earnest  request 
and  inquiries  of  the  emperor,  hinted  that 
he  belonged  to  the  society:  the  next 
morning  he  was  found  slain  in  a  forest: 
the  poniard  was  left  in  the  wound,  and 
bore  this  label  —  "  Thus  do  the  invisible 
judges  punish  treachery." 

Ger.  Gracious!   aunt,  you  grow  pale. 

ISA.    A  slight  indisposition  only. 

Rui).  And  what  of  it  all?  We  know 
our  hearts  are  open  to  our  Creator :  shall 
we  fear  any  earthly  inspection?     Come 


to  the  battlements;  there  we  shall  soonest 
descry  the  return  of  our  warriors. 

[Exit  Rudiger,  with  Gertrude  ami 
Peter. 

IsA.  Minstrel,  send  the  chaplain  hither. 
(^Exit  Bertram.)  Gracious  Heaven! 
the  guileless  innocence  of  my  niece,  the 
manly  honesty  of  my  upright-hearted 
Rudiger,  become  daily  tortures  to  me. 
While  he  was  engaged  in  active  and 
stormy  exploits,  fear  for  his  safety,  joy 
when  he  returned  to  his  castle,  enabled 
me  to  disguise  my  inward  anguish  from 
others.  But  from  myself  —  Judges  of 
blood,  that  lie  concealed  in  noontide  as 
in  midnight,  who  boast  to  avenge  the 
hidden  guilt,  and  to  penetrate  the  re- 
cesses of  the  human  breast,  how  blind  is 
your  penetration,  how  vain  your  dagger, 
and  your  cord,  compared  to  the  con- 
science of  the  sinner  ! 

Enter  Father  Lunovic. 

IvUn.   Peace  be  with  you,  lady  ! 

Isa.  It  is  not  with  me:  it  is  thy  office 
to  bring  it. 

LuD.  And  the  cause  is  the  absence  of 
the  young  knights? 

Isa.  Their  absence  and  their  danger. 

LuD.  Daughter,  thy  hand  has  been 
stretched  out  in  bounty  to  the  sick  and 
to  the  needy.  Thou  hast  not  denied  a 
shelter  to  the  weary,  nor  a  tear  to  the 
afflicted.  Trust  in  their  prayers,  and  in 
those  of  the  holy  convent  thou  hast 
founded:  peradventure  they  will  bring 
back  thy  children  to  thy  bosom. 

Isa.  Thy  brethren  cannot  pray  for  mc 
or  mine.  Their  vow  binds  them  to  pray 
night  and  day  for  another — to  suppli- 
cate, without  ceasing,  the  Eternal  Mercy 
for  the  soul  of  one  who  —  Oh,  only 
Heaven  knows  how  much  he  needs  their 
prayer ! 

LuD.  Unbounded  is  the  mercy  of 
Heaven.  The  soul  of  thy  former  hus- 
band   

Isa.  I  charge  thee,  priest,  mention 
not  the  word.  {Apart.)  Wretch  that 
I  am,  the  meanest  menial  in  my  train 
has  power  to  goad  me  to  madness ! 

LuD.  Hearken  to  me,  daughter;  thy 
crime  against  Arnolf  of  Ebersdorf  can- 


Scene  III, 


THE  HOUSE   OF  ASPEN. 


659 


not  bear  in  the  eye  of  Heaven  so  deep  a 
dye  of  guilt. 

IsA.  Repeat  that  once  more;  say  once 
again  that  it  cannot  —  cannot  bear  so 
deep  a  dye.  Prove  to  me  that  ages  of 
the  bitterest  penance,  that  tears  of  the 
dearest  blood,  can  erase  such  guilt. 
Prove  but  that  to  mo,  and  I  will  build 
thee  an  abbey  which  shall  put  to  shame 
the  fairest  fane  in  Christendom. 

LuD.  Nay,  nay,  daughter,  your  con- 
science is  over  tender.  Supposing  that, 
under  dread  of  the  stern  Arnolf,  you 
swore  never  to  marry  your  present  hus- 
band, still  the  exacting  such  an  oath  was 
unlawful,  and  the  Ijreach  of  it  venial. 

ISA.  (^resuming  her  composure).  Be 
it  so,  good  father:  I  yield  to  thy  l>etter 
reasons.  And  now  tell  me,  has  thy 
pious  care  achieved  the  task  I  intrusted 
to  thee? 

LuD.  Of  superintending  the  erection 
of  the  new  hospital  for  pilgrims  ?  I  have, 
noble  lady:  and  last  night  the  minstrel 
now  in  the  castle  lodged  there. 

IsA.  Wherefore  came  he  then  to  the 
castle? 

Lun.  Reynold  brought  the  commands 
of  the  Baron. 

ISA.  Whence  comes  he,  and  what  is 
his  tale?  When  he  sung  before  Rudiger, 
I  thought  that  long  liefore  I  had  heard 
such  tones  —  seen  such  a  face. 

LuD.  It  is  possible  you  may  have  seen 
him,  lady,  for  he  boasts  to  have  l>een 
known  to  Arnolf  of  ElxTsdorf,  and  to 
have  lived  formerly  in  this  castle.  He 
inquires  much  after  Martin,  Arnolf's 
squire. 

IsA.  Go,  Ludovic — go  quick,  good 
father,  seek  him  out,  give  him  this  purse, 
and  bid  him  leave  the  castle,  and  speed 
him  on  his  way. 

LuD.   May  I  ask  why,  noble  lady? 

ISA.  Thou  art  inquisitive,  priest;  I 
honor  the  servants  of  God,  but  I  foster 
not  the  pr^-ing  spirit  of  a  monk.  Begone  ! 

LuD.  But  the  Baron,  lady,  will  expect 
a  reason  why  I  dismiss  his  guest? 

ISA.  True,  true  {recollecting  /lerself): 
pardon  my  wnrnilh,  good  father,  I  was 
thinking  of  the  cuckoo  that  grows  too 
big    for    the    nest   of    the   sparrow,   and 


strangles  its  foster-mother.  Do  no  such 
birds  roost  in  convent-walls? 

LuD.   Lady,  I  understand  you  not. 

ISA.  Well,  then,  say  to  the  Baron,  that 
I  have  dismissed  long  ago  all  the  attend- 
ants of  the  man  of  whom  thou  hast 
spoken,  and  that  I  wish  to  have  none  of 
them  beneath  my  roof. 

LuD.   {inquisitively).  Except  Martin? 

ISA.  (sliarply).  Except  Martin !  who 
saved  the  life  of  my  son  George!  Do  as 
I  command  thee.  [Exit. 

Manet  LuDOVlC. 

LuD.  Ever  the  same  —  stern  and  per- 
emptory to  others  as  rigorous  to  herself; 
haughty  even  to  me,  to  whom,  in  another 
mood,  she  has  knelt  for  absolution,  and 
whose  knees  she  has  bathed  in  tears.  I 
cannot  fathom  her.  The  unnatural  zeal 
with  which  she  performs  her  dreadful 
penances  cannot  be  religion,  for  shrewdly 
I  guess  she  l^elieves  not  in  their  blessed 
efficacy.  Well  for  her  that  she  is  the 
foundress  of  our  convent,  otherwise  we 
might  not  have  erred  in  denouncing  her 
as  a  heretic!  \Exit. 

ACT  II.— Scene  I. 

A  ii]oodland  prospect.  —  Through  a  long 
avenue,  half-gro7V)t  tip  by  brambles,  are 
discerned  in  the  background  the  ruins 
of  the  ancient  Castle  of  Grief euhaus. — 
The  distant  noise  of  battle  is  heard  dur- 
ing this  scene. 

Enter  George  of  Aspen,  armed  -unth  a 
battle-axe  in  his  hand,  as  from  horse- 
back. He  supports  Martin,  and  brings 
him  forward. 

Geo.  Lay  thee  down  here,  old  friend. 
The  enemy's  horsemen  will  hardly  take 
their  way  among  these  branches,  through 
which  I  have  dragged  thee. 

Mar.  Oh,  do  not  leave  me!  leave  me 
not  an  instant !  My  moments  are  now 
but  few,  and  I  would  profit  by  them. 

Geo.  Martin,  you  forget  yourself  and 
me  —  I  must  back  to  the  field. 

Mar.  {attempts  to  rise).  Then  drag  rne 
back  thither  also;  I  cannot  die  but  in 
your  presence  —  I  dare  not  be  alone. 
Stay,  to  give  peace  to  my  parting  soul. 


66o 


DRAMATIC  PIECES. 


Act  II. 


Geo.  I  am  no  priest,  Martin.  {Going.) 

Mar.  (^raising  himself  luith  great 
pain).  Baron  George  of  Aspen,  I  saved 
thy  life  in  battle :  for  that  good  deed, 
hear  me  but  one  moment. 

Geo.  I  hear  thee,  my  poor  friend. 
(Returning.) 

Mar.  But  come  close  —  very  close. 
See'st  thou,  sir  knight  —  this  wound  I 
bore  for  thee  —  and  this — and  this — 
dost  thou  not  remember? 

Geo.  I  do. 

Mar.  I  have  served  thee  since  thou 
wast  a  child ;  served  thee  faithfully  — 
was  never  from  thy  side. 

Geo.  Thou  hast. 

Mar.  And  now  I  die  in  thy  service. 

Geo.  Thou  may'st  recover. 

Mar.  I  cannot.  By  my  long  service 
—  by  my  scars — by  this  mortal  gash, 
and  by  the  death  that  I  am  to  die  —  oh, 
do  not  hate  me  for  what  I  am  now  to 
unfold ! 

Geo.  Be  assured  I  can  never  hate 
thee. 

Mar.  Ah,  thou  little  knowest. — Swear 
to  me  thou  wilt  speak  a  word  of  comfort 
to  my  parting  soul. 

Geo.  (fakes  his  hand).  I  swear  I  will. 
(Alarum  anJ  shouting.)  But  be  brief  — 
thou  knowest  my  haste. 

Mar.  Hear  me,  then.  I  was  the 
squire,  the  beloved  and  favorite  attend- 
ant, of  Arnolf  of  Ebersdorf.  Arnolf  was 
savage  as  the  mountain  bear.  He  loved 
the  Lady  Isabel,  liut  she  requited  not  his 
passion.  She  loved  thy  father;  but  her 
sire,  old  Arnheim,  was  the  friend  of 
Arnolf,  and  she  was  forced  to  marry 
him.  By  midnight,  in  the  chapel  of 
Ebersdorf,  the  ill-omened  rites  were  per- 
formed; her  resistance,  her  screams  were 
in  vain.  These  arms  detained  htr  at  the 
altar  till  the  nuptial  lienediction  was  pro- 
nounced.    Canst  thou  forgive  me? 

Geo.  I  do  forgive  thee.  Thy  obedi- 
ence to  thy  savage  master  has  ])een  ol>- 
literated  by  a  long  train  of  service  to  his 
widow. 

Mar.  Services !  ay,  bloody  services ! 
for  they  commenced  —  do  not  quit  my 
hand  —  they  commenced  with  the  murder 
of  my  master.    (George  ijuits  his  hand. 


and  stands  aghast  in  speechless  horror.) 
Trample  on  me !  pursue  me  with  your 
dagger !  I  aided  your  mother  to  poison 
her  first  husband !  I  thank  Heaven,  it  is 
said. 

Geo.  My  mother  ?  Sacred  Heaven ! 
Martin,  thou  ravest — the  fever  of  thy 
wound  has  distracted  thee. 

Mar.  No  !  I  am  not  mad  !  Would  to  ' 
God  I  were  !  Try  me  !  Yonder  is  the 
Wolfshill  —  yonder  the  old  castle  of 
Griefenhaus  —  and  yonder  is  the  hemlock 
marsh  (in  a  whisper)  where  I  gathered 
the  deadly  plant  that  drugged  Arnolf's 
cup  of  death.  (George  traverses  the 
stage  in  the  ntniost  agitatio7i,  atid  some- 
times stands  over  Martin  with  his  hands 
clasped  together.^  Oh,  had  you  seen  him 
when  the  potion  look  effect !  Had  you 
heard  his  ravings,  and  seen  th.;  contor- 
tions of  his  ghastly  visage !  —  He  died 
furious  and  impenitent,  as  he  lived;  and 
went  —  where  [  am  shortly  to  go.  You 
do  not  speak? 

Geo.  {juith  exertion).  Miserable 
wretch  !  how  can  I  ? 

Mar.   Can  you  not  forgive  me? 

Geo.  May  God  pardon  thee  —  I  can- 
not! 

M/ .1.  I  saved  thy  life  — 

Geo.  For  that,  take  my  curse!  (He 
snatches  up  his  battle-axe,  and  rushes  out 
to  the  side  from  which  the  7ioise  is  heard.) 

Mar.  Hear  me  !  yet  more  —  more 
horror  !  (Attempts  to  rise,  and  falls  heav- 
ily.    A  Icntd  alarum.) 

Enter  WlCKERD,  hastily. 

Wic.  In  the  name  of  God,  Martin, 
lend  me  thy  brand  ! 

Mar.  Take  it. 

Wic.  Where  is  it  ? 

Mar.  (looks  wildlv  at  him).  In  the 
cha]iel  at  Ebersdorf,  or  buried  in  the 
hemlock  marsh. 

Wic.  The  old  grumbler  is  crazy  with 
his  wounds.  Mnrtin,  if  thou  hast  a 
spark  of  reason  in  thee,  give  me  thy 
sword.     The  dny  goes  sore  against  us. 

Mar.  There  it  lies.  Bury  it  in  the 
heart  of  thy  master  George,  thdu  wilt  do 
him  a  good  office  —  the  office  of  a  faith- 
ful servant. 


SCKN'E    I 


THE  HOUSE   OF  ASPEN. 


66i 


Enter  CoNRAD. 
Con.  Away,  Wicktrd !  to  horse,  and 
pursue  !  Baron  George  has  turned  the 
day;  he  fights  more  like  a  fiend  than  a 
man:  he  has  unhorsed  Roderic,  and 
slain  six  of  his  troopers — they  are  in 
headlong  fight  —  the  hemlock  marsh  is 
red  with  their  gore !  (Martin  gives  a 
deep  groan,  and  faints.')  Away!  away! 
(  'I'/iey  hurry  off,  as  to  the  pursuit.) 

Enter  Roderic  ok  Maltingen,  -without 
his  helmet,  his  arms  disordered  and 
broken,  holding  the  truncheon  of  a  spear 
in  his  hand ;  with  him.  Baron  Wolf- 

STEIN. 

Rod.  a  curse  on  fortune,  and  a  double 
curse  upon  George  of  Aspen !  Never, 
never  will  I  forgive  him  my  disgrace  — 
overthrown  like  a  rotten  trunk  before  a 
whirlwind ! 

Wolf.  Be  comforted.  Count  Roderic; 
it  is  well  we  have  escaped  being  prison- 
ers. See  how  the  troopers  of  Aspen 
pour  along  the  plain,  like  the  billows  of 
the  Rhine !  It  is  good  we  are  shrouded 
by  the  thicket. 

Rod.  Why  took  he  not  my  life,  when 
he  robbed  me  of  my  honor  and  my  love? 
Why  did  his  spear  not  pierce  my  heart, 
when  mine  shivered  on  his  arms  like  a 
frail  bulrush  ?  (7  hrows  do7vn  the  broken 
spear.)  Bear  witness,  heaven  and  earth, 
I  outlive  this  disgrace  only  to  avenge ! 

Woi.F.  Be  comforted;  the  knights  of 
Aspen  have  not  gained  a  bloodless  vic- 
tory. And  see,  there  lies  one  of  George's 
followers  —  (  Seeing  Martin.  ) 

Rod.  His  squire  Martin;  if  he  be  not 
dead,  we  will  secure  him:  he  is  the  de- 
pository of  the  secrets  of  his  master. 
Arouse  thee,  trusty  follower  of  the  house 
of  Aspen ! 

Mar.  (reviving.)  Leave  me  not !  leave 
me  not !  Baron  George  !  my  eyes  are 
darkened  with  agony !  I  have  not  yet 
told  all. 

Wolf.  The  old  man  takes  you  for  his 
master. 

Rod.  What  wouldst  thou  tell? 

Mar.  Oh,  I  would  tell  all  the  tempta- 
tions by  which  I  was  urged  to  the  mur- 
der of  Ebersdorf ! 


Rod.  Murder  !  —  this  is  worth  mark- 
ing.    Proceed. 

Mar.  I  loved  a  maiden,  daughter  of 
Arnolf's  steward;  my  master  seduced  her 
^she  became  an  outcast,  and  died  in 
misery  —  I  vowed  vengeance  —  and  I 
did  avenge  her. 

Rod.  Iladst  thou  accomplices? 

Mar.  None,  but  thy  mother. 

Rod.  The  Lady  Isabella! 

Mar.  Ay;  she  hated  her  husband :  he 
knew  her  love  to  Rudiger,  and  when  she 
heard  that  thy  father  was  returned  from 
Palestine,  her  life  was  endangered  by  the 
transports  of  his  jealousy — thus  prepared 
for  evil,  the  fiend  tempted  us,  and  we  fell. 

Rod.  {breaks  into  a  transport).  For- 
tune !  thou  hast  repaid  me  all !  Love 
and  vengeance  are  my  own  !  —  Wolf- 
stein,  recall  our  followers!  quick,  sound 
thy  bugle —  (WCLFSFEIN  sounds.) 

Mar.  (stares  wildly  round).  That 
was  no  note  of  Aspen— Count  Roderic 
of  Maltingen  —  Heavens  !  what  have  I 
said ! 

Rod.  What  thou  canst  not  recall. 

Mar.  Then  is  my  fate  decreed  !  'Tis 
as  it  should  be !  in  this  very  place  was 
the  poison  gather 'd  —  'tis  retribution  ! 

Enter  three  or  four  soldiers  of  Rod  ERIC. 

Rod.  Secure  this  wounded  trooper; 
bind  bis  wounds  and  guard  him  well: 
carry  him  to  the  ruins  of  Griefenhaus, 
and  conceal  him  till  the  troopers  of  Aspen 
have  retired  from  the  pursuit;  — look  to 
him,  as  you  love  your  lives. 

Mar.  {led  off  ly  soldiers).  Ministers 
of  vengeance  !  my  hour  is  come  !  \F.xeunt. 

Rod.  Hope,  joy,  and  triumph,  once 
again  are  ye  mine  !  Welcome  to  my  heart, 
long-absent  visitants  !  One  lucky  chance 
has  thrown  dominion  into  the  scale  of  the 
house  of  Maltingen,  and  Aspen  kicks  the 
beam. 

Wolf.  I  foresee,  indeed,  dishonor  to 
the  family  of  Aspen,  should  this  wounded 
squire  make  good  his  tale. 

Rod.  And  how  thinkest  thou  this  dis- 
grace will  fall  on  them? 

Wolf.  Surely  by  the  public  ptinisb- 
ment  of  Lady  Isabella. 

Rod,  And  is  that  all? 


662 


DRAMA  TIC  PIECES. 


Act  II. 


Wolf.   What  more? 

Rod.  Shortsighted  that  thou  art,  is  not 
George  of  Aspen,  as  well  as  thou,  a  mem- 
ber of  the  holy  and  invisible  circle,  over 
which  I  preside. 

Wolf.  Speak  lower,  for  God's  sake ! 
these  are  things  not  to  be  mentioned  be- 
fore the  sun. 

Rod.  True;  but  stands  he  not  bound  by 
the  most  solemn  oath  religion  can  devise, 
to  discover  to  the  tribunal  whatever  con- 
cealed iniquity  shall  come  to  his  knowl- 
edge, be  the  Perpetrator  whom  he  may  — 
ay,  were  that  perpetrator  his  own  father 
—  or  mother;  and  can  you  doubt  that  he 
has  heard  Martin's  confession? 

Wolf.  True;  but,  blessed  Virgin  !  do 
you  think  he  will  accuse  his  own  mother 
before  the  invisible  judges? 

Rod.  If  not,  he  becomes  foresworn, 
and,  by  our  law,  must  die.  Either  way 
my  vengeance  is  complete  —  perjured  or 
parricide,  I  care  not;  but,  as  the  one  or 
the  other  shall  I  crush  the  haughty  George 
of  Aspen. 

Wolf.  Thy  vengeance  strikes  deep. 

Rod.  Deep  as  the  wounds  I  have  borne 
from  this  proud  family.  Rudiger  slew  my 
father  in  battle  — George  has  twice  baffled 
and  dishonored  my  arms,  and  Henry  has 
stolen  the  heart  of  my  beloved :  but  no 
longer  can  Gertrude  now  remain  under 
the  care  of  the  murderous  dam  of  this 
brood  of  wolves;  far  less  can  she  wed  the 
smooth-cheeked  boy,  when  this  scene  of 
villany  shall  be  disclosed.  [Bii^/e. 

Wolf.  Hark !  they  sound  a  retreat : 
let  us  go  deeper  into  the  wood. 

Rod.  The  victors  approach !  I  shall 
dash  their  triumph  !  —  Issue  the  private 
summons  for  convoking  the  niemliers  this 
very  evening;  I  will  direct  the  other 
measures. 

Wolf.  What  place? 

Rod.  The  old  chapel  in  the  ruins  of 
Griefenhaus,  as  usual.  [Exeunt. 

Scene  II. 

Enter  George  of  Aspen,  as  from  the 
pursuit. 

Geo.  (comes  slowly  forwariC).  How 
many  wretches  have  sunk  under  my  arm 


this  day,  to  whom  life  was  sweet,  though 
the  wretched  bondsmen  of  Count  Rod- 
eric  !  And  I  —  I  who  sought  death  be- 
neath every  lifted  battle-axe,  and  offered 
my  breast  to  every  arrow  —  I  am  cursed 
with  victory  and  safety.      Here  I  left  the 

wretch Martin  !  —  Martin  !  — what, 

ho  !  Martin  !  —  Mother  of  God  !  he  is 
gone!  —  Should  he  repeat  the  dreadful 
tale  to  any  other —  Martin  !  —  He  answers 
not.  Perhaps  he  has  crept  into  the 
thicket,  and  died  there  — were  it  so,  the 
horrible  secret  is  only  mine. 

Enter  Henry  of  Aspen,  -with  Wickerd, 
Reynold,  and  followers. 

Hen.  Joy  to  thee,  brother!  though, 
by  St.  Francis,  I  would  not  gain  another 
field  at  the  price  of  seeing  thee  fight 
with  such  reckless  desperation.  I'hy 
safety  is  little  less  than  miraculous. 

Rkv.  By'r  Lady,  when  Baron  Cieorge 
struck,  I  think  he  must  have  forgot  that 
his  foes  were  God's  creatures.  Such 
furious  doings  I  never  saw,  and  I  have 
been  a  trooper  these  forty-two  years 
come  St.  Barnaby  — 

Geo.   Peace!     Sawany  of  you  Martin? 

Wic.  Noble  sir,  I  left  him  here  not 
long  since. 

Geo.  Alive  or  dead  ? 

WiC.  Alive,  noble  sir,  but  sorely 
wounded.  I  think  he  must  be  prisoner, 
for  he  could  not  have  budged  else  from 
hence. 

Geo.  Heedless  slave  !  Why  didst  thou 
leave  him? 

Hen.  Dear  brother,  Wickerd  acted 
for  the  best;  he  came  to  our  assistance 
and  the  aid  of  his  companions. 

Geo.  I  tell  thee,  Henry,  Martin's 
safety  was  of  more  importance  than  the 
lives  of  any  ten  that  stand  here. 

WiC.  (muttering).  Here's  much  to 
do  about  an  old  crazy  trencher-shifter. 

Geo.  What  mutterest  thou? 

Wic.  Only,  sir  knight,  that  Martin 
seemed  out  of  his  senses  when  I  left  him, 
and  has  perhaps  wandered  into  the  marsh, 
and  perished  there. 

Geo.  How — out  of  his  senses?  Did 
he  speak  to  thee  ?  —  (Apprehensively. ) 

Wic,  Yes,  noble  sir. 


Scene  II. 


THE  HOUSE    OF  ASPEN. 


663 


Geo.  Dear  Henry,  step  for  an  instant 
to  yon  tree  —  thou  wilt  see  from  thence 
if  the  foe  rally  upon  the  Wolfshill. 
(Henry  retires.')  And  do  you  stand 
back  (lo  the  soldiers). 

[He  brings  WlCKKKU /onvari/. 

Geo.  {jxiitk  marked  apprehension). 
What  did  Martin  say  to  thee,  Wickerd? 
—  tell  me,  on  thy  allegiance. 

Wic.  Mere  ravings,  sir  knight  — 
offered  me  his  sword  to  kill  you. 

Geo.  Said  he  aught  of  killing  any  one 
else? 

Wic.  No;  the  pain  of  his  wound 
seemed  to  have  brought  on  a  fever. 

Geo.  (^clasps  his  hands  together).  I 
breathe  again  —  I  spy  comfort.  Why 
could  I  not  see  as  well  as  this  fellow,  that 
the  wounded  wretch  may  have  been  dis- 
tracted? Let  me  at  least  think  so  till 
proof  shall  show  the  truth.  {Aside.) 
Wickerd,  think  not  on  what  I  said  — 
the  heat  of  the  battle  had  chafed  my 
blood.  Thou  hast  wished  for  the  Nether- 
farm  at  Ebersdorf  —  it  shall  be  thine. 

Wic.  Thanks,  my  noble  lord. 

Re-enter  Henry. 

Hen.  No — they  do  not  rally  —  they 
have  had  enough  of  it  —  but  Wickerd 
and  Conrad  shall  remain,  with  twenty 
troopers  and  a  score  of  crosslxjwmen, 
and  scour  the  woods  towards  Griefenhaus, 
to  prevent  the  fugitives  from  making  head. 
We  will,  with  the  rest,  to  Ebersdorf. 
What  say  you,  brother? 

Geo.  Well  ordered.  Wickerd,  look 
thou  search  everywhere  for  Martin; 
bring  him  to  mc  dead  or  alive;  leave 
not  a  nook  of  the  wood  unsought. 

Wic.  I  warrant  you,  noble  sir,  I  shall 
find  him,  could  he  clew  himself  up  like 
a  dormouse. 

Hen.  I  think  he  must  be  prisoner. 

Geo.  Heaven  forfend  !  Take  a  trum- 
pet, Eustace  (/<'  an  attendant),  ride  to 
the  castle  of  Maltingen,  and  demand  a 
parley.  If  Martin  is  prisoner,  offer  any 
ransom;  offer  ten  —  twenty  —  all  our 
prisoners  in  exchange. 

Eus.   It  shall  be  done,  sir  knight. 

Hen.  Ere  we  go,  sound  trumpets  — 
strike  up  the  song  of  victory. 


Joy  to  the  victors  !  the  sons  of  old  Aspen  ! 

Joy  to  the  race  of  the  battle  and  scar ! 

Glory's     proud     garland      triumphantly 

grasping; 

Generous  in  peace,  and  victorious  in 

war. 

Honor  acquiring, 
Valor  inspiring, 
Bursting    resistless,    through    foemen 
they  go: 

War-axes  wielding. 
Broken  ranks  yielding. 
Till    from   the   battle  proud    Roderic 
retiring. 
Yields  in  wild  rout  the  fair  oalm  to  his 
foe. 

Joy  to    each    warrior,    true  follower   of 
Aspen ! 
Joy  to  the  heroes  that  gain'd  the  bold 
day! 
Health  to  our  wounded,  in  agony  gasping; 
Peace  to  our  brethren  that  fell  in  the 
fray! 

Boldly  this  morning, 
Roderic's  power  scorning. 
Well  for  their  chieftain  their  blades  did 
they  wield; 

Joy  blest  them  dying. 
As  Maltingen  flying. 
Low   laid  his   banners,  our    conquest 
adorning. 
Their  death-clouded  eyeballs  descried  on 
the  field ! 

Now  to  our  home,  the  proud  mansion  of 
Aspen, 
Bend  we,  gay  victors,  triumphant  away : 
There  each  fond  damsel,  her  gallant  youth 
clasping, 
Shall  wipe  from  his  forehead  the  stain? 
of  the  fray. 

Listening  the  prancing 
Of  horses  advancing; 
E'en  now  on  the  turrets  our  maidens 
appear. 

Love  our  hearts  warming, 
Songs  the  night  charming. 
Round  goes  the  grape  in  the  goblet  gay 
dancing; 
Love,  wine,  and  song,  our  blithe  evening 
shall  cheer ! 


664 


DRAMATIC  PIECES. 


Act  III. 


Hen.  Now  spread  our  banners,  and  to 
Ebersdorf  in  triumph.  We  carry  relief  to 
the  anxious,  joy  to  the  heart  of  the  aged, 
brother  George.     (^Goi/igoff.^ 

Geo.     Or  treble  misery  and  death. 

[Afart,  andjollmving slowly.  The 
music  sounds,  and  the  follo^vers 
of  Aspen  begin  to  file  across  the 
stage.    The  curtain  falls. 

ACT  III.  — Scene  I. 

Castle  of  Ebersdorf 

RuDiGER,  Isabella,  «m^/ Gertrude. 

RUD.  I  prithee,  dear  wife,  be  merry. 
It  must  be  over  by  this  time,  and  happily, 
otherwise  the  bad  news  had  reached  us. 

IsA.  Should  we  not,  then,  have  heard 
the  tidings  of  the  good? 

RuD.  Oh  !  these  fly  slower  by  half.  Be- 
sides, I  warrant  all  of  them  engaged  in  the 
pursuit.  Oh  !  not  a  page  would  leave  the 
skirts  of  the  fugitives  till  they  were  fairly 
beaten  into  their  holds;  but  had  the  boys 
lost  the  day,  the  stragglers  had  made  for 
the  castle.  Go  to  the  window,  Gertrude: 
seest  thou  anything? 

Ger.   I  think  I  seea  horseman. 

ISA.  A  single  rider?  then  1  fear  nie 
much. 

Ger.  It  is  only  Father  Ludovic. 

RuD.  A  plague  on  thee  !  didst  thou  take 
a  fat  friar  on  a  mule  for  a  trooper  of  the 
house  of  Aspen? 

Ger.   But  yonder  is  a  cloud  of  dust. 

RuD.   (^eagerly^.  Indeed! 

Ger.  It  is  only  the  wine  sledges  going 
to  my  aunt's  convent. 

RUD.  The  devil  confound  the  wine 
sledges,  and  the  mules,  and  the  monks ! 
Come  from  the  window,  and  torment  me 
no  longer,  thou  seer  of  strange  sights. 

Ger.  Dear  uncle,  what  can  I  do  to 
amuse  you?  Shall  I  tell  you  what  I 
dreamed  this  morning? 

RUD.  Nonsense:  but  say  on;  anything 
is  better  than  silence. 

Ger.  I  thought  I  was  in  the  chapel,  and 
they  were  burying  my  Aunt  Isabella  alive. 
And  who  do  you  think,  aunt,  were  the 
gravediggers  who  shovelled  in  the  earth 
upon  you?  Even  Baron  George  and  old 
Martin. 


ISA.  (^appears shocked.^  Heaven  !  what 
an  idea ! 

Ger.  Do  but  think  of  my  terror  —  and 
Minhold  the  minstrel  played  all  the  while 
to  drown  your  screams. 

RuD.  And  old  Father  Ludovic  danced 
a  saraband,  with  the  steeple  of  the  new 
convent  upon  his  thick  skull  by  way  of 
mitre.  A  truce  to  this  nonsense.  Give 
us  a  song,  my  love,  and  leave  thy  dreams 
and  visions. 

Ger.  What  shall  I  sing  to  you  ? 

RuD.   Sing  to  me  of  war. 

Ger,  I  cannot  sing  of  battle;  but  I  will 
sing  you  the  Lament  of  Eleanor  of  Toro, 
when  her  lover  was  slain  in  the  war. 

ISA.  Oh,  no  laments,  Gertrude. 

RuD.  Then  sing  a  song  of  mirth 

ISA.  Dear  husband,  is  this  a  time  for 
mirth? 

RUD.  Is  it  neither  a  time  to  sing  of 
mirth  nor  of  sorrow?  Isabella  would 
rather  hear  Father  Ludovic  chant  the 
"  De  profundis." 

Ger.  Dear  uncle,  be  not  angry.  At 
present,  I  can  only  sing  the  lay  of  poor 
Eleanor.  It  comes  to  my  heart  at  this 
moment  as  if  the  sorrowful  mourner  had 
been  my  own  sister. 

SONG.* 

Sweet  shone  the  sun  on  the  fair  lake  of 
Toro, 
Weak  were  the  whisp-irs  that  waved  the 
dark  wood, 
As  a  fair  maiden,  bewilder'd  in  sorrow, 
Sigh'd  to  the  breezes  anl  wept  to  the 
flood :  — 
"  Saints,  from  the  mansion  of  bliss  lowly 
bending, 
Virgin,  that  hear'st  the  poor  suppliant's 
cry. 
Grant  my  petition,  in  anguish  ascending. 
My  Frederick  restore,  or  let  Eleanor 
die. 

Distant  and  faint  were  the  sounds  of  the 
battle; 
With  the   breeze?  they  rise,  with  the 
breezes  they  fail, 

*  Compare  with  "The  Maid  of  Toro,"  ante, 
p.  429. 


Scene  I. 


THE  HOUSE    OF  ASPEN. 


665 


Till  the  shout,  and   the  groan,  and  the 
conflict's  dread  rattle, 
And  the  chase's  wild  clamor  came  load- 
ing the  gale. 
Breathless  she  gazed  through  the  wood- 
land so  dreary, 
Slowly    approaching,    a   warrior    was 
seen ; 
Life's  el)bing  tide  marked'his  footsteps  so 
weary, 
Cleft  was  his  helmet,  and  woe  was  his 
mien. 

"  Save  thee,  fair  maid,  for  our  armies  are 

flying; 
Save  thee,  fair  maid,  for  thy  guardian 

is  low; 
Cold  on  yon  heath  thy  bold  Frederick  is 

lying. 
Fast    thro'    the  woodland   approaches 
the  foe." 

[  I'he  voice  of  Gertrude  sinks  by 
degrees^  till  she  bursts  into  tears. 

Rltd.   How  now,  Gertrude? 

Ger.  Alas  !  may  not  the  fate  of  poor 
Eleanor  at  this  moment  be  mine? 

Rui).  Never,  my  girl,  never  !  {Military 
music  is  heard).  Hark!  hark!  to  the 
sounds  that  tell  thee  so. 

[All  rise  and  run  to  the  7vindo7v. 

RuD.  Joy  !  joy  !  they  come,  and  come 
victorious.  (  I'he  chorus  of  the  ivar-song 
is  heard  without.)  Welcome  !  welcome  ! 
once  more  have  my  old  eyes  seen  the 
banners  of  the  house  of  Maltingen 
trampled  in  the  dust. —Isabella,  broach 
our  oldest  casks;  wine  is  sweet  after 
war. 

Enter   Henry,  followed    by    Reynold 
and  troopers. 

Run.  Joy  to  thee,  my  lx»y,  lei  me  press 
thee  to  this  old  heart. 

ISA.  Bless  thee,  my  son  —  (^Embraces 
him.)  Oh,  how  many  hours  of  bitter- 
ness are  compensated  by  this  embrace  ! 
Bless  thee,  my  Henry !  where  hast  thou 
left  thy  brother? 

Hen.  Hard  at  hand  :  by  this  he  is  cross- 
ing the  drawbridge.  Hast  thou  no  greet- 
ings for  me,  Gertrude?     {Goes  to  her.) 

Ger.  I  joy  not  in  battles. 


Rud.  But  she  had  tears  for  thy  danger. 

Hen.  Thanks,  my  gentle  Gertrude. 
See,  I  have  brought  back  thy  scarf  from 
no  inglorious  field. 

Ger.   It  is  bloody!  —  {Shocked.) 

Rud.  Dost  start  at  that,  my  girl? 
VVere  it  his  own  blood,  as  it  is  that  of 
his  foes,  thou  shouldst  glory  in  it.  — Go, 
Reynold,  make  good  cheer  with  thy 
fellows. 

[Exit  Reynold  and  Soldiers. 
Enter  George,  pensively. 

Geo.  {goes  straight  to  Rudiger). 
Father,  thy  blessing. 

Rud.  Thou  hast  it,  boy. 

Is  A.  {rushes  to  embrace  him  —  he 
avoids  her).     How?  art  thou  wounded? 

Geo.  No. 

Rud.  Thou  lookest  deadly  pale. 

Geo.   It  is  nothing. 

IsA.  Heaven's  blessings  on  my  gallant 
George. 

Geo.  {aside).  Dares  she  bestow  a 
blessing?    Oh,  Martin's  tale  was  frenzy  ! 

ISA.  Smile  upon  us  for  once,  my  son; 
darken  not  thy  brow  on  this  day  of 
gladness  • —  few  are  our  moments  of  joy 
—  should  not  my  sons  share  in  them  ? 

Geo.  {aside).  She  has  moments  of 
joy  —  it  was  frenzy,  then  ! 

IsA.  Gertrude,  my  love,  assist  me  to 
disarm  the  knight.  {She  loosens  and 
takes  off  his  casque.) 

Ger.  There  is  one,  two,  three  hacks, 
and  none  has  pierced  the  steel. 

Rud.  Let  me  see.  Let  me  see.  A 
trusty  casque ! 

Ger.  Else  hadst  thou  gone. 

ISA.  I  will  reward  the  armorer  with 
its  weight  in  gold. 

Geo.   {aside).    She  »/»«/ lie  innocent. 

Ger.  And  Henry's  shield  is  hacked, 
too.  Let  me  show  it  to  you,  uncle. 
{She  carries  Henry's  to  Rudiger.) 

Rud.  Do,  my  love;  and  come  hither, 
Henry,  thou  shalt  tell  me  how  the  day 
went. 

[Henry  and  Gertrude  converse 
apart  with  Rudiger;  George 
comes  forward  ;  ISABELLA  r«»i« 
to  him. 

IsA.  Surely,    George,    some   evil   has 


666 


DRAMA  TIC  PIECES. 


Act  hi. 


befallea  thee.  Grave  thou  art  ever,  but 
so  dreadfully  gloomy  — 

Geo.  Evil,  indeed. — (^Aside.')  Now 
for  the  trial. 

IsA.   Has  your  loss  been  great? 

Geo.  No  !  —  Yes !  —  {Apart. )  I  can- 
not do  it. 

ISA.   Perhaps  some  friend  lost? 

Geo.   It  must  be.  —  Martin  is  dead. 

—  (//f  regards  her  with  apprehension, 
but  steadily,  as  he  pronounces  these 
words. ) 

ISA.  {starts,  then  shoivs  a  ghastly  ex- 
pression of  joy).      Dead! 

Geo.  {almost  overcome  hy  his  feelings). 
Guilty  !      Guilty  !  —  (  Apart. ) 

ISA.  {without  observing  his  emotion^. 
Didst  thou  say  dead? 

Geo.  Did  I  —  no  —  I  only  said  mor- 
tally wounded. 

ISA.  Wounded  ?  only  wounded?  Where 
is  he?     Let  me  fly  to  him.  —  (  Going.) 

Geo.  {sternly).  Hold,  lady  !  —  Speak 
not  so  loud  !  —  Thou  canst  not  see  him  ! 

—  He  is  a  prisoner. 

ISA.  A  prisoner  and  wounded?  Fly 
to  his  deliverance  !  — Offer  wealth,  lands, 
castles,  — all  our  possessions  for  his  ran- 
som. Never  shall  I  know  peace  till 
these  walls,  or  till  the  grave  secures 
him. 

Geo.  {apart).     Guilty!     Guilty! 

Enter  Peter. 

Pet.  Hugo,  squire  to  the  Count  of 
Maltingen,  has  arrived  with  a  message. 

RUD.   I  will  receive  hini  in  the  hall. 

[Exit,  leaning  on  Gertrude  and 
Henry. 

ISA.  Go,  George — see  after  Martin. 

Geo.  {firmly).  No,  I  have  a  task  to  per- 
form; and  though  the  earth  should  open 
and  devour  me  alive  —  I  will  accomplish 
it.  But  first  —  but  first  —  Nature,  take 
thy  tribute.  —  {//e  falls  on  his  mothcr''s 
neck,  and  -iveeps  bitterly. ) 

ISA.  George !  my  son  !  for  Heaven's 
sake,  what  dreadful  frenzy  ! 

Geo.  {loali's  two  turns  across  the  stage 
and  composes  himself).     Listen,  mother 

—  I  knew  a  knight  in  Hungary,  gallant 
in  battle,  hospitable  and  generous  in 
peace.     The  king  gave  him  his  friend- 


ship, and  the  administration  of  a  prov- 
ince; that  province  was  infested  by 
thieves  and  murderers.  You  mark  me?  — 

ISA.   Most  heedfully. 

Geo.  The  knight  was  sworn — h)ound 
by  an  oath  the  most  dreadful  that  can  be 
taken  by  man  —  to  deal  among  offenders, 
evenhanded,  stern  and  impartial  justice. 
Was  it  not  a  dreadful  vow  ? 

ISA.  {with  an  affectation  of  composure). 
Solemn,  doubtless,  as  the  oath  of  every 
magistrate. 

Geo.  And  inviolable? 

ISA.  Surely —  inviolable. 

Geo.  Well!  it  happened,  that  when 
he  rode  out  against  the  banditti,  he  made 
a  prisoner.  And  who,  think  you,  that 
prisoner  was? 

IsA.  I  know  not  {with  increasing  ter- 
ror). 

Geo.  {trembling,  hut  proceeding  rap- 
idly. )  H  is  own  twin-brother,  who  sucked 
the  same  breasts  with  him,  and  lay  in 
the  bosom  of  the  same  mother  —  his 
brother,  whom  he  loved  as  his  own  soul 
—  what  should  that  knight  have  done 
unto  his  brother? 

IsA.  {almost  speechless).  Alas  !  what 
did  he  do? 

Geo.  He  did  {turning  his  head  from 
her.,  and  with  clasped  hands)  what  I  can 
never  do:  — he  did  his  duty. 

ISA.  My  son  !  my  .son  !  —  Mercy  J 
Mercy  !   (  ( 'lings  to  him. ) 

Geo.  Is  it  then  true? 

ISA.  What? 

Geo.  What  Martin  said.  (Isabella 
hides  her  face.)     It  is  true  ! 

ISA.  {looks  up  'with  an  air  of  dignity.) 
Hear,  Kramer  of  the  laws  of  Nature  !  the 
mother  is  judge<l  by  the  child  —  (  7'urns 
tcnvards  him. )  ^'es,  it  is  true  —  true  that,, 
fearful  of  my  own  life,  I  secured  it  by 
the  murder  of  my  tyrant.  Mistaken 
coward !  I  little  knew  on  what  terrors  I 
ran,  to  avoid  one  moment's  agony.  — 
Thou  hast  the  secret ! 

Geo.  Knowest  thou  to  whom  thou 
hast  told  it? 

IsA.  To  my  son. 

Geo.   No  !     No  !     To  an  executioner  ! 

ISA.  Be  it  so  —  go,  proclaim  my  crime, 
and  forget  not  my  punishment.     Forget 


Scene  I. 


THE  HOUSE    OF  ASPEN. 


667 


not  that  the  murderess  of  her  husband 
has  dragged  out  years  of  hidden  remorse, 
to  be  brought  at  last  to  the  scaffold 
by  her  own  cherished  son  —  thou  art 
silent. 

Geo.  The  language  of  Nature  is  no 
more.      How  shall  I  learn  another? 

IsA.  Look  upon  me,  George.  Should 
the  executioner  be  abashed  before  the 
criminal  — -look  upon  me,  my  son.  From 
my  soul  do  I  forgive  thee. 

Geo.   Forgive  m«  what? 

IsA.  What  thou  dost  meditate  —  be 
vengeance  heavy,  but  let  it  be  secret  — 
add  not  the  death  of  a  father  to  that  of 
the  sinner  I  Oh  !  Rudiger !  Rudiger  !  in- 
nocent cause  of  all  my  guilt  and  all  my 
woe,  how  wilt  thou  tear  thy  silver  locks 
when  thou  shalt  hear  her  guilt  whom 
thou  hast  so  often  clasped  to  thy  bosom 
—  hear  her  infamy  proclaimed  by  the 
son  of  thy  fondest  hopes  —  (  Weeps.^ 

Geo.  (^strugglin^ for  breath^.  Nature 
will  have  utterance,  mother,  dearest 
mother,  I  will  save  you  or  perish ! 
(  Thrincs  himself  into  her  arins.^  Thus 
fall  my  vows. 

IsA.  Man  thyself !  I  ask  not  safety 
from  thee.  Never  shall  it  be  said  that 
Isabella  of  Aspen  turned  her  son  from 
the  path  of  duty,  though  his  fot)tsteps 
must  pass  over  her  mangled  corpse. 
Man  thyself. 

Geo.  No !  No !  The  tics  of  Nature 
were  knit  by  God  himself.  Cursed  be 
the  stoic  pride  that  would  rend  them 
asunder,  and  call  it  virtue  ! 

ISA.  My  son  !  My  son  !  How  shall  I 
behold  thee  hereafter? 

[  Three  knocks  are  heard  upon  the 
door  of  the  apartment.'^ 

Geo.  Hark  !  One  —  two  —  three. 
Roderic,  thou  art  speedy!     (^ Apart.) 

ISA.  {opens  the  door).  A  parchment 
stuck  to  the  door  with  a  poniard  !  (  Opens 
it.)  Heaven  and  earth!  —  a  summons 
from  the  invisible  judges !  —  (Drops  the 
parchment. ) 

Geo.  (reads -vith  emotion.)  "Isabella 
of  Aspen,  accused  of  murder  by  poison, 
we  conjure  thee,  by  the  cord  and  by  the 
steel,   to  appear    this  night   before    the 


avengers  of  blood,  who  judge  in  secrd 
and  avenge  in  secret,  like  the  Deit) . 
As  thou  art  innocent  or  guilty,  so  be  thy 
deliverance."  —  Martin,  Martin,  thou 
hast  played  false ! 

IsA.   Alas!  whither  shall  I  fly? 

Geo.  Thou  canst  not  fly;  instant  death 
would  follow  the  attempt :  a  hundred 
thousand  arms  would  be  raised  against 
thy  life;  every  morsel  thou  didst  taste, 
every  drop  which  thou  didst  drink,  the 
very  breeze  of  heaven  that  fanned  thee, 
would  come  loaded  with  destruction. 
One  chance  of  safety  is  open, — obey 
the  summons. 

IsA.  And  perish?  Yet  why  should  I 
still  fear  death?     Be  it  so. 

Geo.  No  —  I  have  sworn  to  save  you. 
I  will  not  do  the  work  by  halves.  Does 
any  one  save  Martin  know  of  the  dread- 
ful deed  ? 

IsA.  None. 

Geo.  Then  go  —  assert  your  innocence, 
and  leave  the  rest  to  me. 

ISA.  Wretch  that  I  am !  How  can  I 
support  the  task  you  would  impose? 

Geo.  Think  on  my  father.  Live  for 
him;  he  will  need  all  the  comfort  thou 
canst  bestow.  Let  the  thought  that  his 
destruction  is  involved  in  thine,  carry 
thee  through  the  dreadful  trial. 

IsA.  Be  it  so.  —  For  Rudiger  I  have 
lived,  for  him  I  will  continue  to  bear  the 
burden  of  existence;  but  the  instant  that 
my  guilt  comes  to  his  knowledge  shall 
be  the  last  of  my  life.  Ere  I  would  bear 
from  him  one  glance  of  hatred  or  of 
scorn,  this  dagger  should  drink  my  blood. 
(Puts  the  poniard  into  her  bosom. ) 

Geo.  Fear  not.  He  can  never  know. 
No  evidence  shall  appear  against  you. 

ISA.  How  shall  I  obey  the  summons, 
and  where  find  the  terrible  judgment 
seat  ? 

Geo.  Leave  that  to  the  judges.  Re- 
solve but  to  obey,  and  a  conductor  will 
be  found.  Go  to  the  chapel;  there  pray 
for  your  sins  and  for  mine.  (J/e  leads  her 
out  and  returns. )  —  Sins,  indeed  !  I 
break  a  dreadful  vow,  but  I  save  the  life 
of  a  parent;  and  the  penance  I  will  do 
for  my  perjury  shall  appal  even  the 
judges  of  blood. 


6o8 


DRAMATIC  PIECES. 


Act  III. 


Enter  Reynold. 

Rey.   Sir    knight,    the    messenger    of 
Count  Rodcric  desires  to  speak  with  you. 
Geo.  Admit  him. 

Enter  HuGO. 

Hug.  Count  Roderic  of  Maltingen 
greets  you.  He  says  he  will  this  night 
hear  the  bat  flutter  and  the  owlet  scream, 
and  he  bids  me  ask  if  thou  also  wilt  hsten 
to  the  music. 

Geo.  I  understand  him.  I  will  he 
there. 

Hug.  And  the  count  says  to  you,  that 
he  will  not  ransom  your  wounded  squire, 
though  you  would  downweigh  his  best 
horse  with  gold.  But  you  may  send  him 
a  confessor,  for  the  count  says  he  will 
need  one. 

Geo.  Is  he  so  near  death? 

Hug.  Not  as  it  seems  to  me.  He  is 
weak  through  loss  of  blood;  but  since 
his  wound  was  dressed  he  can  both  stand 
and  walk.  Our  count  has  a  notable 
balsam,  which  has  recruited  him  much. 

Geo.  Enough  —  I  will  send  a  priest. 
(/•U// Hugo.)  I  fathom  his  plot.  He 
would  add  another  witness  to  the  tale  of 
Martin's  guilt.  But  no  priest  shall  ap- 
proach him.  Reynold,  thinkest  thou  not 
we  could  send  one  of  the  troopers,  dis- 
guised as  a  monk,  to  aid  Martin  in  mak- 
ing his  escape? 

Rby.  Nol)le  sir,  the  followers  of  your 
house  are  so  well  known  to  those  of 
Maltingen,  that  I  fear  it  is  impossible. 

Geo.  Knowest  thou  of  no  stranger 
who  might  be  emjiloyed?  His  reward 
shall  exceed  even  his  hopes. 

Rey.  So  please  you  —  I  think  the  min- 
strel could  well  execute  such  a  commis- 
sion; he  is  shrewd  and  cunning,  and  can 
write  and  read  like  a  priest. 

Geo.  Call  him.  —  (A'xzV  Reynold.) 
If  this  fails,  I  must  employ  open  force. 
Were  Martin  removed,  no  tongue  can 
assert  the  bloody  truth. 

Enter  Minstrel. 

Geo.  Come  hither,  Minhold.  Hast 
thou  courage  to  undertake  a  dangerous 
enterprise  ? 

Bkr.   My    life,    sir    knight,    has    been 


one  scene  of   danger  and    of    dread.      I 
have  forgotten  liow  to  fear. 

Geo.  Thy  speech  is  above  thy  seem- 
ing.    Who  art  thou? 

Ber.  An  unfortunate  knight,  obliged 
to  shroud  myself  under  this  disguise. 

Geo.  What  is  the  cause  of  thy  mis- 
fortune ? 

Ber.  I  slew,  at  a  tournament,  a  prince, 
and  was  laid  under  the  ban  of  the  empire. 
Geo.  I  have  interest  with  the  emperor. 
Swear  to  perform  what  task  I  shall  impose 
on  thee,  and  I  will  procure  the  recall  of 
the  ban. 

Ber.   I  swear. 

Geo.  Then  take  the  disguise  of  a  monk, 
and  go  with  the  follower  of  Count  Rod- 
eric, as  if  to  confess  my  wounded  squire 
Martin,  Give  him  thy  dress,  and  remain 
in  prison  in  his  stead.  Thy  captivity  shall 
be  short,  and  I  pledge  my  knightly  word  I 
will  labor  to  execute  my  promise,  when 
thou  shall  have  leisure  to  unfold  thy 
history. 

Ber.  I  will  do  as  you  direct.  Is  the 
life  of  your  squire  in  danger? 

Geo.  It  is,  unless  thou  canst  accom- 
plish his  release. 

Ber.  I  will  essay  it.  {^Exit. 

Geo.  Such  are  the  mean  expedients  to 
which  George  of  Aspen  must  now  resort. 
No  longer  can  I  debate  with  Roderic  in 
the  field.  The  depraved  —  the  perjured 
knight  must  contend  with  him  only  in  the 
arts  of  dissimulation  and  treachery.  Oh, 
mother  !  mother  !  the  most  bitter  conse- 
quence of  thy  crime  has  been  the  birth 
of  thy  first-born !  But  I  must  warn  my 
brother  of  the  impending  storm.  Poor 
Henry,  how  little  can  thy  gay  temper 
anticipate  evil !  What,  ho  there  !  {Enter 
an  Attendant.^  Where  is  Baron  Henry? 
Att.  NoV)le  sir,  he  rode  forth,  after  a 
slight  refreshment,  to  visit  the  party  in 
the  field. 

Geo.  Saddle  my  steed;  I  will  follow 
him. 

Att.  So  please  you,  your  noble  father 
has  twice  demanded  your  presence  at  the 
banquet. 

Geo.  It  matters  not  —  say  that  I  have 
ridden  forth  to  the  Wolfshill.  Where  is 
thy  lady? 


Scene  I. 


THE  HOUSE    OF  ASPEN. 


669 


Att.   In  the  chapel,  sir  knight. 
Geo.  'Tis  well  —  saddle  my  bay-horse 
—  i^apart^  for  the  last  time.  \^Exit. 

ACT  IV. —  Scene  I. 

The  wood  of  Griefenhaus,  with  the  ruins 
of  the  Castle.  A  nearer  vierv  of  the 
Castle  than  in  Act  Second,  but  still  at 
some  distance. 

Enter  RoDERiC,  WOLFSTEIN,  and  Sol- 
diers, as  from  a  reconnoitring  party. 

Wolf.  They  mean  to  improve  their 
success,  and  will  push  their  advantage 
far.  We  must  retreat  betimes,  Count 
Roderic. 

Rod.  We  are  safe  here  for  the  present. 
They  make  no  immediate  motion  of  ad- 
vance.      I    fancy    neither    George    nor 
Henry  are  with  their  party  in  the  wood. 
Enter  Hugo. 

Hug.  Noble  sir,  how  shall  I  tell  what 
has  happened? 

Rod.  What? 

Hug.  Martin  has  escaped. 

Rod.  Villain,  thy  life  shall  pay  it ! 
{Strikes  at  Hugo  —  is  held  by  WoLF- 
stein.) 

Wolf.  Hold,  hold.  Count  Roderic ! 
Hugo  may  be  blameless. 

Rod.  Reckless  slave  !  how  came  he  to 
escape? 

Hug.  Under  the  disguise  of  a  monk's 
hal)it,  whom  by  your  orders,  we  brought 
to  confess  him. 

Rod.  Has  he  been  long  gone? 

Hug.  An  hour  and  more  since  he 
passed  our  sentinels,  disguised  as  the 
chaplain  of  Aspen;  but  he  walked  so 
slowly  and  feebly,  I  think  he  cannot  yet 
have  reached  the  posts  of  the  enemy. 

Rod.  Where  is  the  treacherous  priest? 

Hug.  He  awaits  his  doom  not  far 
from  hence.  {Exit  Hugo. 

Rod.  Drag  him  hither.  The  mis- 
creant that  snatched  the  morsel  of  ven- 
geance from  the  lion  of  Maltingen  shall 
expire  under  torture. 
Ee-enter  YlvsGO,  zuith  Bertram  and  At- 
tendants. 

Rod.  Villain !  what  tempted  thee, 
under  the  garb  of  a  minister  of  religion, 


to  steal  a  criminal  from  the  hand  of  jus- 
tice ! 

Ber.  I  am  no  villain.  Count  Roderic; 
and  I  only  aided  the  escape  of  one 
wounded  wretch  whom  thou  didst  mean 
to  kill  basely. 

Rod.  Liar  and  slave !  thou  hast  as- 
sisted a  murderer,  upon  whom  justice 
had  sacred  claims. 

Ber.  I  warn  thee  again,  Count,  that 
I  am  neither  liar  nor  slave.  Shortly  I 
hope  to  tell  thee  I  am  once  more  thy 
equal. 

Rod.  Thou!     Thou  ! — 

Ber.  Yes !  the  name  of  Bertram  of 
Ebersdorf  was  once  not  unknown  to 
thee. 

Rod.  {astonished).  Thou  Bertram  !  the 
brother  of  Arnolf  of  Ebersdorf,  first  hus- 
band of  the  Baroness  Isabella  of  Aspen? 

Ber.  The  same. 

Rod.  Who,  in  a  quarrel  at  a  tourna- 
ment, many  years  since,  slew  a  blood- 
relation  of  the  emperor,  and  was  laid 
under  the  ban? 

Ber.  The  same. 

Rod.  And  who  has  now,  in  the  dis- 
guise of  a  priest,  aided  the  escape  of 
Martin,  squire  to  George  of  Aspen? 

Ber.  The  same  —  the  same. 

Rod.  Then,  by  the  holy  cross  of 
Cologne,  thou  hast  set  at  liberty  the 
murderer  of  thy  brother  Arnolf ! 

Ber.  How!  What!  I  understand 
thee  not  I 

Rod.  Miserable  plotter !  — Martin,  by 
his  own  confession,  as  Wolfstein  heard, 
avowed  having  aided  Isabella  in  the 
murder  of  her  husband.  I  had  laid  such 
a  plan  of  vengeance  as  should  have  made 
all  Germany  shudder.  And  thou  hast 
counteracted  it  — thou,  the  brother  of 
the  murdered  Arnolf ! 

Ber.  Can  this  be  so,  Wolfstein? 

Wolf.  I  heard  Martin  confess  the 
murder. 

Ber.  Then  I  am  indeed  unfortunate  I 

Ron.  What,  in  the  name  of  evil, 
brought  thee  here? 

Ber.  I  am  the  last  of  my  race.  When 
I  was  outlawed,  as  thou  knowest,  the 
lands  of  Ebersdorf,  my  rightful  inherit- 
ance, were    declared   forfeited,  and  the 


670 


DRAMATIC  PIECES. 


Act  IV. 


emperor  bestowed  them  upon  Rudiger 
when  he  married  Isabella.  I  attempted 
to  defend  my  domain,  but  Rudiger  — 
Hell  thank  him  for  it — enforced  the 
ban  against  me  at  the  head  of  his  vassals, 
and  I  was  constrained  to  fly.  Since  then 
I  have  warred  against  the  Saracens  in 
Spain  and  Palestine. 

Rod.  But  why  didst  thou  return  to  a 
land  where  death  attends  thy  being  dis- 
covered? 

Ber.  Impatience  urged  me  to  see  once 
more  the  land  of  my  nativity,  and  the 
towers  of  Ebersdorf.  I  came  there  yes- 
terday, under  the  name  of  the  minstrel 
Minhold. 

Rod.  And  what  prevailed  on  thee  to 
undertake  to  deliver  Martin? 

Ber.  George,  though  I  told  not  my 
name,  engaged  to  procure  the  recall  of 
the  ban;  besides,  he  told  me  Martin's  life 
was  in  danger,  and  I  accountetl  the  old 
villain  to  be  the  last  remaining  follower 
of  our  house.  But,  as  God  shall  judge 
me,  the  tale  of  horror  thou  hast  men- 
tioned I  could  not  have  even  suspected. 
Report  ran,  that  my  brother  died  of  the 
plague. 

Wolf.  Raised  for  the  purpose,  doubt- 
less, of  preventing  attendance  upon  his 
sick-bed,  and  an  inspection  of  his  body. 

Ber.  My  vengeance  shall  be  dreadful 
as  its  cause !  The  usurpers  of  my  in- 
heritance, the  robbers  of  my  honor,  the 
murderers  of  my  brother,  shall  be  cut 
off,  root  and  branch  ! 

Rod.  Thou  art,  then,  welcome  here; 
especially  if  thou  art  still  a  true  brother 
to  our  invisible  order. 

Ber.  I  am. 

Rod.  There  is  a  meeting  this  night 
on  the  business  of  thy  brother's  death. 
Some  are  now  come.  I  must  despatch 
them  in  pursuit  of  Martin, 

Enter  Hugo. 

Hug.  The  foes  advance,  sir  knight. 
Rod.   Back  !  I^ack  to  the  ruins  !    Come 
with  us,  Bertram;    on  the  road  thou  shalt 
hear  the  dreadful  history.  [Exeutt/. 

From  the  opposite  side  enter  George, 
Henry,  Wickerd,  Conrad,  and  Sol- 
diers. 


Geo.  No  news  of  Martin  yet? 

VVic.   None,  sir  knight 

Geo.  Nor  the  minstrel? 

Wic.  None. 

Geo.  Then  he  has  betrayea  me,  or  is 
prisoner — misery  either  way.  Begone 
and  search  the  wood,  Wickerd. 

[Exeunt  WiCKERD  and  followers. 

Hen.  Still  this  dreadful  gloom  on  thy 
brow,  brother? 

Geo.  Ay!  what  else? 

Hen.  Once  thou  thoughtest  me  worthy 
of  thy  friendship. 

Geo.   Henry,  thou  art  young  — 

Hen.  Shall  I  therefore  betray  thy  con- 
fidence? 

Geo.  No  !  but  thou  art  gentle  and 
well-natured.  Thy  mind  cannot  even 
support  the  burden  which  mine  must 
bear,  far  less  wilt  thou  approve  the 
means  I  shall  use  to  throw  it  off. 

Hen.  Try  me. 

Geo.   I  may  not. 

Hen.  Then  thou  dost  no  longer  love, 
me. 

Geo.  I  love  thee,  and  because  I  love 
thee,  I  will  not  involve  thee  in  my  dis- 
tress. 

Hen.  I  will  bear  it  with  thee. 

Geo.  Shouldst  thou  share  it,  it  would 
be  doubled  tp  me  ! 

Hen.  Fear  not,  I  will  find  a  remedy. 

Geo.  It  would  cost  thee  peace  of 
mind,  here,  and  hereafter. 

Hen.  I  take  the  risk. 

Geo.  It  may  not  be,  Henry.  Thou 
wouldst  become  the  confidant  of  crimes 
past  —  the  accomplice  of  others  to  come. 

Hen.  Shall  I  guess? 

Geo.   I  charge  thee,  no! 

Hen.  I  must.  Thou  art  one  of  the 
secret  judges. 

Geo.  Unhajipy  boy!  what  hast  thou 
said  ? 

Hen.   Is  it  not  so? 

Geo.  Dost  thou  know  what  the  dis- 
covery has  cost  thee? 

Hen.   I  care  not. 

Geo.  He  who  discovers  any  part  of 
our  mystery  must  himself  become  one 
of  our  number. 

Hen.   How  so? 

Geo.  If  he  does  not  consent,  his  se- 


Scene  II. 


THE   HOUSE    OF  ASPEN. 


671 


crecy  will  be  speedily  ensured  by  his 
death.  To  that  we  are  sworn  — take  thy 
choice ! 

Hen.  Well,  are  you  not  banded  in 
secret  to  punish  those  offenders  whom 
the  sword  of  justice  cannot  reach,  or 
who  are  shielded  from  its  stroke  by  the 
buckler  of  power? 

Geo.  Such  is  indeed  the  purpose  of 
our  fraternity;  but  the  end  is  pursued 
through  patlis  dark,  intricate,  and  slip- 
pery with  blood.  Who  is  he  that  shall 
tread  them  with  safety?  Accursed  be 
the  hour  in  which  I  entered  the  laby- 
rinth, and  doubly  accursed  that  in  which 
thou  too  must  lose  the  cheerful  sunshine 
of  a  soul  without  a  mystery  ! 

Hen.  Yet  for  thy  sake  will  I  be  a 
memljer. 

Geo.  Henry,  thou  didst  rise  this  morn- 
ing .1  free  man.  No  one  could  say  to 
thee,  "  Why  dost  thou  so?  "  Thou  lay- 
est  thee  down  to-night  the  veriest  slave 
that  ever  tugged  at  an  oar — the  slave  of 
men  whose  actions  will  appear  to  thee 
savage  and  incomprehensible,  and  whom 
thou  must  aid  against  the  world,  upon 
peril  of  thy  throat. 

Hen.  Be  it  so.     I  will  share  your  lot. 
Geo.  Alas,   Henry!     Heaven  forbid! 
But  since  thou  hast  by  a  hasty  word  fet- 
tered thyself,  I  will  avail  myself  of  thy 
bondage.     Mount  thy  fleetest  steed,  and 
hie  thee  this  very  night  to  the  Duke  of 
Bavaria.      He    is    chief    and    paramount 
of   our   chapter.     Show  him   this  signet 
and  this  letter;  tell  him  that  matters  will 
be   this  night  discussed   concerning   the 
house  of  Aspen.     Bid  him  speed  him  to 
the    assembly,    for    he   well    knows    the 
president    is    our    deadly   foe.     He  will 
admit  thee  a  member  of  our  holy  tody. 
Hen.  Who  is  the  foe  whom  you  dread? 
Geo.  Young  man,  the  first  duty  thou 
must  learn  is  implicit  and  blind  obedience. 
Hen.  W^ell  I  shall  soon  return  and  see 
thee  again. 

Geo.  Return,  indeed,  thou  wilt;   but 

for  the  rest  —  well !  that  matters  not. 

Hen.   I  go :  thou  wilt  set  a  watch  here  ? 

Geo.  I  will.  ( Henry ,^<'/«<,'-.)   Return, 

my  dear  Henry;    let  me  embrace  thee, 

shouldst  thou  not  see  me  again. 


Hen.   Heaven!  what  mean  you? 

Geo.  Nothing.  The  life  of  mortals  is 
precarious;  and,  should  we  not  meet 
again,  take  my  blessing  and  this  embrace 
—  and  this — (^Embraces  him  warmly.') 
And  now  haste  to  the  duke.  {^Exit 
Henry.)  Poor  youth,  thou  little  know- 
est  what  thou  hast  undertaken.  But  if 
Martin  has  escaped,  and  if  the  duke 
arrives,  they  will  not  dare  to  proceed 
without  proof. 

Ke-enter  WiCKERD  and  followers. 

Wic.  We  have  made  a  follower  of 
Maltingen  prisoner,  Baron  George,  who 
reports  that  Martin  has  escaped. 

Geo.  Joy !  joy  !  such  joy  as  I  can  now 
feel !  Set  him  free  for  the  good  news  — 
and,  Wickerd,  keep  a  good  watch  in  this 
spot  all  night.  Send  out  scouts  to  find 
Martin,  least  he  should  not  be  able  to 
reach  Ebersdorf. 

W^IC.  I  shall,  noble  sir. 

[  The  kettle -drutiis  and  trumpets 
flourish  as  for  setting  the  watch  : 
the  scene  closes. 

Scene  II. 

The  Chapel  at  Ebersdorf,  an  ancient 

Gothic  building. 

Isabella  is  discovered  rising  from  before 

the  altar,  on  which  burn  two  tapers. 

IsA.  I  cannot  pray.  Terror  and  guilt 
have  stifled  devotion.  The  heart  must 
be  at  ease  —  the  hands  must  l>e  pure 
when  they  are  lifted  to  Heaven.  Mid- 
night is  the  hour  of  summons :  it  is  now 
near.  How  can  I  pray,  when  I  go  re- 
solved to  deny  a  crime  which  every  drop 
of  my  blood  could  not  wash  away  !  And 
my  son  '  Oh  !  he  will  fall  the  victnn  of 
my  crime  !  Arnolf !  Arnolf !  thou  art  dread- 
fully avenged  !  (  7'"p  at  the  door. )  The 
footstep  of  my  dreadful  guide.  ( A?/ 
again.-)  My  courage  is  no  more.  (-£«- 
ter  Gertrude  by  the  door.)  Gertrude ! 
it  only  thou?     {Embraces  her.) 

Ger.  Dear  aunt,  leave  this  awful 
place;  it  chills  my  very  blood.  My 
uncle  sent  me  to  call  you  to  the  hall. 

ISA.  Who  is  in  the  hall? 

Ger.  Only  Reynold  and  the  family, 
with  whom  my  uncle  is  making  merry. 


672 


DRAMATIC  PIECES. 


Act  IV, 


ISA.  Sawest  thou  no  strange  faces? 

Ger.   No;    none  but  friends. 

IsA.  Art  thou  sure  of  that  ?  Is  George 
there  ? 

Ger.  No,  nor  Henry;  both  have  rid- 
den out.  I  think  they  might  have  stayed 
one  day  at  least.  But  come,  aunt,  I 
hate  this  place;  it  reminds  me  of  my 
dream.  See,  yonder  was  the  spot  where 
methought  they  were  burying  you  alive, 
below  yon  monument  (^pointing). 

ISA.  (^s(arHng).  The  monument  of 
my  first  husband.  Leave  me,  leave  me, 
Gertrude.  I  follow  in  a  moment.  (  Kxii 
Gertrude.  )  Ay,  here  he  lies  !  forgetful 
alike  of  his  crimes  and  injuries  !  Insen- 
sil)le,  as  if  this  chapel  had  never  rung 
with  my  shrieks,  or  the  castle  resounded 
to  his  parting  groans !  When  shall  I 
sleep  so  soundly?  (^As  she  gazes  on  the 
tnomimeitt,  a  figure  muffled  in  black 
appears  from  behind  if.)  Merciful  God  ! 
is  it  a  vision,  such  as  has  haunted  my 
couch  ?  (//  approaches  :  she  goes  on  zvith 
mingled  terror  and  resolution. )  Ghastly 
phantom,  art  thou  the  restless  spirit  of 
one  who  died  in  agony,  or  art  thou  the 
mysterious  being  that  must  guide  me  to 
the  presence  of  the  avengers  of  blood? 
(^Figure  bends  its  head  and  beckons.)  — 
To-morrow  !  To-morrow  !  I  cannot  fol- 
low thee  now  !  (^Figure  shows  a  dagi^er 
from  beneath  its  cloak. )  Compulsion  !  I 
understand  thee:  I  will  follow.  (^She 
follo7US  the  figure  a  little  luay  ;  he  turns 
and  luraps  a  black  veil  round  her  head, 
and  takes  her  hand :  then  both  exeunt 
behind  the  monument.) 

Scene  III. 
The  Wood  of  Griefenhaus.  — A  watch- 
fire,  round  which  sit  Wickerd,  (Zo'<i- 
'RXD,  and  others,  in  their  watch-cloaks. 
Wic.  The  night  is  bitter  cold. 
Con.  Ay,  but  thou  hast  lined  thy  doub- 
let well  with  old  Rhenish. 

Wic.  True;  and  I'll  give  you  warrant 
for  it.      (^Siftgs.) 

(rheinwein  lied.) 
What  makes  the  troopers'  frozen  courage 
muster  ? 
The  grapes  of  juice  divine. 


Upon   the   Rhine,  upon  the   Rhine   they 
cluster : 
Oh,  blessed  be  the  Rhine  ! 

Let  fringe  and  furs,  and  many  a  rabbit   ! 
skin,  sirs. 
Bedeck  your  Saracen; 
He'll    freeze    without    what   warms    our 
hearts  within  sirs, 
When  the  night-frost  crusts  the  fen. 

But  on  the  Rhine,  but  on  the  Rhine  they 
cluster, 
Tlie  grapes  of  juice  divine. 
That  make  our  troopers'  frozen  courage 
muster; 
Oh,  blessed  be  the  Rhine  ! 

Con.  Well  sung,  Wickerd;  thou  wert 
ever  a  jovial  soul. 

Enter  a  trooper  or  tiuo  more. 

Wic.  Hast  thou  made  the  rounds, 
Frank  ? 

Frank.  Yes,  up  to  the  hemlock  marsh. 
It  is  a  stormy  night;  the  moon  shone  on 
the  Wolfshill,  and  on  the  dead  bodies 
with  which  to-day's  work  has  covered  it. 
We  heard  the  spirit  of  the  house  of  Mal- 
tingen  wailing  over  the  slaughter  of  its 
adherents:   I  durst  go  no  farther. 

Wic.  Hen-hearted  rascal !  The  spirit 
of  some  old  raven,  who  was  picking  their 
bones. 

Con.  Nay,  Wickerd;  the  churchmen 
say  there  are  such  things. 

Frank.  Ay;  and  Father  Ludovic  told 
us  last  sermon,  how  the  devil  twisted  the 
neck  of  ten  farmers  at  Kletterbach,  who 
refused  to  pay  Peter's  pence. 

Wic.  Yes,    some    church     devil,    no     ' 
doubt. 

Frank.  Nay,  old  Reynold  says,  that 
in  passing,  by  midnight,  near  the  old 
chapel  at  our  castle,  he  saw  it  all  lighted 
up,  and  heard  a  chorus  of  voices  sing  the 
funeral  service. 

Another  Soldier.  Father  Ludovic 
heard  the  same.  - 

Wic.  Hear  me,  ye  hare-livered  boys !  ■ 
Can  you  look  death  in  the  face  in  battle,  j| 
and  dread  such  nursery  bugbears?     Old 
Reynold  saw  his  vision  in  the  strength  oi 


Scene  III. 


THE  HOUSE    OF  ASPEN. 


673 


the  grape.  As  for  the  chaplain,  far  be 
it  from  me  to  name  the  spirit  which  visits 
him;  but  I  know  what  I  know,  when  I 
found  him  confessing  Bertrand's  pretty 
Agnes  in  the  chestnut  grove. 

Con.  But,  Wickerd,  though  I  have 
often  heard  of  strange  tales,  which  I 
could  not  credit,  yet  there  is  one  in  our 
family  so  well  attested,  that  I  almost  be- 
lieve it.     Shall  I  tell  it  you? 

All  Soldiers.  Do !  do  tell  it,  gentle 
Conrad. 

Wic.  And  I  will  take  t'other  sup  of 
Rhenish  to  fence  against  the  horrors  of 
the  tale. 

Con.  It  is  about  my  own  uncle  and 
god-father,  Albert  of  Horsheim. 

Wic.  I  have  seen  him  — he  was  a  gal- 
lant warrior. 

Con.  Well !  He  was  long  absent  in 
the  Bohemian  wars.  In  an  expedition 
he  was  benighted,  and  came  to  a  lone 
house  on  the  edge  of  a  forest.  He  and 
his  followers  knocked  repeatedly  for  en- 
trance in  vain.  They  forced  the  door, 
but  found  no  inhabitants. 

Frank.  And  they  made  good  their 
quarters  ? 

Con.  They  did,  and  Albert  retired  to 
rest  in  an  upper  chamber.  Opposite  to 
the  bed  on  which  he  threw  himself  was 
a  large  mirror.  At  midnight  he  was 
awaked  by  deep  groans,  he  cast  his  eyes 
upon  the  mirror,  and  saw  — ■ 

Frank.  Sacred  Heaven  !  Heard  you 
nothing? 

Wic.  Ay,  the  wind  among  the  withered 
leaves.  Go  on,  Conrad.  Your  uncle 
was  a  wise  man. 

Con,  That's  more  than  gray  hairs  can 
make  other  folks. 

Wic.  Ha  !  stripling,  art  thou  so  mala- 
pert? Though  thou  art  Lord  Henry's 
page,  I  shall  teach  thee  who  commands 
this  party. 

All  Soldiers.  Peace,  peace,  good 
Wickerd,  let  Conrad  proceed. 

Con.  Where  was  I? 

Frank.   About  the  mirror. 

Con.  True.  My  uncle  beheld  in  the 
mirror  the  reflection  of  a  human  face, 
distorted  and  covered  with  blood.  A 
voice  pronounced  articulately,  "It  is  yet 


time."  As  the  words  were  spoken,  my 
uncle  discerned  in  the  ghastly  visage  the 
features  of  his  own  father. 

Soldier.  Hush!  By  St.  Francis  I 
heard  a  groan.  (  They  start  up  all  but 
Wickerd.) 

Wic.  The  croaking  of  a  frog,  who  has 
caught  cold  in  this  bitter  night,  and  sings 
rather  more  hoarsely  than  usual. 

Frank.  Wickerd,  thou  art  surely  no 
Christian.  (  They  sit  dozon,  and  close 
round  the  fire.) 

Con.  Well  —  my  uncle  called  up  his 
attendants,  and  they  searched  every  nook 
of  the  chamber,  but  found  nothing.  So 
they  covered  the  mirror  with  a  cloth,  and 
Albert  was  left  alone;  but  hardly  had  he 
closed  his  eyes  when  the  same  voice  pro- 
claimed. "It  is  now  too  late:"  the 
covering  was  drawn  aside,  and  he  saw 
the  figure  — 

Frank.  Merciful  Virgin!  It  comes. 
(^Allrise.) 

Wic.  Where?  what? 

Con.  See  yon  figure  coming  from  the 
thicket ! 

Enter  Martin,  in  the  monk^s  dress, 
much  disordered  :  his  face  is  very  pale 
and  his  steps  slow. 

Wic.  (^levelling  his  pike).  Man  or 
devil,  which  thou  wilt,  thou  shall  feel 
cold  iron  if  thou  budgest  a  foot  nearer. 
(  Martin  stops. )  Who  art  thou  ?  What 
dost  thou  seek? 

Mar.  To  warm  myself  at  your  fire.  It 
is  deadly  cold. 

Wic.  See  there,  ye  cravens,  your  ap- 
parition is  a  poor  benighted  monk:  sit 
down,  father.  (  'J'hty  place  Martin  by 
the  fire.)  By  heaven,  it  is  Martin  —  our 
Martin !  Martin,  how  fares  it  with  thee? 
We  have  sought  thee  this  whole  night. 

Mar.  So  have  many  others  (^vacantly). 

Con.  Yes,  thy  master. 

Mar.  Did  you  see  him  too? 

Con.  Whom?     Baron  George? 

Mar.  No  I  my  first  master,  Arnolf  of 
Ebersdorf. 

Wic.  He  raves. 

Mar.  He  passed  me  but  now  in  the 
wood,  mounted  upon  his  old  black  steed; 
its  nostrils  breathed  smoke  and   flame; 


674 


DRAMATIC  PIECES. 


Act  IV. 


neither  tree  nor  rock  stopped  him.  He 
said,  "  Martin,  thou  wilt  return  this  night 
to  my  service  !  " 

Wic.  Wrap  thy  cloak  around  him, 
Francis,  he  is  distracted  with  cold  and 
pain.  Dost  thou  not  recollect  me,  old 
friend? 

Mar.  Yes,  you  are  the  butler  at  Ebers- 
dorf:  you  have  the  charge  of  the  large 
gilded  cup,  embossed  with  the  figures  of 
the  twelve  apostles.  It  was  the  favorite 
goblet  of  my  old  master. 

Con.  Hy  our  Lady,  Martin,  thou  must 
be  distracted  indeed,  to  think  our  master 
would  intrust  Wickerd  with  the  care  of 
the  cellar. 

Mar.  I  know  a  face  so  like  the  Apos- 
tle Judas  on  that  cup.  I  have  seen  the 
likeness  when  I  gazed  on  a  mirror. 

VVic.  Try  to  go  to  sleep,  dear  Martin; 
it  will  relieve  thy  brain.  (^Footsteps  are 
heard  in  tht  70i):>t/.)  To  your  arms. 
(  TAey  take  their  arms. ) 

/?«/«'/- /.i/i?  Members  of  the  Invisible  Tri- 
bunals, mnfftett  in  their  cloaks. 

Con.  Stand  !     Who  are  you  ? 

I  Mem.  Travellers  benighted  in  the 
wood. 

WiC.  Are  ye  friends  to  Aspen  or  Mal- 
tingen? 

1  Mem.  We  enter  not  into  their  quar- 
rel.     We  are  friends  to  the  right. 

WiC.  Then  ye  are  friends  to  us,  and 
welcome  to  pass  the  night  l)y  our  fire. 

2  Mem.  Thanks.  (  They  approach  the 
fire,  and  regard  Maktin  very  earnestly.) 

Con.  Hear  ye  any  news  abroad? 
2  Mem.    None;    but    that    oppression 
and  villany  are  rife  and  rank  as  ever. 
WiC.  The  old  complaint. 

1  Mem.  No!  'nevsr  did  former  age 
equal  this  in  wickedness;  and  yet,  as  if 
the  daily  commission  of  enormities  were 
not  enough  to  blot  the  sun,  every  hour 
discovers  crimes  which  have  lain  con- 
cealed for  years. 

Con.  Pity  the  Holy  Tribunal  should 
slumber  in  its  ofifice. 

2  Mem.  Young  man,  it  slumbers  not. 
When  criminals  are  ripe  for  its  vengeance, 
it  falls  like  the  lx>lt  of  Heaven. 


Mar.  (^attempting  to  rise).  Let  me  be 
gone. 

Con.  (detaining  him).  Whither  now, 
Martin? 

Mar.  To  mass. 

1  Mem.  Even  now,  we  heard  a  tale  of 
a  villain,  who,  ungrateful  as  the  frozen 
adder,  stung  the  bosom  that  had  warmed 
him  into  life. 

Mar.  Conrad,  bear  me  off,  I  would 
be  away  from  these  men. 

Con.   Be  at  ease,  and  strive  to  sleep. 

Mak.  Too  well  I  know  —  I  shall  never 
sleep  again. 

2  Mem.  The  wretch  of  whom  we  speak 
became,  from  revenge  and  lust  of  gain, 
the  murderer  of  the  master  whose  bread 
he  did  eat. 

WiC.   Out  upon  the  monster  ! 

I  Mem.  For  nearly  thirty  years  was  he 
ptMinitted  to  cumber  the  ground.  Th» 
miscreant  thought  his  crime  was  con- 
cealed; but  the  earth  which  groanedj 
under  his  footsteps  —  the  winds  which 
passed  over  his  unhallowed  head  ^ — the 
stream  which  he  polluted  by  his  lips  — ■ 
the  fire  at  which  he  warmed  his  blood- 
stained hands  —every  element  bore  wit- 
ness to  his  guilt. 

Mar.  Conrad,  good  youth  —  lead  me 
from  hence,  and  1  will  show  thee  where, 
thirty  years  since,  I  deposited  a  mighty 
bribe.  [Rises. 

Con.  Be  patient,  good  Martin. 

Wic.  And  where  was  the  miscreant 
seized. 

[  The  tiuo  A f embers  suddenly  lay 
hands  on  Martin,  and  draw , 
their  daggers  ;  the  soldiers  spring 
to  their  arms. 

I  Mem.  On  this  very  spot. 

Wic.  Traitors,  unloose  your  hold. 

I  Mem.  In  the  name  of  the  Invisible 
Judges,  I  charge  ye,  impede  us  not  in 
our  duty. 

[All  sink  their  weapons  and  stand 
motionless. 

Mar.  Help!  help! 

I  Mem.   Help  him  with  your  prayers. 

[  He  is  dragged  off.  The  scene 
shuts. 


Scene  I 


THE   HOUSE    OF  ASPEAT 


675 


ACT  v.  — Scene  I. 
The  suhlerranean  chapel  of  the  Castle  of 
Griefenhaus.  It  seems  deserted,  and 
iti  decay.  There  are  four  entrances, 
each  defended  by  an  iron  portal.  At 
each  door  stands  a  warder  clothed  in 
black,  and  masked,  armed  with  a 
naked  szuord.  During  the  whole  scene 
they  remain  motionless  on  their  posts. 
In  the  centre  of  the  chapel  is  the  ruin- 
ous altar,  half  sunk  in  the  ground,  on 
which  lie  a  large  book,  a  dagger,  and 
a  coil  of  ropes,  beside  two  lighted  tapers. 
Antique  stone  benches  of  different 
heights  around  the  chapel.  In  the  back 
scene  is  seen  a  dilapidated  entrance 
into  the  sacristy,  which  is  quite  dark. 

Various  Members  of  the  hwisible  Tribu- 
nal enter  by  the  foiir  different  doors  of 
the  chapel.  Each  whispers  something 
as  he  passes  the  Warder,  -which  is 
answered  by  an  inclination  of  the  head. 
The  costume  of  the  members  is  a  long 
black  robe,  capable  of  muffling  the  face  ; 
some  wear  it  in  this  manner ;  others 
have  their  faces  uncovered,  unless  on 
the  entrance  of  a  stranger ;  they  place 
themselves  in  profound  silence  upon  the 
stone  benches. 

Enter  Count  Roderic,  dressed  in  a 
scarlet  cloak  of  the  same  form  with  those 
of  the  other  members.  He  takes  his 
place  on  the  most  elevated  bench. 

Rod.  Warders,  secure  the  doors ! 
(  The  doors  are  barred  with  great  care.) 
Herald,  do  thy  duty  ! 

[Members  all  rise  —  Herald  stands 
by  the  altar. 
Her.  Members  of  the  Invisible  Tribu- 
nal, who  judge  in  secret,  and  avenge  in 
secret,  like  the  Deity,  are  your  hearts 
free  from  malice,  and  your  hands  from 
blood-guiltiness  ? 

{All  the  Members    ituline   their 
heads. 
Rod.  God  pardon  our  sins  of  ignor- 
ance, and  preserve  us  from  those  of  pre- 
sumption. 

[Again  the  Members  solemnly  in- 
cline their  heads. 
Her.  To  the  east,  and  to  the  west, 
and  to  the  north,  and  to  the  south,  I  raise 


my  voice;  wherever  there  is  treason, 
wherever  there  is  blood -guiltiness,  wher- 
ever there  is  sacrilege,  sorcery,  robbery, 
or  perjury,  there  let  this  curse  alight, 
and  pierce  the  marrow  and  the  bone. 
Raise,  then,  your  voices,  and  say  with 
me,  woe !  woe  unto  offenders ! 

All.   Woe  !  woe  !    [M embers  sit  doivn. 

Her.  He  who  knoweth  of  an  unpun- 
ished crime,  let  him  stand  forth  as  bound 
by  his  oath  when  his  hand  was  laid  upon 
the  dagger  and  upon  the  cord,  and  call 
to  the  assembly  for  vengeance  ! 

Mem.  (rises,  his  face  covered).  Ven- 
geance !  vengeance  !  vengeance ! 

Rod.  Upon  whom  dost  thou  invoke 
vengeance? 

Accuser.  Upon  a  brother  of  this 
order,  who  is  forsworn  and  perjured  to 
its  laws. 

Rod.  Relate  his  crime. 

Accu.  This  perjured  brother  was 
sworn,  upon  the  steel  and  upon  the 
cord,  to  denounce  malefactors  to  the 
judgment-seat,  from  the  four  quarters  of 
heaven,  though  it  were  the  spouse  of  his 
heart,  or  the  son  whom  he  loved  as  the 
apple  of  his  eye;  yet  did  he  conceal  the 
guilt  of  one  who  was  dear  unto  him;  he 
folded  up  the  crime  from  the  knowledge 
of  the  tribunal;  he  removed  the  evidence 
of  guilt,  and  withdrew  the  criminal  from 
justice.     What  does  his  perjury  deserve? 

Rod.  Accuser,  come  before  the  altar; 
lay  thy  hand  upon  the  dagger  and  the 
cord,  and  swear  to  the  truth  of  thy  accu- 
sation. 

Accu.  {his  hand  on  the  altar).  I 
swear ! 

Rod.  Wilt  thou  take  upon  thyself  the 
penalty  of  perjury,  should  it  be  found 
false? 

Accu.  I  will. 

Rod.  Brethren,  what  is  your  sentence? 
[  The  Members  confer  a  moment  in 
luhispers  —  a  silence. 

Eldest  Mem.  Our  voice  is,  that  the 
perjured  brother  merits  death. 

Rod.  Accuser,  thou  hast  heard  the 
voice  of  the  assembly  ;  name  the 
criminal. 

Accu.  George,  Baron  of  Aspen. 

\A  murmur  in  the  assembly. 


676 


DRAMATIC  PIECES. 


Act  V. 


A  Mem.  (^suddenly  rising').  I  am 
ready,  according  to  our  holy  laws,  to 
swear,  by  the  steel  and  the  cord,  that 
George  of  Aspen  merits  not  this  accusa- 
tion, and  that  it  is  a  foul  calumny. 

Accu.  Rash  man !  gagest  thou  an 
oath  so  lightly? 

Mem.  I  gage  it  not  lightly.  I  proffer 
it  in  the  cause  of  innocence  and  virtue. 

Accu.  What  if  George  of  Aspen  should 
not  himself  deny  the  charge? 

Mem.  Then  would  I  never  trust  man 
again. 

Accu.  Hear  him,  then,  bear  witness 
against  himself.  (  Thrmos  back  liii 
ma  II  lie. ) 

Rod.  Baron  George  of  Aspen  ? 

Geo.  'I'he  same  —  prepared  to  do 
penance  for  the  crime  of  which  he 
stands  self-accused. 

Rod.  Still,  canst  thou  disclose  the 
name  of  the  criminal  whom  thou  hast 
rescued  from  justice;  on  that  condition 
alone,  thy  brethren  may  spare  thy  life. 

Geo.  Thinkest  thou  I  would  betray 
for  the  safety  of  my  life,  a  secret  I  have 
preserved  at  the  l)reach  of  my  word? 
—  No!  I  have  weighed  the  value  of 
my  obligation  —  I  will  not  discharge  it 
■ —  but  most  willingly  will  I  pay  the 
penalty  ! 

Rod.  Retire,  George  of  Aspen,  till 
the  assembly  pronounce  judgment. 

Geo.  Welcome  be  your  sentence  —  I 
am  weary  of  your  yoke  of  iron.  A  light 
beams  on  my  soul.  Woe  to  those  who 
seek  justice  in  the  dark  haunts  of  mys- 
tery and  of  cruelty  !  She  dwells  in  the 
broad  blaze  of  the  sun,  and  Mercy  is 
ever  by  her  side.  Woe  to  those  who 
would  advance  the  general  weal  by 
trampling  upon  the  social  affections ! 
they  aspire  to  be  more  than  men  —  they 
shall  become  worse  than  tigers.  I  go: 
better  for  me  your  altars  should  be  stained 
with  my  blood,  than  my  soul  l>lackened 
with  your  crimes. 

\Exit  George,  by  the  ruinous  door 
in  the  hack  scene,  into  the  sac- 
risty. 

Rod.  Brethren,  sworn  upon  the  steel 
and  upon  the  cord,  to  judge  and  to 
avenge  in  secret,  without  favor  and  with- 


out pity,  what  is  your  judgment  upon 
George  of  Aspen,  self-accused  of  perjury, 
and  resistance  to  the  laws  of  our  frater- 
nity. 

YLong  and  earnest  tnurtmtrs  in  the 
assembly. 
Rod.   Speak  your  doom. 
Eldest  Mem.  George  of    Aspen  has 
declared  himself  perjured;  — the  penalty 
of  perjury  is  death. 

Rod.  Father  of  the  secret  judges  — 
Eldest  among  those  who  avenge  in  secret 
—  take  to  thee  the  steel  and  the  cord;  — 
let  the  guilty  no  longer  cumber  the  land. 
Eldest  Mem.  I  am  fourscore  and 
eight  years  old.  My  eyes  are  <lim,  and 
my  hand  is  feeble;  soon  shall  I  be  called 
before  the  throne  of  my  Creator;  • — how 
shall  I  stand  there,  stained  with  the 
blood  of  such  a  man? 

Rod.  How  will  thou  stand  before  that 
throne,  loaded  with  the  guilt  of  a  Vjroken 
oath  ?  The  blood  of  the  criminal  be  upon 
us  and  ours ! 

Eldest  Mem.  So  be  it,  in  the  name 
of  God ! 

\^He  takes  the  dagger  from  the  altar, 

goes    slo7oly   towards    the    back 

scene,  and  reluctantly  enters  the 

sacristy. 

Eldest    Judge,  {from    behind    the 

scene).     Dost  thou  forgive  me? 

Gko,  (^behind).  I  do  !  (lie  is  heard 
to  fall  heavily. ) 

[Re-enter  the  old  Judge  from  the 
sacristy.     He  lays  on  the  altar 
the  bloody  dagger. 
Rod.   Hast  thou  done  thy  duty? 
Eldest  Mem.  1  have.     (lie  faints.) 
Rod.  He  swoons.     Remove  him. 

\^He  is  assisted  off  the  stage.     Dur- 
ing this,  four  members  enter  the 
sac7-isty   and  bring    out  a    bier 
covered  with  a  pall,  which  they 
place  on  the  steps  of  the  altar. 
A  deep  silence. 
Rod.  Judges    of     evil,    dooming    in 
secret,  and  avenging  in  secret,  like  the 
Deity :  God  keep  your  thoughts  from  evil, 
and  your  hands  from  guilt. 

Ber.  I  raise  my  voice  in  this  assembly, 
and  cry,  vengeance !  vengeance !  ven- 
"Teance  ! 


Scene  I. 


THE  HOUSE   OF  ASPEN. 


677 


Rod.  Enough  has  this  night  been  done 

—  i^He  rises  and  brings  Bertram  for- 
ivard. )  Think  what  thou  doest  — 
George  has  fallen  —  it  were  murder  to 
slay  both  mother  and  son. 

Ber.  George  of  Aspen  was  thy  victim 

—  a  sacrifice  to  thy  hatred  and  envy.  I 
claim  mine,  sacred  to  justice  and  to  my 
murdered  brother.     Resume  thy  place  ! 

—  thou  canst  not  stop  the  rock  thou  hast 
put  in  motion. 

Rod.  (^resumes  his  Scat).  Upon  whom 
callest  thou  for  vengeance? 

Ber.  Upon  Isabella  of  Aspen. 

Rod.  She  has  been  summoned. 

Herald.  Isabella  of  Aspen,  accused 
of  murder  by  poison,  I  charge  thee  to 
appear,  and  stand  upon  thy  defence. 

[  Thrtie  knocks  are  /ward  at  one  of 
the  doors  —  it  is  opened  by  the 
warder. 
Enter  Isabella,  the  veil  still  wrapped 

around  her  head,  led  by  her  conductor. 

All  the  members  muffle  their  faces. 

Rod.  Uncover  her  eyes. 

\^7yte  veil  is  removed.     Isabella 
looks  wildly  round. 

Rod.  Knowest  thou,  lady,  where  thou 
art? 

ISA.   I  guess. 

Rod.  Say  thy  guess. 

ISA.   Before  the  avengers  of  blood. 

Rod.  Knowest  thou  why  thou  art 
called  to  their  presence? 

ISA.  No. 

Rod.  Speak,  accuser. 

Ber.  I  impeach  thee,  Isabella  of 
Aspen,  before  this  awful  assembly,  of 
having  murdered,  privily  and  by  poison, 
Arnolf  of  Ebersdorf,  thy  first  husband. 

Rod.  Canst  thou  swear  to  the  accusa- 
tion? 

Ber.  {his  hand  on  the  altar).  I  lay 
my  hand  on  the  steel  and  the  cord,  and 
swear. 

Rod.  Isabella  of  Aspen,  thou  hast 
heard  thy  accusation.  What  canst  thou 
answer  ? 

ISA.  That  the  oath  of  an  accuser  is  no 
proof  of  guilt ! 

Rod.   Hast  thou  more  to  say? 
ISA.   I  have. 
Rod.  Speak  on, 


ISA.  Judges  invisible  to  the  sun,  and 
seen  only  by  the  stars  of  midnight !  I 
stand  before  you,  accused  of  an  enor- 
mous, daring,  and  premeditated  crime. 
I  was  married  to  Arnolf  when  I  was  only 
eighteen  years  old.  Arnold  was  wary 
and  jealous;  ever  suspecting  me  without 
a  cause,  unless  it  was  because  he  had 
injured  me.  How  then  should  I  plan 
and  perpetrate  such  a  deed?  The  lamb 
turns  not  against  the  wolf,  .though  a 
prisoner  in  his  den. 

Rod.  Have  you  finished? 
ISA.  A  moment.  Years  after  years 
have  elapsed  without  a  whisper  of  this 
foul  suspicion.  Arnolf  left  a  brother ! 
though  common  fame  had  been  silent, 
natural  affection  would  have  been  heard 
against  me — why  spoke  he  not  my  ac- 
cusation? Or  has  my  conduct  justified 
this  horrible  charge ?  No !  awful  judges, 
I  may  answer,  I  have  fomided  cloisters, 
I  have  endowed  hospitals.  The  goods 
that  Heaven  bestowed  on  me  I  have  not 
held  back  from  the  needy.  1  appeal  to 
you,  judges  of  evil,  can  these  proofs  of 
innocence  be  downweighed  by  the  asser- 
tion of  an  unknown  and  disguised,  per- 
chance a  malignant  accuser. 

Ber.  No  longer  will  I  wear  that  dis- 
guise. {Throws  back  his  mantle.)  Dost 
thou  know  me  now? 

ISA.  Yes;  I  know  thee  for  a  wander- 
ing minstrel,  relieved  by  the  charity  of 
my  husljand. 

Ber.  No,  traitress!  know  me  for  Ber- 
tram of  Ebersdorf,  brother  to  him  thou 
didst  murder.  Call  her  accomplice,  Mar- 
tin.    Ha  !   turnest  thou  pale  ! 

ISA.  May    I    have     some    water?  — 
{Apart.)     Sacred   Heaven!   his  vindic- 
tive look  is  so  like.  —  [  //  a/er  is  brouf^lit. 
A  Mem.   Martin  died  in  the  hands  of 
our  brethren. 

Rod.  Dost   thou   know   the   accuser, 

lady?  ^      _ 

ISA.  {reassuming fortitude).  Let  not 
the  sinking  of  nature  under  this  dreadful 
trial  be  imputed  to  the  cpnsciousness  of 
guilt.  I  do  know  the  accuser— know 
him  to  be  outlawed  for  homicide,  and 
under  the  ban  of  the  empire :  his  tesU- 
mony  cannot  be  received. 


678 


DRAMATIC  PIECES. 


Act  V. 


Eldest  Judge.  She  says  truly. 

Ber.  (/(5  RoDERic).  Then  I  call  upon 
thee  and  William  of  Wolfstein  to  bear 
witness  to  what  you  know. 

Rod.  Wolfstein  is  not  in  the  assembly, 
and  my  place  prevents  me  from  being  a 
witness. 

Ber.  Then  I  will  call  another:  mean- 
while let  the  accused  be  removed. 

Rod.  Retire,  lady.  [Isabella  is  led 
to  the  sacristy. 

ISA.  {in  going  off).  The  ground  is 
slippery.  —  Heavens  !  it  is  floated  with 
blood ! 

[  Exit  into  the  sacristy. 

Rod.  {apart  to  Bertram).  W^hom 
dost  thou  mean  to  call?  [Bertram 
whispers. 

Rod.  This  goes  beyond  me.  {After 
a  moment's  thought.)  But  be  it  so. 
Maltingen  shall  behold  Aspen  humbled 
in  the  dust.  {Aloud.')  Brethren,  the 
accuser  calls  for  a  witness  who  remains 
without:   admit  him. 

\_All  muffle  their  faces. 

Enter  Rudiger,  his  eyes  bound  or  covered, 
leaning  upon  two  members  ;  they  place 
a  stool  for  him,  and  unbind  his  eyes. 

Rod.  Knowest  thou  where  thou  art, 
and  before  whom? 

RuD.  I  know  not,  and  I  care  not. 
Two  strangers  summoned  me  from  my 
castle  to  assist,  they  said,  at  a  great  act 
of  justice.  I  ascended  the  litter  they 
brought,  and  I  am  here. 

Rod.  It  regards  the  punishment  of 
perjury  and  the  discovery  of  murder. 
Art  thou  willing  to  assist  us? 

Rud.   Most  willing,  as  is  my  duty. 

Rod.  What  if  the  crime  regard  thy 
friend? 

Rud.  I  will  hold  him  no  longer  so. 

Rod.   What  if  thine  own  blood? 

Rud.  I  would  let  it  out  with  my 
poniard. 

Rod.  Then  canst  thou  not  blame  us 
for  this  deed  of  justice.  Remove  the 
pall. 

[  The  pall  is  lifted,  beneath  which 
is  discovered  the  body  d/GEORGE, 
pale  and  bloody .  RuDlGER  5/(2^''- 
gers  towards  it. 


RuD.  My  George  !  my  George  !  Not 
slain  manly  in  battle,  but  murdered  by 
legal  assassins.  Much,  much  may  I 
mourn  thee,  my  beloved  boy;  but  not  5 
now,  not  now :  never  will  I  shed  a  tear  for 
thy  death  till  I  have  cleared  thy  fame. 
Hear  me,  ye  midnight  murderers,  he  was 
innocent  {raising  his  voice)  - —  upright  as  ■ 
the  truth  itself.  Let  the  man  who  dares 
gainsay  me  lift  that  gage.  If  the  Almighty 
does  not  strengthen  these  frail  limbs,  to 
make  good  a  father's  quarrel,  I  have  a 
son  left,  who  will  vindicate  the  honor  of 
Aspen,  or  lay  his  bloody  body  beside  his 
brother's. 

Rod.  Rash  and  insensible  !  Hear  first 
the  cause.  Hear  the  dishonor  of  thy 
house. 

Isa.  {from  the  sacristy).  Never  shall 
he  hear  it  till  the  author  is  no  more ! 

[Rudiger  attempts  to  rush  towards 
the  sacristy,  but  is  prevented. 
Isabella  cfiters  wounded,  and 
throws  herself  on  George's 
body. 

Isa.  Murdered  for  me  —  for  me  !  my 
dear,  dear  son ! 

Rud.  {still  held).  Cowardly  villains, 
let  in  J  loose!  Maltingen,  this  is  thy 
doing  !  Thy  face  thou  wouldst  disguise, 
thy  deeds,  thou  canst  not !  I  defy  thee 
to  instant  and  mortal  combat ! 

Isa.  {lookittg  up).  No!  no!  endan- 
ger  not   thy  life  !     Myself !    myself !     I 

could  not  bear  thou  shouldst  know 

Oh!     {Dies.) 

Rud.  Oh  !  let  me  go  —  let  me  but  try 
to  stop  her  blood,  and  I  will  forgive  all. 

Rod.  Drag  him  off  and  detain  him. 
The  voice  of  lamentation  must  not  dis- 
turb the  stern  deliberation  of  justice. 

Rud.  Bloodhound  of  Maltingen ! 
Well  beseems  thee  thy  base  revenge ! 
The  marks  of  my  son's  lance  are  still  on 
thy  craven  crest !  Vengeance  on  the 
band  of  ye ! 
[  Rudiger  is  dragged  off  to  the  sacristy. 

Rod.  Brethren,  we  stand  discovered ! 
What  is  to  be  done  to  him  who  shall 
descry  our  mystery. 

Eldest  Judge.  He  must  become  a 
brother  of  our  order,  or  die ! 


Scene  I. 


THE  HOUSE    OF  ASPEN. 


679 


Rod,  This  man  will  never  join  us ! 
He  cannot  put  his  hand  into  ours,  which 
are  stained  with  the  blood  of  his  wife  and 
son:  he  must  therefore  die  !  (^Murmurs 
in  the  assembly S)  Brethren  !  I  wonder 
not  at  your  reluctance;  but  the  man  is 
powerful,  has  friends  and  allies  to  buck- 
ler his  cause.  It  is  over  with  us,  and 
with  our  order,  unless  the  laws  are 
obeyed.  (^Fainter  murmurs.')  Besides, 
have  we  not  sworn  a  deadly  oath  to  exe- 
cute these  statutes?  (^A  dead  silence.') 
Take  to  thee  the  steel  and  the  cord  (Jo 
the  eldest  judge). 

Eldest  Judge.  He  has  done  no  evil 
—  he  was  the  companion  of  my  battle — 
I  will  not ! 

Rod.  {^lo  another).  Do  thou  —  and 
succeed  to  the  rank  of  him  who  has  dis- 
obeyed. Remember  your  oath  !  {^.Mem- 
ber takes  the  dagger,  and  goes  irresolutely 
forward :  looks  into  the  sacristy,  and 
conies  back. ) 

Mem.  He  has  fainted  —  fainted  in  an- 
guish for  his  wife  and  his  son  :  the  bloody 
ground  is  strewn  with  his  white  hairs, 
torn  by  those  hands  that  have  fought  for 
Christendom.  I  will  not  be  your  butcher. 
(  Throivs  dcnon  the  dagger.) 

Ber.  Irresolute  and  perjured  !  the  rob- 
ber of  my  inheritance,  the  author  of  my 
exile,  shall  die ! 

Rod.  Thanks,  Bertram,  Execute  the 
doom  —  secure  the  safety  of  the  holy 
tribunal ! 

[Bertram  seizes  the  dagger,  and 
is  about  to  rush  into  the  sacristy, 
when  three  loud  knocks  are  heard 
at  the  door. 

All.  Hold !  hold ! 

[  The  Duke  of  Bavaria,  attended 
by  many  members  of  the  Invisible 
Tribunal,  enters,  dressed  in  a 
scarlet  mantle  trimmed  7uith 
ermine,  and  wearing  a  ducal 
crown.  —  He  carries  a  rod  in 
his  hand.  —  All  rise.  —  A  mur- 
mur among  the  members,  who 
whisper  to  each  other,  "  The 
Duke,"  "  The  Chief,"//^. 

Rod.  The  Duke  of  Bavaria!  T  am 
lost. 


DuKE.  {sees  the  bodies.)  I  am  too 
late  —  the  victims  have  fallen. 

Hen.  {-who  enters  with  the  Duke). 
Gracious  Heaven  !     O  George  ! 

RUD.  {from  the  sacristy).  Henry,  it 
is  thy  voice  —  save  me  ! 

[Henry  rushes  into  the  sacristy. 

DuKE.  Roderic  of  Maltingen,  descend 
from  the  seat  which  thou  hast  dishonored. 
(Roderic  leaves  his  place,  which  the 
Duke  occupies. ) —  Thou  standest  accused 
of  having  perverted  the  laws  of  our  order; 
for  that  being  a  mortal  enemy  to  the 
House  of  Aspen,  thou  hast  abused  thy 
sacred  authority  to  pander  to  thy  private 
revenge;  and  to  this  Wolfstein  has  been 
witness. 

Rod.  Chief  among  our  circles,  I  have 
but  acted  according  to  our  laws. 

DlTKE.  Thou  hast  indeed  observed  the 
letter  of  our  statutes,  and  woe  am  I 
that  they  do  warrant  this  night's  bloody 
work  !  I  cannot  do  unto  thee  as  I  would, 
but  what  I  can  I  will.  Thou  hast  not 
indeed  transgressed  our  law,  but  thou 
hast  wrested  and  abused  it:  kneel  down, 
therefore,  and  place  thy  hands  l)etwixt 
mine.  (Roderic  kneels  as  directed.) 
I  degrade  thee  from  thy  sacred  office. 
{Spreads  his  hands  as  pushing  RoDERiC 
from  him.)  If  after  two  days  thou  dar- 
est  to  pollute  Bavarian  ground  by  thy 
footsteps,  be  it  at  the  peril  of  the  steel 
and  the  cord.  (Roderic  rw.f.)  I  dis- 
solve this  meeting.  {All  rise.)  Judges 
and  condemners  of  others,  God  teach 
you  knowledge  of  yourselves !  {All  bend 
their  beads  —  DuKE  breaks  his  rod  and 
comes  forruard. ) 

Rod.  Lord  Duke,  thou  hast  charged 
me  with  treachery  —  thou  art  my  liege 
lord  —  but  who  else  dares  maintain  the 
accusation,  lies  in  his  throat. 

Hen.  {rushing  from  the  sacristy). 
Villain  !     I  accept  thy  challenge  ! 

Rod.  \^\n  boy !  my  lance  shall  chas- 
tise thee  in  the  lists  —  there  lies  my  gngo. 

Duke.  Henry,  on  thy  allegiance,  touch 
it  not.  (  To  Roderic.  )  Lists  shall  thou 
never  more  enter;  lance  shalt  thou  never 
more  wield.  {Draws  his  sword.)  With 
this  sword  wast  thou  dubbed  a  knight; 


68o 


DRAMATIC  PIECES. 


Act  V. 


and  with  this  sword  I  dishonor  thee  —  I 
thy  prince  —  (^strikes  him  slightly  -with  tlu- 
flat  of  the  sword  ^  —  I  take  from  thee  the 
degree  of  knight,  the  dignity  of  chivalry. 
Thou  art  no  longer  a  free  German  noble ; 
thou  art  honorless  and  rightless;  the 
funeral  obsequies  shall  be  performed  for 
thee  as  for  one  dead  to  knightly  honor 
and  to  fair  fame;  thy  spurs  shall  be 
hacked  from  thy  heels;  thy  arms  baffled 
and  reversed  by  the  common  executioner. 


Go,  fraudful  and  dishonored,  hide  thy 
shame  in  a  foreign  land!  (RoDERiC 
shows  a  dumb  expression  of  rage.  )  Lay 
hands  on  Bertram  of  Ebersdorf :  as  I  live, 
he  shall  pay  the  forfeiture  of  his  out- 
lawry. Henry,  aid  us  to  remove  thy 
father  from  this  charnel-house.  Never 
shall  he  know  the  dreadful  secret.  Be  it 
mine  to  soothe  the  sorrows,  and  to  re- 
store the  honor  of  the  House  of  Aspen. 
(  Curtain  slowly  falls. ) 


APPENDIX. 


THE  LAY  OF  THE  LAST  MINSTREL. 


Note  i. 
The  feast  was  over  in  Branksotnc  tower. — 

P.  lo. 
In  the  reign  of  James  I.,  Sir  William 
Scott  of  Buccleuch,  chief  of  the  clan  bearing 
that  name,  exchanged,  with  Sir  Thomas 
Inglis  of  Manor,  the  estate  of  Murdiestone, 
in  Lanarkshire,  for  one-half  of  the  barony 
of  Branksome,  or  Brankholm,  lying  upon 
the  Teviot,  about  three  miles  above  Hawick. 
He  was  probably  induced  to  this  transaction 
from  the  vicinity  of  Branksome  to  the  exten- 
sive domain  which  he  possessed  in  Ettrick 
Forest,  and  in  Teviotdale.  In  the  former 
district  he  held  by  occupancy  tlie  estate  of 
Buccleuch,  and  much  of  the  forest  land  on 
the  river  Ettrick.  In  Teviotdale,  he  enjoyed 
the  barony  of  Eckford,  by  a  grant  from 
Robert  II.  to  his  ancestor,  Walter  Scott  of 
Kirkurd,  for  the  apprehending  of  Gilbert 
Kidderford,  confirmed  by  Robert  III.,  3d 
May,  1424.  Tradition  imputes  the  ex- 
change betwixt  Scott  and  Inglis  to  a  conver- 
sation, in  which  the  latter  —  a  man,  it 
would  apf)ear,  of  a  mild  and  forbearing 
nature — complained  much  of  the  injuries 
to  which  he  was  exposed  from  the  English 
Borderers,  who  frequently  plundered  his 
lands  of  Branksome.  Sir  William  Scott 
instantly  offered  him  the  estate  of  Murdie- 
stone, in  exchange  for  that  which  was  sub- 
ject to  such  egregious  inconvenience.  When 
the  bargain  was  completed,  he  dryly  re- 
marked, that  the  cattle  in  Cumberland  were 
as  good  as  those  of  Teviotdale ;  and  pro- 
ceeded to  commence  a  system  of  reprisals 
upon  the  English,  which  was  regularly  pur- 
sued by  his  successors.  In  the  next  reign, 
James  II.  granted  to  .Sir  Walter  Scott  of 
Branksome,  and  to  Sir  David,  his  son,  the 
remaining  half  of  the  barony  of  Branksome,  I 
to  be  held  in  blanche  for  the  payment  of  a  j 
red  rose.  The  cause  assigned  for  the  grant  I 
is,  their  brave  and  faithful  exertions  in  favor  I 
of  the  King  against  the  house  of  Douglas,   I 

68 


with  whom  James  had  been  recently  tugging 
for  the  throne  of  Scotland.  This  chart.r  1 , 
dated  the  2nd  February,  1443 ;  and,  in  tiie 
same  month,  part  of  the  barony  of  Lang- 
holm, and  many  lands  in  Lanarkshire,  weie 
conferred  upon  Sir  Walter  and  his  son  by 
the  same  monarch. 

Note  2. 
Nine-and-twenty  knigJUs  of  fame 

Hung  their  shields  in  Branksome  Hall.  — 

P.  10. 

The  ancient  barons  of  Buccleuch,  lx)tli 
from  feudal  splendor  and  from  their  frontier 
situation,  retained  in  their  household  at 
Branksome,  a  number  of  gentlemen  of  their 
own  name,  who  held  lands  from  their  chief, 
for  the  military  service  of  watching  and 
warding  his  castle. 

Note  3. 

with  Jcdwood-axe  at  saddlebow.  —  P.  10. 

"  Of  a  truth,"  says  Froissart, "  the  Scottish 
cannot  boast  great  skill  with  the  bow,  but 
ratiiier  bear  axes,  with  which,  in  time  of  need, 
they  give  heavy  strokes."  The  Jedwood-axe 
was  a  sort  of  partisan,  used  by  horsemen,  as 
appears  from  the  arms  of  Jedburgh,  which 
bear  a  cavalier  mounted  and  armed  with  this 
weapon.  It  is  also  called  a  Jedwood  or 
Jeddart  staff. 

Note  4. 
Tliey  watch,  against  Southern  force  atri 
guile, 
Lest     Scroop,    or     Howard,    or     Percy  s 

powers. 
Threaten  Branksome'' s  lordly  towers, 
From  Warkworth,  or  Naworth,  or  merry 
Carlisle.  —  P.  11. 
Branksome  Castle  was  continually  exposed 
to  the  attacks  of  the  English,  both  from  its 
situation  and  the  restless  military  disjxjsi- 
tion  of  its  inhabitants,  who  were  seldom  on 
good  terms  with  their  neighbors. 


6o2 


APPENDIX. 


Note  5. 
Bards  long  shall  tell, 
How  Lord  Walter  fell!  —  P.  1 1. 
Sir  Walter  Scott  of  Buccleuch  succeeded 
to  his  grandfather,  Sir  David,  in   1492.     He 
was  a  brave  and  powerful  baron,  and  War- 
den of  the  West  Marches  of  Scotland.     His 
death  was  tiie  consequence  of  the  feud  be- 
twixt the  Scotts  and  Kerrs. 

Note  6. 

While  Cessford  owns  the  rule  of  Carr, 
While  Ettrick  boasts  the  line  of  Scott, 

The  slaughter'' d  chiefs,  the  mortal  jar, 

The  havock  of  the  feudal  war, 
Shall  never,  ttever  be  forgot .'  —  P.  1 1. 

Among  other  expedients  resorted  to  for 
stanching  the  feud  betwixt  the  Scotts  and 
the  Kerrs,  there  was  a  bond  executed  in  1529, 
between  the  heads  of  each  clan,  binding 
themselves  to  perform  reciprocally  the  four 
principal  pilgrimages  of  Scotland,  for  the 
Jxinelit  of  the  souls  of  those  of  the  opposite 
name  who  had  fallen  in  the  quarrel.  But 
either  this  indenture  never  took  effect,  or 
else  the  feud  was  renewed  shortly  afterwards. 

Note  7. 

With  Carr  in  arms  had  stood.  —  P.  11. 

The  family  of  Ker,  Kerr,  or  Carr,  *  was 
very  powerful  on  the  Border.  Their  in- 
fluence extended  from  the  village  of  Preston- 
Grange,  in  Lothian,  to  the  limits  of  England. 
Cessford  Castle,  now  in  ruins,  the  ancient 
baronial  residence  of  the  family,  is  situated 
near  the  village  of  Morebattle,  within  two 
or  three  miles  of  the  Cheviot  Hills.  Tradi- 
tion affirms  that  it  was  founded  by  Halbert, 
or  Habby  Kerr,  a  gigantic  warrior,  concern- 
ing whom  many  stories  are  current  in 
Roxburghshire.  The  Duke  of  Roxburgh 
represents  Ker  of  Cessford. 

Note  8. 
Lord  Cranstoitn.  —  P.  11. 
The  Cranstouns  are  an  ancient  Border 
family,  whose  chief  seat  was  in  Crailing,  in 
'i'eviotdale.  They  were  at  this  time  at  feud 
with  the  clan  of  .Scott ;  for  it  appears  that 
the  Lady  of  Buccleuch,  in  1557.  beset  the 
Laird  of  Cranstoun,  seeking  his  life.  Never- 
theless, the  same  Cranstoun,  or  perhaps  his 
son.  was  married  to  a  daughter  of  the  same 
lady. 

*  The  name  is  spelt  differently  by  the  various 
families  who  bear  it.  Carr  is  selected,  not  as 
the  most  correct,  but  as  the  most  poetical  read- 
ing. 


Note  9. 

Of  Bcthune's  line  of  Picardic.  —  P.  11. 

The  Bethunes  were  of  French  origin,  and 
derived  their  name  from  a  small  town  in 
Artois.  There  were  several  distinguished 
families  of  the  Bethunes  in  the  neighboring 
province  of  Picardy  ;  they  numbered  among 
their  descendants  the  celebrated  Due  de 
Sully,  and  the  name  was  accounted  among 
the  most  noble  in  France,  while  aught  noble 
remained  in  that  country .f  The  family  of 
Bethune,  or  Beatoun,  in  Fife,  produced 
three  learned  and  dignified  prelates  :  namely, 
Cardinal  Beaton,  and  two  successive  Arch- 
bishops of  Glasgow,  all  of  whom  flourished 
about  the  date  of  the  romance.  Of  this 
family  was  descended  Dame  Janet  Beaton, 
Lady  Buccleuch,  widow  of  Sir  Walter  .Scott 
of  Branksome.  She  was  a  woman  of  mas- 
culine spirit,  as  appeared  from  her  riding  at 
the  head  of  her  son"s  clan,  after  her  hus- 
band's murder.  She  was  telieved  by  the 
superstition  of  the  vulgar  to  possess  super- 
natural knowledge.  \\  ith  this  was  mingled, 
by  faction,  the  foul  accusation  of  her  having 
influenced  Queen  Mary  to  the  murder  of  her 
husband.  One  of  the  placards,  preserved  in 
Buchanan's  Detection,  accuses  of  Darnley's 
murder  "  the  Erie  of  Bothwell,  Mr,  James 
Balfour,  the  persoun  of  Fliske,  Mr.  David 
Chalmers,  black  Mr.  John  Spens,  who  was 
principal  deviser  of  the  murder  ;  and  the 
Queen  assenting  thairto,  throw  the  persua- 
sion of  the  F>le  Bothwell,  and  the  witchcraft 
of  Lady  Bucklench." 

Note  10. 

He  learn'd  the  art  that  none  may  name. 
In  Padua,  far  beyond  the  sea.  —  P.  11. 

Padua  was  long  supposed  by  the  Scottish 
peasants  to  be  the  principal  school  of  necro- 
mancy. The  Earl  of  Gowrie,  slain  at  Perth, 
in  1600,  pretended,  during  his  studies  in  Italy, 
to  have  acquired  some  knowledge  of  the 
cabala.  —  See  the  examination  of  Wemyss 
of  Bogie,  before  the  Privy  Council,  concern- 
ing Gowrie's  Conspiracy. 

Note  ii. 
His  form  no  darkening  shadow  traced 

Upon  the  sunny  wall.- — P.  11. 
The  shadow  of  a  necromancer  is  independ- 
ent  of   the   sun.      Glycas   informs   us   that 
Simon  Magus  caused  his  shadow  to  go  be- 
fore him,  making  people  believe  it  was  an 

t  This  expression  and  sentime-it  were  dic- 
tated by  the  situation  of  France,  in  the  year 
1803,   when   the   poem   was    originally   written. 


THE  LAY  OF  THE   LAST  MLNSTREL. 


683 


attendant  spirit.  —  Heywood's  Hierarchic, 
p.  475.  A  common  superstition  was  that 
when  a  class  of  students  had  made  a  certain 
progress  in  their  mystic  studies,  they  were 
obliged  to  run  through  a  subterranean  hall, 
where  the  devil  literally  caught  the  hindmost 
in  the  race,  unless  he  crossed  the  hall  so 
speedily  that  the  arch-enemy  could  only 
grasp  his  shadow.  Hence  the  old  Scotch 
proverb,  "  De'il  take  the  hindmost."  Sor- 
cerers were  often  fabled  to  have  given  their 
shadows  to  the  fiend. 

Note  12. 
By  wily  turns,  by  desperate  bounds, 
Had  baffled  Percy'' s  best  blood-hounds.  — 

P.  13. 

The  kings  and  heroes  of  Scotland,  as  well 
as  the  Border-riders,  were  sometimes  obliged 
to  study  how  to  evade  the  pursuit  of  blood- 
hounds. Barbour  informs  us  that  Robert 
Bruce  was  repeatedly  tracked  by  sleuth-dogs. 
On  one  occasion,  he  escaped  by  wading  a 
bow-shot  down  a  brook,  and  ascending  into 
a  tree  by  a  branch  which  overhung  the  water  ; 
thus,  leaving  no  trace  on  land  of  his  foot- 
steps, he  baffled  the  scent. 

.\  sure  way  of  stopping  the  dog  was  to 
spill  blood  upon  the  track,  which  destroyed 
the  discriminating  fineness  of  his  scent.  .A. 
captive  was  sometimes  sacrificed  on  such 
occasions.  Henry  the  Minstrel  tells  a  ro- 
mantic story  of  Wallace,  founded  on  this  cir- 
cumstance :  —  The  hero's  little  band  had 
been  joined  by  an  Irishman,  named  Fawdoun, 
or  Fadzean,  a  dark,  savage,  and  suspicious 
character.  After  a  sharp  skirmish  at  Black- 
Erne  Side,  Wallace  was  forced  to  retreat 
with  only  sixteen  followers,  the  English  pur- 
suing with  a  Border  blood-hound. 

In  the  retreat,  Fawdoun,  tired,  or  affect- 
ing to  be  so.  would  go  no  farther,  and  Wal- 
lace, having  in  vain  argued  with  him,  in 
hasty  anger,  struck  off  his  head,  and  contin- 
ued the  retreat.  When  the  English  came 
up.  their  hound  stayed  upon  the  dead 
body  :  — 
"  The  sleuth  stopped  at  Fawdon,  still  she  stood, 

Nor  farther   would,   fra    time   she   fund    the 
blood." 

Note  13. 
But  when  Melrose  he  reached,  Hwas  silence 

all; 
He  meetly  stabled  his  steed  in  stall. 
And  sousht  the  convent's  lonely  wall. — 

P.  14. 

The  ancient  and  beautiful  monastery  of 
Melrose  was  founded  in  1 136  by  King  David 
I.     It  was  destroyed  by  the  English  in  1322, 


rebuilt  by  David  Bruce,  and  again  injured 
and  effaced  at  the  Reformation,  Its  ruins 
afford  the  finest  specimen  of  Gothic  archi- 
tecture and  Gothic  sculpture  which  Scotland 
can  boast.  The  stone  of  which  it  is  built, 
though  it  has  resisted  the  weather  for  so 
many  ages,  retains  perfect  sharpness,  so  that 
even  the  most  minute  ornaments  seem  as 
entire  as  when  newly  wrought. 

Note  14. 
When  the  buttress  and  buttress,  alternately, 
Seem  framed  of  ebon  and  ivory  ; 
When  silver  edges  the  imagery. 
And  the  scrolls  that  teach  thee  to  live  and 
die. 

Then  view  Si.  David'' s  ruined  pile.  —  P.  15. 

The  buttresses  ranged  along  the  sides  of 
the  ruins  of  Melrose  Abbey,  are,  according 
to  the  Gothic  style,  richly  carved  and  fretted, 
containing  niches  for  the  statues  of  saints, 
and  labelled  with  scrolls,  bearing  appropri- 
ate texts  of  Scripture.  Most  of  these  statues 
have  been  demolished. 

David  I.  of  Scotland  purchased  the  repu- 
tation of  sanctity,  by  founding,  and  liberally 
endowing,  not  only  the  monastery  of  Mel- 
rose, but  those  of  Kelso,  Jedburgh,  and  many 
others  ;  which  led  to  the  well-known  obser- 
vation of  his  successor,  that  he  was  a  sore 
saint  for  the  crown. 

Note  15. 
And  there  the  dying  lamps  did  burn. 
Before  thy  loav  and  lonely  urn, 
O  gallant  Chief  of  Otterburne  !  —  P.  16. 
The  famous  and  desperate  battle  of  Otter- 
burne was  fought  15th  August,  1388,  between 
Henry  Percy,  called    Hotspur,  and  James, 
Earl  of  Douglas.    Both  these  renowned  rival 
champions  were  at  the  head  of  a  chosen  body 
of  troops.     Percy  was  made  prisoner,  and 
the  Scots  won  the  day  through  their  gallant 
general.     The  Earl  of  Douglas  was  slain  in 
the  action.      He  was    buried    at   Melrose, 
beneath  the  high  altar. 

Note  16. 

dark  Knight  of  Liddesdale .'  —  P.  16. 

William  Douglas,  called  the  Knight  of 
Liddesdale.  flourished  during  the  reign  of 
David  II.,  and  was  so  distinguished  by  his 
valor,  that  he  was  called  the  Flower  of  Chiv- 
alry. Nevertheless,  he  tarnished  his  renown 
by  the  cruel  murder  of  Sir  Alexander  Ram- 
say of  Dalhousie,  originally  his  friend  and 
brother  in  arms.  The  King  had  conferred 
upon  Ramsay  the  sheriffdom  of  Teviotdale, 


684 


APPENDIX. 


to  which  Douglas  pretended  some  claim. 
In  revenge  of  this  preference,  the  Knight 
of  Liddesdale  came  down  upon  Kamsay, 
while  he  was  administering  justice  at 
Hawick,  seized  and  carried  him  off  to  his 
remote  and  inaccessible  castle  of  Hermitiige, 
where  he  threw  his  unfortunate  prisoner, 
horse  and  man,  into  a  dungeon,  leaving  him 
to  perish  of  hunger.  King  David,  though 
incensed  at  such  a  high-handed  outrage,  was 
compelled  to  appoint  Douglas  his  victim's 
successor. 

Note  17. 
the  wondrous  Michael  Scolt.  —  P.  17. 

Sir  Michael  Scott  of  Balwearie  flourished 
during  the  13th  century,  and  was  one  of  the 
ambassadors  sent  to  bring  the  maid  of  Nor- 
way to  Scotland  upon  the  death  of  Alexan- 
der III.  By  a  poetical  anachronism,  he  is 
here  placed  in  a  later  era.  He  was  a  man  of 
much  learning,  chiefly  acquired  in  foreign 
countries.  He  wrote  a  commentary  upon 
Aristotle,  printed  at  Venice  in  1496  :  and 
several  treatises  upon  natural  philosophy, 
from  which  he  appears  to  have  been  addicted 
to  the  abstruse  studies  of  judicial  astrology, 
alchymy,  physiognomy,  and  chiromancy. 
Hence  he  passed  among  his  contemporaries 
for  a  skilful  magician.  Dempster  informs 
us  that  he  remembers  to  have  heard  in  his 
youth  that  the  magic  books  of  Michael  Scott 
were  still  in  existence,  but  could  not  be 
opened  without  danger,  on  account  of  the 
malignant  fiends  who  were  thereby  invoked. 

Tradition  varies  concerning  the  place  of 
his  burial ;  some  contend  for  MomeColtrame, 
in  Cumberland  ;  others  for  Melrose  Abbey. 
But  all  agree  that  his  books  of  magic  were 
interred  in  his  grave,  or  preserved  in  the  con- 
vent where  he  died. 

Note  18. 
The  words  that  cleft  Eildon  Hills  in  three.  — 

P.  17. 
Michael  Scott  was,  once  upon  a  time,  much 
embarrassed  by  a  spirit,  for  whom  he  was 
under  the  necessity  of  finding  constant  em- 
ployment. He  commanded  him  to  build  a 
eauld,  or  damhead,  across  the  Tweed  at 
Kelso ;  it  was  accomplished  in  one  night, 
and  still  does  honor  to  the  infernal  architect. 
Michael  next  ordered  that  Eildon  Hill,  which 
was  then  a  uniform  cone,  should  be  divided 
into  three,  .\nother  night  was  sufficient  to 
part  its  summit  into  the  three  picturesque 
peaks  which  it  now  bears.  .At  length  the 
enchanter  conquered  this  indefatigable  de- 
mon by  employing  him  in  the  hopeless  and 
endless  task  of  making  ropes  out  of  sea-sand. 


Note  19. 
The  Baron  s  Dwarf  his  courser  held.  — 

P.    19. 

The  idea  of  Lord  Cranstoun's  Goblin  Page 

is  taken  from  a  being  called  Gilpin  Horner, 

who   appeared,  and  made  some  stay,   at  a 

farm-house  among  the  Border  mountains. 

Note  20. 
All  was  delusion,  naught  was  truth.  —  P.  22 

Glamour,  in  the  legends  of  Scottish  super- 
stition, means  the  magic  power  of  imposing 
on  the  eyesight  of  the  spectators,  so  that  tiie 
apjjearance  of  an  object  shall  be  totally  dif- 
ferent from  the  reality.  To  such  a  charm 
the  ballad  of  Johnny  Fa'  imputes  the  f,iscina- 
tion  of  the  lovely  Countess,  who  eloped  with 
that  gipsy  leader  :  — 

"  Sae  soon  as  they  saw  her  weel-far'd  face, 
They  cast  the  glamcnir  o'er  her." 

Note  21. 
Until  they  came  to  a  -woodland  brook  : 
The  running  stream  dissolved  the  sfcll. — 

P.  22. 
It  is  a  firm  article  of  popular  faith,  that 
no  enchantment  can  subsist  in  a  living 
stream.  Nay,  if  you  can  interpose  a  brook 
betwixt  you  and  witches,  spectres,  or  even 
fiends,  you  are  in  jierfect  safety.  Burns's 
inimitable  Tarn  0 '  Shanter  turns  entirely 
upon  such  a  superstition. 

Note  22. 
He  nei'cr  counted  him  a  man, 

Would  strike  below  the  knee. —  P.  23. 
To  wound  an  antagonist  in  the  thigh  or 
leg  was  reckoned  contrary  to  the  law  of 
arms.  In  a  tilt  betwixt  Gawain  Michael,  an 
English  squire,  and  Joachim  Cathore,  a 
Frenchman,  "  they  met  at  the  speare  poyntes 
rudely  ;  the  French  squyer  justed  right  pleas- 
antly :  the  Englishman  ran  too  lowe,  for  he 
strak  the  Frenchman  depe  into  the  thigh. 
Wherewith  the  Erie  of  Buckingham  was 
right  sore  displeased,  and  so  were  all  the 
other  lords,  and  sayde  how  it  was  shamefully 
done."  —  Froissart,  vol  i.,  chap.  366, 

Note  23. 
On  many  a  cairn's  gray  pyramid, 
Where  urns  of  mighty  chiefs  lie  hid. —  P.  25. 
The  cairns,  or  piles  of  loose  stones,  which 
crown  the  summit  of  most  of  our  Scottish 
hills,  and  are  found  in  other  remarkable  sit- 
uations, seem  usually,  though  not  universally, 
to  have  been  sepulchral  monuments.  Si.x 
flat  stones  are  commonly  found  in  the  centre, 
forming  a  cavity  of  greater  or  smaller  dinien- 


THE  LAY  OF   THE  LAST  MLWSTREL. 


«5 


sions,  in  which  an  urn  is  often  placed.  The 
author  is  possessed  of  one,  discovered  beneath 
an  immense  cairn  at  Koughlee,  in  Liddes- 
dale.  It  is  of  the  most  barbarous  construc- 
tion ;  the  middle  of  the  substance  alone  hav- 
ing been  subjected  to  the  fire,  over  which, 
when  hardened,  the  artist  had  laid  an  inner 
and  outer  coat  of  unbaked  clay,  etched  with 
some  very  rude  ornament,  his  skill  appar- 
ently teing  inadequate  to  baking  the  vase 
when  completely  finished.  The  contents 
were  bones  and  ashes,  and  a  quantity  of 
beads  made  of  coal.  This  seems  to  have 
been  a  barbarous  imitation  of  the  Roman 
fashion  of  sepulture. 

Note  24. 

For  pathless  nidrsh,  and  mountain  cell. 
The  feasatit  left  his  lowly  shed. —  F.  26. 

The  morasses  were  the  usual  refuge  of  the 
Border  herdsmen  on  the  approach  of  an 
English  army.  —  {Minstrelsy  of  the  Scottish 
Border,  vol.  i.,  p.  303.)  Caves,  hewed  in  the 
most  dangerous  and  inaccessible  places,  also 
afforded  an  occasional  retreat,  .'^uch  caverns 
may  be  seen  in  the  precipitous  banks  of  the 
Teviot  at  ."^unlaws,  upon  the  Ale  at  .^ncram, 
upon  the  Jed  at  Hundalee.  and  in  many 
other  places  upon  tiie  Border.  The  banks 
of  the  Eske,  at  Gorton  and  Hawthornden, 
are  hollowed  into  similar  recesses. 

Note  25. 
Watt  Tinlinn.  —  P.  26. 
This  person  was,  in  my  younger  days,  the 
theme  of  many  a  fireside  tale.  He  was  a 
retainer  of  the  Buccleuch  family,  and  held 
for  his  Border  service  a  small  tower  on  the 
frontiers  of  Liddesdale.  Watt  was  by  pro- 
fession a  sutor,  but  by  inclination  and  prac- 
tice an  archer  and  warrior.  Upon  occasion, 
the  captain  of  Bowcastle,  military  governor 
of  that  wild  district  of  Cumberland,  is  said 
to  have  made  an  incursion  into  Scotland,  in 
which  he  was  defeated,  and  forced  to  fly. 
Watt  Tinlinn  pursued  him  closely  through 
a  dangerous  morass  ;  the  captain,  however, 
gained  the  firm  ground:  and,  seeing  Tinlinn 
dismounted  and  floundering  in  the  bog,  used 
these  words  of  insult.  —  ".Sutor  Watt,  ye 
cannot  sew  your  boots  ;  the  heels  risp,  and 
the  seams  r/tr."  *—'■  If  1  cannot  sew," 
retorted  Tinlinn,  discharging  a  shaft,  which 
nailed  the  captains  thigh  to  his  saddle,  "  if 
1  cannot  sew,  I  can  yerk."  t 

*  Risfi,  creak.  —  Rive,  tear, 
t    Verk,  to  twitch,  as  shoemakers  do,  in  secur- 
ing the  stitches  of  their  work. 


Note  26. 
Belted  Will  Howard.—  P.  27. 
Lord  William  Howard,  third  son  of 
Thomas,  Duke  of  Norfolk,  succeeded  to 
Naworth  Castle,  and  a  large  domain  annexed 
to  it,  in  right  of  his  wife  Elizabeth,  sister  of 
George  Lord  Dacre,  who  died  without  heirs 
male,  in  the  nth  of  Queen  Elizabeth.  By  a 
poetical  anachronism,  he  is  introduced  into 
the  romance  a  few  years  earlier  than  he 
actually  flourished.  He  was  warden  of  the 
Western  Marches ;  and,  from  the  rigor  with 
which  he  repressed  the  Border  excesses,  the 
name  of  Belted  Will  Howard  is  still  famous 
in  our  traditions. 

Note  27. 

Lord  Dacre.  —  P.  27. 

The  well-known  name  of  Dacre  is  derived 

from  the  exploits  of  one  of  their  ancestors 

at  the  siege  of  Acre,  or  Ptolemais,  under 

Richard  Cceur  de  Lion. 

Note  28. 
The  German  Hackbut-men.  —  P.  27. 
In  the  wars  with  ."Scotland,  Henry  \'IH. 
and  his  successors  employed  numerous  bands 
of  mercenary  troops,  .^t  the  battle  of  Pinky 
there  were  in  the  English  army  six  hundred 
;  hackbutters  on  foot,  and  two  hundred  on 
horseback,  composed  chiefly  of  foreigners. 
On  the  27th  of  .September,  1549,  the  Duke 
of  Somerset,  Lord  Protector,  writes  thus 
to  the  Lord  Dacre,  warden  of  the  \\  est 
Marches:  —  '-The  Almains,  in  number  two 
thousand,  very  valiant  soldiers,  shall  be  sent 
to  }'ou  shortly  from  Newcastle,  together  with 
Sir  Thomas  Holcroft,  and  with  the  force  of 
your  wardenry  (which  we  would  were  ad- 
vanced to  the  most  strength  of  horsemen 
that  might  be),  shall  make  the  attempt  to 
Loughmaben,  being  of  no  such  strength  but 
that  it  may  be  skaiM  with  kidders,  wliereof, 
beforehand,  we  would  you  caused  secretly 
some  numter  to  be  provided  ;  or  else  under- 
mined with  the  pvke-axe,  and  so  taken: 
either  to  be  kept  for  the  King's  Majesty, 
or  otherwise  to  be  defaced,  and  taken  from 
the  profits  of  the  enemy.  And  in  like  man- 
ner the  house  of  Carlaverock  to  be  used."  -- 
History  of  Cumberland,  vol.  i.,  Introd.,  p.  Ixi. 

Note  29. 
"  Ready,  aye  ready,''  for  the  field. —  W  27- 
Sir  John  Scott  of  Thirlestane  flourished 
in  the  reign  of  James  V.,  and  possessed  the 
estates  of  Ihirlcstane,  Gamcscleuch,  etc., 
lying  upon  the  river  of  Ettrick,  and  e.xtend- 


686 


APPENDIX. 


ing  to  St.  Mary's  Loch,  at  the  head  of 
Yarrow.  It  apjjears  that  when  James  had 
assembled  his  nobility  and  their  feudal  fol- 
lowers, at  Fala,  with  the  purpose  of  invading 
England,  and  was,  as  is  well-known,  disap- 
pointed by  the  obstinate  refusal  of  his  peers, 
this  baron  alone  declared  himself  ready  to 
follow  the  King  wherever  he  should  lead. 
In  memory  of  his  fidelity,  James  granted  to 
his  family  a  charter  of  arms,  entitling  them 
to  bear  a  border  of  fieurs-de-luce,  similar  to 
the  tressure  in  the  royal  arms,  with  a  bundle 
of  spears  for  the  crest :  motto,  Ready,  aye 
ready. 

Note  30. 
Their  gathering  word  was  Bellenden. — 

P.  29. 
Bellenden  is  situated  near  the  head  of 
Borthwick  water,  and  being  in  the  centre  of 
the  possessions  of  the  Scotts,  was  frequently 
used  as  their  place  of  rendezvous  and  gath- 
ering word. 

Note  31. 
That  he  may  sttffer  march-treason  pain.  — 

P.  31. 
Several  species  of  offences,  peculiar  to  the 
Border,  constituted  what  was  called  march- 
treason.  Among  others,  was  the  crime  of 
riding,  or  causing  to  ride,  against  the  oppo- 
site country  during  the  time  of  truce.  Tims, 
in  an  indenture  made  on  the  25th  day  of 
March,  1334,  betwixt  noble  lords  Sirs  Menry 
Percy,  Earl  of  Northumberland,  and  Archi- 
bald Douglas,  Lord  of  Galloway,  a  truce  is 
agreed  upon  until  the  ist  day  of  July,  and  it 
is  expressly  accorded,  "  Gif  ony  stellis  authir 
on  the  ta  part,  or  on  the  tothyr,  that  he  shall 
be  iianget  or  heofdit ;  and  gif  ony  company 
stellis  any  gudes  within  the  trieux  before- 
sayd,  ane  of  tliat  company  sail  be  lianget  or 
heofdit,  and  the  remanant  sail  restore  tlie 
gudys  stolen  in  the  dubble."' — History  of 
Westmoreland  and  Cumberland,  Introd.,  p. 
xxxix. 

Note  32. 
Knighthood  he  took  of  Douqlas''  sivord. — 

P.  3.. 
The  dignity  of  knighthood,  according  to 
the  original  institution,  had  this  peculiarity, 
that  it  did  not  flow  from  the  monarch,  but 
could  be  conferred  by  one  who  himself  pos- 
sessed it,  upon  any  squire   who,  after  due   j 
probation,  was  found  to  merit  the  honor  of   j 
chivalry.     'l-atterly,  this  power  was  confined   i 
to  generals,  who  were  wont  to  create  knights   I 
bannerets  after  or  before  an  engagement.  | 


Note  33. 
When  English  blood  swelPd  Ancram's  ford. 

-P.  31. 
The  battle  of  Ancram  Moor,  or  Peniel- 
heuch,  was  fought  a.d.  1545.  The  English, 
commanded  by  Sir  Ralph  Evers  and  Sir 
Brian  Latoun,  were  totally  routed,  and  both 
their  leaders  slain  in  the  action.  The  Scot- 
tish army  was  commanded  by  Archibald 
Douglas,  Earl  of  Angus,  assisted  by  the 
Laird  of  Buccleuch  and  Norman  Lesley. 

Note  34. 

For  who,  in  field  or  foray  slack, 
Saw  the  blanche  lion  e'er  fall  back.  — 

P.  32. 

This   was   the   cognizance   of    the   noble 

house  of  Howard  in  all  its  branches.     The 

crest,  or   bearing   of   a   warrior,  was   often 

used  as  a  nomme  de  guerre. 

Note  35. 
The  Bloody  Heart  blazed  in  the  van, 
Annou?tcing  Douglas,  dreaded  name.  — 

I'- 34. 
The  chief  of  this  potent  race  of  heroes, 
about  the  date  of  the  poem,  was  Archibald 
Douglas,  seventh  Earl  of  .Angus,  a  man  of 
great  courage  and  activity.  The  Bloody 
Heart  was  the  well-known  cognizance  of  the 
House  of  Douglas,  assumed  from  the  time 
of  good  Lord  James,  to  whose  care  Robert 
Bruce  committed  his  heart,  to  be  carried  to 
the  Holy  Land. 

Note  36. 
And  Swinton  laid  the  lance  in  rest. 
That  tamed  of  yore  the  sparkling  crest 
Of  Clarence's  Plant ag^enet. —  P.  34. 
At    the    battle    of    Beauge,   in    France. 
Thomas,    Duke    of    Clarence,    brother    to 
Henry  V.,  was  unhorsed  by  Sir  John  Swin- 
ton,  of  .'^winton,  who  distinguished  him  by 
a  coronet  set  witli  precious  stones,  which  he 
wore    around    his    helmet.     The    family    of 
.Swinton  is  one  of  the  most  ancient  in  Scot- 
land, and   produced    many  celebrated   war 
riors. 

Note  37. 
And  shoutine  still,  "  A  Home  I  a  Home .'  " 

-P-34. 
The  Earls  of  Home,  as  descendants  of  the 
Dunbars,  ancient  Earls  of  March,  carried  a 
lion  rampant,  argent :  but,  as  a  difference, 
clianged  the  color  of  the  shield  from  gules 
to  vert,  in  allusion  to  Greenlaw,  their  an- 
cient possession.     The  slogan  or  war-cry  of 


THE  LAY  OF   THE  LAST  MINSTREL. 


687 


this  powerful  family  was,  "  A  Home !  a 
Home!"  It  was  anciently  placed  in  an 
esciol  above  the  crest.  The  helmet  is 
armed  with  a  lion's  head  erased  gules,  with 
a  cap  of  state  gules,  turned  up  ermine. 

The  Hepburns,  a  powerful  family  in  East 
Lothian,  were  usually  in  close  alliance  with 
the  Homes.  Tlie  chief  of  this  clan  was 
Hepburn,  Lord  of  Hailes:  a  family  which 
terminated  in  the  too  famous  Earl  of  Both- 
well. 

Note  38. 
^Tivixt  truce  and  war,  such  sudden  change 
Was  not  infrequent,  nor  held  strange, 

In  the  old  Border-day.  —  P.  35. 

Notwithstanding  the  constant  wars  upon 
the  Borders,  and  the  occasional  cruelties 
wliich  marked  the  mutual  inroads,  the  in- 
habitants on  either  side  do  not  appear  to 
have  regarded  each  other  with  that  violent 
and  personal  animosity  which  might  have 
been  expected.  On  the  contrary,  like  the 
outposts  of  hostile  armies,  they  often  car- 
ried on  something  resembling  friendly  inter- 
course, even  in  the  middle  of  hostilities ; 
and  it  is  evident,  from  various  ordinances 
against  trade  and  intermarriages,  between 
English  and  Scottish  Borderers,  that  tlie 
governments  of  both  countries  were  jealous 
of  their  cherishing  too  intimate  a  connection. 

Note  39. 

on  the  darkening  plain. 

Loud  hollo,  whoop,  or  Tvhistle  ran, 
As  bands,  their  stragglers  to  regain. 

Give  the  shrill  watchword  of  their  clan.  — 

Patten  remarks,  with  bitter  censure,  the 
disorderly  conduct  of  the  Engiisli  Borderers, 
who  attended  the  Protector  Somerset  on  his 
expedition  against  .Scotland. 

Note  40 
She  wrought  not  by  forbidden  spell. — 

P.  41. 

Popular  belief,  though  contrary  to  the 
doctrines  of  the  Church,  made  a  favorable 
distinction  betwixt  magicians  and  necro- 
mancers, or  wizards  :  the  former  were  sup- 
posed to  command  the  evil  spirits,  and  the 
latter  to  serve,  or  at  least  to  be  in  league 
and  compact  with,  those  enemies  of  man- 
kind. The  arts  of  subjecting  the  demons 
were  manifold  ;  sometimes  the  fiends  were 
actually  swindled  by  the  magicians.* 

*  There  are  some  amusing  German  and  Irish 
tones  to  that  effect. 


Note  41. 

A  merlin  sat  upon  her  wrtsi, 

Held  by  a  leash  of  silken  twist.  —  P.  41 

A  merlin,  or  sparrow-hawk,  was  actually 
carried  by  ladies  of  rank,  as  a  falcon  was,  in 
time  of  peace,  the  constant  attendant  of  a 
knight  or  baron.  See  L.ath  am  on  Falconry. 
—  Godscroft  relates,  that  when  Mary  of  Lor- 
raine was  regent  she  pressed  the  Earl  of 
Angus  to  admit  a  royal  garrison  into  his 
Castle  of  Tantallon.  To  this  he,  returned 
no  direct  answer;  but,  as  if  apostrophizing 
a  goss-hawk,  which  sat  on  his  wrist,  and 
which  he  was  feeding  during  the  Queen's 
speech,  he  exclaimed,  "  The  devil's  in  this 
greedy  glede,  she  will  never  be  full."  Home's 
History  of  the  House  of  Douglas,  1743,  ^"l. 
ii.,  p.  131.  Barclay  complains  of  the  com- 
mon and  indecent  practice  of  bringing  hawks 
and  hounds  into  churches. 


Note  42. 

And  princely  peacock's  gilded  train, 
And  o^er  the  boar-head,  garnish' d  brave. 
-P.  41. 

The  peacock,  it  is  well  known,  was  con- 
sidered, during  the  times  of  chivalry,  not 
merely  as  an  e.xquisite  delicacy,  but  as  a 
dish  of  peculiar  solemnity.  After  being 
roasted,  it  was  again  decorated  with  its 
plumage,  and  a  sponge,  dipped  in  lighted 
spirits  of  wine,  was  placed  in  its  bill.  When 
it  was  introduced  on  days  of  grand  festival, 
it  was  the  signal  for  the  adventurous  knights 
to  take  upon  them  vows  to  do  some  deed  of 
chivalry,  "  before  the  peacock  and  the  ladies."' 

The  boar's  head  was  also  a  usual  dish  of 
feudal  splendor.  In  Scotland  it  was  some- 
times surrounded  with  little  banners  display- 
ing the  colors  and  achievements  of  tiie  baron 
at  whose  board  it  was  served.  —  Pjnker- 
ton's  History,  vol.  i.,  p.  432. 


Note  43. 

Smote,  with  his  gauntlet,  stout  Hunthill.  — 

P.4I- 
The  Rutherfords  of  Hunthill  were  an  an- 
cient race  of  Border  Lairds,  whose  names 
occur  in  history,  sometimes  as  defending  the 
frontier  against  the  English,  sometimes  as 
disturljing  the  jieace  of  their  own  country. 
Dickon  Draw-thc-sword  was  son  to  the  an- 
cient warrior,  called  in  tradition  the  Cock  of 
Huntliill.  remarkable  for  leading  into  battle 
nine  sons,  gallant  warriors,  all  sons  of  thtt 
aged  champion. 


688 


APPENDIX. 


Note  44. 

bit  his  glove.  —  P.  41. 

To  bite  the  tliunib,  or  the  glove,  seems  not 
to  have  Ijcen  considered,  upon  the  Border,  as 
a  gesture  of  contempt,  though  so  used  by 
Shakespeare,  but  as  a  pledge  of  mortal  re- 
venge. It  is  yet  rememtered,  that  a  young 
gentleman  of  Teviotdale,  on  the  morning 
after  a  hard  drinking-bout,  observed  that  he 
had  bitten  his  glove.  He  instantly  demanded 
of  his  companion  with  whom  lie  had  quar- 
relled ?  And,  learning  that  he  had  had  words 
with  one  of  the  party,  insisted  on  instant 
satisfaction,  asserting  that  though  he  remem- 
bered nothing  of  the  dispute,  yet  he  was  sure 
he  never  would  have  bit  his  glove  unless  he 
had  received  some  unpardonable  insult.  He 
fell  in  the  duel,  which  was  fought  near  Sel- 
kirk, in  1721. 

Note  45. 

old  Albert  Grame, 

The  Minstrel  of  thai  ancient  name.  —  P.  42. 
"  John  Grseme,  second  son  of  Malice,  Earl 
of  Montcith,  commonly  surnamed  John  -with 
the  Bright  Sword,  upon  some  displeasure 
risen  against  him  at  court,  retired  with  many 
of  his  clan  and  kindred  into  the  English  Uor- 
ders,  in  the  reign  of  King  Henry  the  I'ourth, 
where  they  seated  themselves  ;  and  many  of 
their  posterity  have  continued  ever  since. 
Mr.  .Sandford,  speaking  of  them,  says  (which 
indeed  was  applicable  to  most  of  the  Bor- 
derers on  both  sides),  'They  were  all  stark 


moss-troopers  and  arrant  thieves :  both  to 
England  and  .Scotland  outlawed ;  yet  some- 
times connived  at,  tecause  they  gave  intelli- 
gence forth  of  -Scotland,  and  would  raise  four 
hundred  horse  at  any  time  upon  a  raid  of  the 
English  into  .Scotland.  .^^  saying  is  recorded 
of  a  mother  to  her  son  (which  is  now  become 
proverbial).  Hide,  Rowley,  hough's  i '  the  pot : 
that  is,  the  last  piece  of  beef  was  in  the  pot, 
and  therefore  it  was  high  time  for  him  to  go 
and  fetch  more.'  "  —  Introduction  to  the  His- 
tory of  Cumberland. 

Note  46. 
[\ho  has  not  heard  of  Surrey's  fame  ?  — 

P-43- 
The  gallant  and  unfortunate  Henry  How- 
ard, Earl  of  .'Surrey,  was  unquestionably  the 
most  accomplished  cavalier  of  his  time  ;  and 
his  sonnets  display  teauties  which  would  do 
honor  to  a  more  polished  age.  He  was  be- 
headed on  Tower-hill  in  1546;  a  victim  to 
the  mean  jealousy  of  Henry  \'in.,  who  could 
not  bear  so  brilliant  a  character  near  his 
throne. 

The  song  of  the  supposed  bard  is  founded 
on  an  incident  said  to  have  happened  to  the 
Earl  in  his  travels.  Cornelius  Agrippa,  the 
celebrated  alchemist,  showed  him  in  a  look- 
ing-glass the  lovely  Geraldine,  to  whose  ser- 
vice he  had  devoted  his  pen  and  his  sword. 
The  vision  represented  her  as  indisposed,  and 
reclining  upon  a  couch,  reading  her  lover's 
verses  by  the  light  of  a  waxen  taper. 


M  A  R  M  I O  N. 


Note  i. 

As  when  the  Champion  of  the  Lake 
Enters  Morgana'' s  fated  house, 
Or  in  the  Chapel  Perilous, 
Despising  spells  and  demons'  force, 
Holds  converse  with  the  unburied  corse. 
-  P-  53- 
The  romance  of  the  Morte  Arthur  contains 
a  sort  of  abridgment  of  the  most  celebrated 
adventures  of  the  Round  Table;  and,  ixiing 
written  in  comparatively  modern  language, 
gives  the  general  reader  an  excellent  idea  of 
what  romances  of  chivalry  actually  were.     It 
has  also  the  merit  of  being  written  in  pure 
old  English ;  and  many  of  the  wil4  adven- 


tures which  it  contains  are  told  with  a  sim 
plicity  bordering  upon  the  sublime.  Several  ol 
these  are  referred  to  in  the  te.xt :  and  I  would 
have  illustrated  them  by  more  full  extracts, 
but  as  this  curious  work  is  about  to  te  re- 
publisiied,  1  confine  myself  to  the  tale  of  the 
Chapell  Perilous,  and  of  the  quest  of  Sir 
Launcelot  after  the  -Sangreal. 

"  Right  so  .Sir  Launcelot  departed,  and 
when  he  came  to  the  Chapell  Perilous,  he 
alighted  downe,  and  tied  his  horse  to  a  little 
gate.  And  as  soon  as  he  was  within  the 
churchyard,  he  saw  on  the  front  of  the  chapell, 
many  faire  rich  shields  turned  upside  downe ; 
and  many  of  the  shields  .'^ir  Tauncelot  had 
scene  knights  have  before ;  with  that  he  saw 


MARMIOX. 


689 


stand  by  him  thirtie  great  knights,  more,  by  a 
yard,  than  any  man  that  ever  he  had  seene, 
and  all  those  grinned  and  gnaslied  at  Sir 
Launcelot;  and  when  he  saw  their  counte- 
nance, hee  dread  them  sore,  and  so  put  his 
shield  afore  him,  and  tooke  his  sword  in  his 
hand,  ready  to  doe  battaile ;  and  they  were 
all  armed  in  black  harneis,  ready,  with  their 
shields  and  swords  drawen.  And  when  Sir 
Launcelot  would  have  gone  through  tliem, 
they  scattered  on  every  side  of  liim,  and  gave 
liim  the  way  ;  and  tlierewith  he  waxed  ail  bold, 
and  entered  into  thechapell,and  then  hee  saw 
no  light  but  a  dimmelampe  burning,  and  then 
was  he  ware  of  a  corps  covered  with  a  cloath 
of  silke ;  then  Sir  Launcelot  stooped  downe, 
and  cut  a  piece  of  that  cloath  away,  and  then 
it  fared  under  him  as  the  earth  had  quaked  a 
little,  whereof  he  was  afeard,  and  then  hee  saw 
a  faire  sword  lye  by  the  dead  knight,  and  that 
he  gat  in  his  hand,  and  hied  liiiii  out  of  the 
clwppell.  As  soon  as  he  was  in  the  chappell- 
yerd,  all  the  knights  spoke  to  him  with  a 
grimly  voice,  and  said,  'Knight,  Sir  Launce- 
lot, lay  that  sword  from  thee,  or  else  thou 
simlt  die.'— '  Whether  I  live  or  die,'  said  Sir 
Launcelot, 'with  no  great  words  get  yee  it 
againe,  therefore  tight  for  it  and  yee  list.' 
'Jherewith  he  passed  through  tliem  ;  and,  te- 
yond  the  chappell-yerd,  there  met  him  a  faire 
lamosell,  and  said, '  Sir  Launcelot,  leave  that 
sword  tehind  thee,  or  thou  wilt  die  for  it.'  — 
•  1  will  not  leave  it,'  said  Sir  Launcelot,  'for 
lo  threats.'  — '  No?'  said  she,  'and  ye  did 
leave  that  sword,  Queen  Guenever  should  ye 
never  see.'  — '  Then  were  I  a  fool  and  I  would 
leave  this  sword,'  said  Sir  Launcelot. — 
'  Now,  gentle  knight,'  said  the  damosell,  '  1 
require  tliee  to  kiss  me  once.'  —  '  Nay,'  said 
Sir  Launcelot,  'that  (iod  forbid  !'—' Well, 
sir,'  said  she.  '  and  thou  haddest  kissed  me 
thy  life  dayes  had  teen  done,  but  now,  alas  ! ' 
said  she,  '  I  have  lost  all  my  latx)r ;  for  1  or- 
deined  this  chappell  for  thy  sake,  and  for  Sir 
Gawaine  ;  and  once  I  had  Sir  Gawaine  within 
it;  and  at  that  time  he  fought  with  that 
l:riiglit  which  there  lieth  dead  in  yonder 
cliappell,  .Sir  Gilbert  the  bastard,  and  that 
time  hee  smote  off  Sir  Giltert  the  bastard's 
left  hand.  And  so,  .Sir  Launcelot,  now  1  tell 
thee,  that  I  have  loved  thee  these  seaven 
yeare ;  but  there  may  no  woman  have  thy 
love  but  Queene  Guenever  ;  but  sithen  J  m.ay 
not  rejoyice  thee  to  have  thy  body  alive,  1 
had  kept  no  more  joy  in  this  world  but  to 
have  had  thy  dead  body ;  and  I  would  have 
balmed  it  and  served,  and  so  have  kept  it  in 
my  life  dales,  and  daily  I  should  have  clipiied 
thee,  and  kissed  thee,  in  the  despite  of  Queen 
Guenever.'  — '  Yee  say  well,'  said  -Sir  Launce- 
lot ;  '  Jesus   preserve  me  from  your   subtill 


craft.'     And  therewith  he  took  his  horse  and 
departed  from  her." 

Note  2. 
A  sinful  man,  and  tinconfcss'd. 
He  took  the  SangreaVs  holy  quest, 
And,  slumbering,  saw  the  vision  high, 
He  tnight  not  view  with  waking  eye.  — 

P.  54. 
One  day,  when  Arthur  was  holding  a  high 
feast  with  his  Knights  of  the  Kound  Table, 
the  Sangreal,  or  vessel  out  of  which  the  last 
passover  was  eaten  (a  precious  relic,  which 
had  long  remained  concealed  from  human 
eyes,  tecauseof  the  sins  of  the  land),  suddenly 
apjieared  to  him  and  all  his  chivalry.  The 
consequence  of  this  vision  was,  that  all  the 
knights  took  on  them  a  solemn  vow  to  seek 
the  Sangreal.  Lint  alas!  it  could  only  be  re- 
vealed to  a  knight  at  once  accomplished  in 
earthly  chivalry,  and  pure  and  guiltless  of 
evil  conversation.  All  Sir  Launcelot's  noble 
accomplishments  were  therefore  rendered  vain 
by  his  guilty  intrigue  with  Queen  Guenever 
or  Ganore;  and  in  his  holy  quest  he  encoun- 
tered only  such  disgraceful  disasters  as  that 
which  follows :  — 

"  But  Sir  Launcelot  rode  overthwart  and 
endlong  in  a  wild  forest,  and  held  no  path 
but  as  wild  adventure  led  him  ;  and  at  the  last 
he  came  unto  a  stone  crosse,  which  departed 
two  waves,  in  wast  land ;  and,  by  the  crosse, 
was  a  stone  that  was  of  marble;  but  it  was 
so  dark,  that  Sir  Launcelot  might  not  well 
know  what  it  was.  Then  Sir  Launcelot 
looked  by  him,  and  saw  an  old  chappell,  and 
there  he  wend  to  have  found  people.  And 
so  .Sir  Launcelot  tied  his  horse  to  a  tree, 
and  there  he  put  off  his  shield,  and  hung  it 
upon  a  tree,  and  then  hee  went  unto  the 
chappell  doore,  and  found  it  wasted  and 
broken.  And  within  he  found  a  faire  altar, 
full  richly  arrayed  with  cloth  of  silk,  and 
there  stood  a  faire  candlestick,  which  beare 
six  great  candles,  and  the  candlesticke  was 
of  silver.  And  when  .Sir  Launcelot  saw  this 
hght,  he  had  a  gre,at  will  for  to  enter  into  the 
chappell,  but  he  could  hnd  no  place  where  hee 
might  enter. .  Then  was  hee  passing  heavie 
and  dismaied.  Then  he  returned,  and  came 
againe  to  his  horse,  and  tooke  off  his  saddle 
and  his  bridle,  and  let  him  pasture,  und  un- 
laced his  helme,  and  ungirded  his  sword,  and 
laid  him  downe  to  sleepe  upon  his  shield, 
before  the  crosse. 

"And  so  hee  fell  on  sleepe;  and,  halfe 
waking  and  halfe  sleeping,  hee  saw  come  by 
him  two  palfreys,  both  faire  and  white,  the 
which  beare  a  litter,  therein  lying  a  sicke 
knight.     And  when  he  was  nigh  the  crosse, 


690 


APPENDIX. 


he  there  abode  still.  All  this  Sir  Launcelot 
saw  and  beheld,  for  hee  slept  not  verily,  and 
hee  heard  him  say,  '  O  sweete  Lord,  when 
shall  this  sorrow  leave  me,  and  when  shall 
the  holy  vessel  come  by  me,  where  through 
I  shall  be  blessed,  for  1  have  endured  thus 
long  for  little  trespasse ! '  And  thus  a  great 
while  complained  the  knight,  and  allwaies 
Sir  Launcelot  heard  it.  With  that  Sir 
Launcelot  saw  the  candlesticke,  with  the  fire 
tapers,  come  before  the  crosse ;  but  he  could 
see  no  lx>dy  that  brought  it.  Also  there  came 
a  table  of  silver,  and  the  holy  vessell  of  the 
Sancgreall,  the  which  Sir  Launcelot  had 
seen  before  tliat  time  in  King  Petchour's 
house.  And  therewithal!  the  sicke  knight 
set  him  upright,  and  held  up  both  his  hands, 
and  said,  '  Faire  sweete  Lord,  which  is  here 
within  the  holy  vessell,  take  heede  to  mee, 
that  I  may  bee  hole  of  this  great  malady ! ' 
And  therewith  upon  his  hands,  and  upon  his 
knees,  he  .vent  so  nigh,  that  he  touched  tiie 
holy  vessell  and  kissed  it :  And  anon  he  was 
hole,  and  then  he  said,  '  Lord  God,  I  thank 
thee,  for  I  am  healed  of  this  malady.'  Soo 
when  the  holy  vessell  had  been  there  a  great 
while,  it  went  into  the  chappelle  againe,  with 
the  candlesticke  and  tlie  light,  so  that  Sir 
Launcelot  wist  not  where  it  became,  for  he 
was  overtaken  with  sinne,  that  hee  had  no 
power  to  arise  against  the  holy  vessell, 
wherefore  afterward  many  men  said  of  him 
shame.  But  he  tooke  reixintance  afterward. 
Then  the  sicke  knight  dressed  him  upright, 
and  kissed  the  crosse.  Then  anon  his 
squire  brought  him  his  amies,  and  asked  his 
lord  how  he  did.  '  Certainly,'  said  hee,  '  I 
thanke  God  right  heartily,  for  through  the 
holy  vessell  I  am  healed  :  But  I  have  right 
great  mervaile  of  this  sleeping  knight,  which 
hath  had  neither  grace  nor  power  to  awake 
during  the  time  that  this  holy  vessell  hath 
beene  here  present.' — 'I  dare  it  right  well 
say,'  said  the  squire,  '  that  this  same 
knight  is  defouled  with  some  manner  of 
deadly  sinne,  whereof  he  has  never  con- 
fessed.' — '  By  my  faith,'  said  the  knight, 
'  whatsoever  he  b)e  he  is  unhappie  ;  for,  as  I 
deeme,  hee  is  of  the  fellowship  of  the  Round 
Table,  the  which  is  entred  into  the  quest 
of  the  Sancgreall.'  —  '.Sir,'  said  the  squire, 
'  here  I  have  brought  you  all  your  amies, 
save  your  helme  and  your  sword ;  and,  there- 
fore, by  mine  assent,  now  may  ye  take  this 
knight's  helme  and  his  sword  ; '  and  so  he 
did.  And  when  he  was  cleane  armed,  he 
took  Sir  Launcelot's  horse,  for  he  was 
better  than  his  owne,  and  so  they  departed 
from  the  crosse. 

"  Then  anon  Sir  Launcelot  awaked,  and 
set  himselfe  upright,  and  he  thought  him 


what  hee  had  there  scene,  and  whether  it 
were  dreames  or  not ;  right  so  he  heard  a 
voice  that  said,  *  Sir  Launcelot,  more  hardy 
than  is  the  stone,  and  more  bitter  than  is 
the  wood,  and  more  naked  and  bare  than  is 
the  liefe  of  the  fig-tree,  therefore  go  thou 
from  hence,  and  withdraw  thee  from  this 
holy  place  ; '  and  when  -Sir  Launcelot  heard 
this,  he  was  passing  heavy,  and  wist  not 
what  to  doe.  And  so  he  departed  sore 
weeping,  and  cursed  the  time  that  he  was 
Ijorne  ;  for  then  he  deemed  never  to  have 
had  more  worship;  for  the  words  went  unto 
his  heart,  till  that  he  knew  wherefore  that 
hee  was  so  called." 

Note  3. 
And  Dryden,  in  immortal  strain, 
Had  raised  the  Table  Round  again.  —  P.  54. 

Dryden's  melancholy  account  of  his  pro- 
jected Epic  l^oem,  blasted  by  the  selfish  and 
sordid  parsimony  of  his  patrons,  is  con- 
tained in  an  "  Essay  on  Satire,"  addressed 
to  the  Earl  of  Dorset,  and  prefixed  to  the 
Translation  of  Juvenal.  .After  mentioning 
a  plan  of  supplying  machinery  from  the 
guardian  angels  of  kingdoms,  mentioned  in 
the  Book  of  Daniel,  he  adds  :  — 

"  Thus,  my  lord,  I  have,  as  briefly  as  I 
could,  given  your  lordship,  and  by  you  the 
world,  a  rude  draught  of  what  1  have  been 
long  laboring  in  my  imagination,  and  what 
I  had  intended  to  have  put  in  practice ; 
(though  far  unable  for  the  attempt  of  such  a 
pf)em ;)  and  to  have  left  the  stage,  to  which 
my  genius  never  much  inclined  me,  for  a 
work  which  would  have  taken  up  my  life  in 
the  performance  of  it.  This,  too,  I  liad  in- 
tended chiefly  for  the  honor  of  my  native 
country,  to  which  a  poet  is  particularly 
obliged.  Of  two  subjects,  both  relating  to 
it,  1  was  doubtful  whether  I  should  choose 
that  of  King  .Arthur  conquering  the  ."^a.xons, 
which,  being  farther  distant  in  time,  gives 
the  greater  scope  to  my  invention  :  or  that 
of  Edward  the  Black  Prince,  in  sulxluing 
Spain  and  restoring  it  to  the  lawful  prince, 
though  a  great  tyrant,  Don  Pedro  the  Cruel ; 
which,  for  the  compass  of  time,  including 
only  the  expedition  of  one  year,  for  the 
greatness  of  the  action  and  its  answerable 
event,  for  the  magnanimity  of  the  English 
hero,  opposed  to  the  ingratitude  of  the 
person  whom  he  restored,  and  for  the  many 
beautiful  episodes  which  I  had  interwoven 
with  the  principal  design,  together  with  the 
characters  of  the  chiefest  English  persons, 
(wherein,  after  Virgil  and  .Spenser,  I  would 
have  taken  occasion  to  represent  my  living 
friends  and  patrons  of  tlie  noblest  families, 


MARMION. 


691 


and  also  shadowed  the  event  of  future  ages  in 
the  succession  of  our  imperial  line),  —  with 
these  helps,  and  those  of  the  machines 
which  I  have  mentioned,  1  might  perhapis 
have  done  as  well  as  some  of  my  predeces- 
sors, or  at  least  chalked  out  a  way  for 
others  to  amend  my  errors  in  a  like  design  ; 
but  being  encouraged  only  with  fair  words 
by  King  Charles  II.,  my  little  salary  ill 
paid,  and  no  prospect  of  future  subsistence, 
1  was  then  discouraged  in  the  beginning  of 
my  attempt ;  and  now  age  has  overtaken  me, 
and  want,  a  more  insufferable  evil,  through 
the  change  of  the  times,  has  wholly  disabled 
me." 

Note  4. 

Their  theme  the  tnerry  minstrels  made, 

Of  Ascapart,  and  Bevis  hold.  —  P.  54. 

The  "  History  of  Bevis  of  Hampton  "  is 
abridged  by  my  friend  Mr.  George  Ellis, 
with  that  liveliness  which  extracts  amuse- 
ment even  out  of  the  most  rude  and  un- 
promising of  our  old  tales  of  chivalry. 
Ascapart,  a  most  important  personage  in 
the  romance,  is  thus  described  in  an  ex- 
tract :  — 
"  This  geaunt  was  mighty  and  strong, 

And  full  thirty  foot  was  long. 

He  was  bristled  like  a  sow ; 

A  foot  he  \\\A  between  each  brow ; 

His  lips  were  great,  and  hung  aside; 

His  even  were  hollow,  his  mouth  was  wide  ; 

Ijjtlily  he  was  to  look  on  tlian, 

And  liker  a  devil  than  a  man. 

His  staff  was  a  young  oak. 

Hard  and  heavy  was  his  stroke." 

Specimens  of  Metrical  Romances, 
vol.  ii.,  p.  136. 

I  am  happy  to  say  that  the  memory  of  Sir 
Cevis  is  still  fragrant  in  his  town  of  South- 
ampton ;  the  gate  of  whicli  is  sentinelled  by 
the  effigies  of  that  doughty  knight-errant 
and  his  gigantic  associate. 

Note  5. 
Day  set  on  Norham's  castled  steep. 
And  Tweed's  fair  river,  broad  and  deep,  etc. 

-  P-  54. 
The  ruinous  castle  of  Norham  (anciently 
called  Ubbanford),  is  situated  on  the  south- 
ern bank  of  the  Tweed,  about  six  miles 
above  Berwick,  and  where  that  river  is  still 
the  boundary  between  England  and  Scot- 
land. The  extent  of  its  ruins,  as  well  as  its 
historical  importance,  shows  it  to  have  been 
a  place  of  magnificence,  as  well  as  strength. 
Edward  I.  resided  there  when  he  was  cre- 
ated umpire  of  the  dispute  concerning 
the  Scottish  succession.  It  was  repeatedly 
taken  and  retaken  during  the  wars  between 
England  and  Scotland ;  and,  indeed,  scarce 


any  happened  in  which  it  had  not  a  princi- 
pal share.  Norham  Castle  is  situated  on  a 
steep  bank  which  overhangs  the  river.  The 
repeated  sieges  which  the  castle  had  sus- 
tained rendered  frequent  repairs  necessary. 
In  1164,  it  was  almost  rebuilt  by  Hugh 
Pudsey,  Bishop  of  Durham,  who  added  a 
huge  keep  or  donjon  ;  notwithstanding  which 
King  Henry  11.,  in  1174,  took  the  castle 
from  the  bishop  and  committed  the  keeping 
of  it  to  William  de  Neville.  After  this 
period  it  seems  to  have  been  chiefly  gar- 
risoned by  the  King,  and  considered  as  a 
royal  fortress.  The  Greys  of  Chillingham 
Castle  were  frequently  the  castellans,  or 
captains  of  the  garrison ;  yet,  as  the  castle 
was  situated  in  the  patrimony  of  St.  Cuth- 
bert,  the  property  was  in  the  see  of  Durham 
till  the  Reformation.  After  that  period  it 
passed  through  various  hands.  At  the 
union  of  the  crowns,  it  was  in  the  ftos- 
session  of  Sir  Robert  Carey  (afterwards  Earl 
of  Monmouth)  for  his  own  life,  and  that  of 
two  of  his  sons.  After  King  James's  acces- 
sion, Carey  sold  Norham  Castle  to  George 
Home,  Earl  of  Dunbar,  for  /6,ooo.  See  his 
curious  Memoirs,  published  by  Mr.  Con- 
stable of  Edinburgh. 

According  to  Mr.  Pinkerton,  there  is,  in 
the  British  Museum,  Cal.  B.  6,  216,  a  curi- 
ous memoir  of  the  Dacres  on  the  State  of 
Norham  Castle  in  1522,  not  long  after  the 
battle  of  Flodden.  The  inner  ward,  or 
keep,  is  represented  as  impregnable  :  "  The 
provisions  are  three  great  vats  of  salt  eels, 
forty-four  kine,  three  hogsheads  of  salted 
salmon,  forty  quarters  of  grain,  besides 
many  cows  and  four  hundred  sheep,  lying 
under  the  castle-wall  nightly  ;  but  a  num- 
ber of  the  arrows  wanted  feathers,  and  a 
good  Fletcher  (t.e.  maker  of  arrows)  was 
required."  —  History  of  Scialand,  voL  ii^ 
p.  201,  note. 

The  ruins  of  the  castle  are  at  present  con- 
siderable, as  well  a?  picturesque.  They 
consist  of  a  large  shattered  tower,  with 
many  vaults,  and  fragments  of  other  edifices 
enclosed  within  an  outward  wall  of  great 
circuit. 

Note  6. 
The  battled  tcrwers,  the  donjon  keep.  —  P.  54. 

It  is  perhaps  unnecessary  to  remind  my 
readers  that  the  donjon,  in  its  proper  signi- 
fication, means  the  strongest  part  of  a  feudal 
castle  :  a  high  square  tower,  with  walls  of 
tremendous  thickness,  situated  in  the  centre 
of  the  other  buildings,  from  which,  however, 
it  was  usually  detached.  Here,  in  case  of 
the  outward  defences  being  gained,  the  gar- 
rison  retreated  to  make  their  last  stand. 


692 


APPENDIX. 


The  donjon  contained  the  great  hall  and 
principal  rooms  of  state  for  solemn  occa- 
sions, and  also  the  prison  of  the  fortress; 
from  which  last  circumstance  we  derive  the 
modern  and  restricted  use  of  the  word  duti- 
geon.  Ducange  {voce  DuNjo)  conjectures 
plausibly,  that  the  name  is  derived  from 
these  keeps  teing  usually  built  upon  a  hill, 
which  in  Celtic  is  called  Dun.  Borlase 
supposes  the  word  came  from  the  darkness 
of  the  apartments  in  these  towers,  which 
were  thence  figuratively  called  Dungeons  : 
thus  deriving  the  ancient  word  from  the 
modern  application  of  it. 

Note  7. 

Well  was  he  arvt'd  front  head  to  heel. 
In  mail  and  plate  of  Milan  steel. 

-  P-  55. 
The  artists  of  Milan  were  famous  in  the 
Middle  Ages  for  their  skill  in  armory,  as 
appears  from  the  following  passage,  in  which 
Froissart  gives  an  account  of  the  prepara- 
tions made  by  Henry,  F.arl  of  Hereford, 
afterwards  Henry  IV.,  and  Thomas,  Duke 
of  Norfolk,  Earl  Marischal,  for  their  pro- 
posed combat  in  the  lists  at  Coventry:  — 
"  These  two  lords  made  ample  provision  of 
all  things  necessary  for  the  combat ;  and  the 
Earl  of  Derby  sent  off  messtiugers  to  I.om- 
bardy,  to  have  armor  from  .Sir  Galeas,  Duke 
of  Milan.  The  Duke  complied  with  joy, 
and  gave  the  knight,  called  .Sir  Francis,  who 
had  brought  the  message,  the  choice  of  all 
his  armor  for  the  Earl  of  Derliy.  When  he 
had  selected  what  he  wished  for  in  plated 
and  mail  armor,  the  Ford  of  Milan,  out  of 
his  abundant  love  for  the  Fart,  ordered 
four  of  the  best  armorers  in  Milan  to  accom- 
pany the  knight  to  England,  that  the  Earl 
of  Derby  might  be  more  completely  armed." 
JOHNES'  Froissart,  vol.  iv.,  p.  597. 

Note  S. 

Who  checks  at  me,  to  death  is  di^ht. 

-P.  55. 

The  crest  and  motto  of  Marmion  are  lx>r- 
rowed  from  the  following  story  :  —  .Sir  David 
de  Lindsay,  first  Earl  of  Crauford,  was, 
among  other  gentlemen  of  quality,  attended 
during  a  visit  to  I^ondon,  in  i,^<)0>  by  .Sir 
William  Dalzell,  who  was,  according  to  my 
authority.  Bower,  not  only  excelling  in  wis- 
dom, but  also  of  a  lively  wit.  Chancing  to 
be  at  the  court,  he  there  saw  Sir  Piers  Cour- 
tenay,  an  English  knight,  famous  for  skill 
in  tilting,  and  for  the  beauty  of  his  person, 
parading  the  palace,  arrayed  in  a  new  man- 


tle, bearing  for  device  an  embroidered  falcon, 
with  this  rhyme, — 

"  I  tear  a  falcon,  fairest  of  flight, 
Whoso  pinches  at  her,  his  death  is  dight* 
In  graith."  t 

The  Scottish  knight,  being  a  wag,  ap- 
peared next  day  in  a  dress  exactly  similar  to 
that  of  Courtenay,  but  bearing  a  magpie  in- 
stead of  the  falcon,  with  a  motto  ingeniously 
contrived  to  rhyme  to  the  vaunting  inscrip- 
tion of  Sir  Piers  :  — 
"  I  bear  a  pie  picking  at  a  peice, 

Whoso  picks  at  her,  1  shall  pick  at  his  nese,  % 
In  faith." 

This  affront  could  only  be  expiated  by  a 
joust  with  sharp  lances.  In  the  course,  Dal- 
zell left  his  helmet  unlaced,  so  that  it  gave 
way  at  the  touch  of  his  antagonist's  lance, 
and  he  thus  avoided  the  shock  of  the  en- 
counter. This  happened  twice  :  in  the  third 
encounter  the  handsome  Courtenay  lost  two 
of  his  front  teeth.  As  the  F'nglishman  com- 
plained bitterly  of  Dalzell's  fraud  in  not  fas- 
tening his  helmet,  the  Scottishman  agreed  to 
run  six  courses  more,  each  champion  staking 
in  the  hand  of  the  King  two  hundred  pounds, 
to  be  forfeited,  if,  on  entering  the  list,  any 
unequal  advantage  should  Ix' detected.  'J'his 
being  agreed  to,  the  wily  .Scot  demanded  that 
Sir  Piers,  in  addition  to  the  loss  of  his  teeth, 
should  consent  to  the  extinction  of  one  of 
his  eyes,  he  himself  having  lost  an  eye  in  the 
fight  of  Ottcrburne.  As  Courtenay  demurred 
to  this  equalization  of  optical  powers,  Dal- 
zell demanded  the  forfeit ;  which,  after  much 
altercation,  the  King  appointed  to  be  paid 
to  him,  saying,  he  surpassed  the  English 
both  in  wit  and  valor.  This  must  apjiear  to 
the  reader  a  singular  specimen  of  the  humor 
of  that  time.  I  suspect  the  Jockey  Club 
would  have  given  a  different  decision  from 
Henry  I\'. 

Note  9. 
They  hail'd  Lord  Marmion  : 
They  hail'd  him  Lord  of  Pontenaye, 
Of  Luticni'ard,  and  Scrivelbaye, 

Of  Tavnvorth  tower  and  town.  —  P.  56. 

Lord  Marmion,  the  principal  character  of 
the  present  romance,  is  entirely  a  fictitious 
personage.  In  earlier  times,  indeed,  the 
family  of  Marmion,  Lords  of  Fontenaye, 
in  Normandy,  was  highly  distinguished. 
RolDcrt  de  Marmion,  Lord  of  Fontenaye,  a 
distinguished  follower  of  the  Conqueror,  ob- 
tained a  grant  of  the  castle  and  town  of 
Tamworth,  and  also  of  the  manor  of  .Scriv- 
elby,  in  Lincolnshire.  One  or  both  of  these 
noble  possessions  was  held  by  the  honorable 

*  Prepared.        t  Armor.        X  Nose. 


MARMION. 


693 


service  of  being  the  Royal  Champion,  as  the 
ancestors  of  Marniion  had  formerly  been  to 
the  Dukes  of  Normandy.  But  after  tlie 
castle  and  demesne  of  Taniworth  had  passed 
through  four  successive  barons  from  Robert, 
the  family  became  extinct  in  the  person 
of  Philip  de  Marmion,  who  died  in  20th 
Edward  I.  without  issue  male.  He  was  suc- 
ceeded in  his  castle  of  Tamworth  by  Alex- 
ander de  Freville,  who  married  Mazera,  his 
granddaughter.  Baldwin  de  Freville,  Alex- 
ander's descendant,  in  the  reign  of  Richard 
I.,  by  the  supi>osed  tenure  of  his  castle  at 
Tamworth,  claimed  the  office  of  Royal  Cham- 
pion, and  to  do  the  service  appertaining; 
namely,  on  the  day  of  coronation,  to  ride, 
completely  armed,  upon  a  barbed  horse,  into 
Westminster  Hall,  and  there  to  challenge 
the  combat  against  any  who  would  gainsay 
the  King's  title.  But  this  office  was  ad- 
judged to  Sir  John  Dymoke,  to  whom  the 
manor  of  Scrivelby  had  descended  by  another 
of  the  co-heiresses  of  Roliert  de  Marmion; 
and  it  remains  in  that  family,  whose  repre- 
sentative is  Hereditary  Champion  of  Eng- 
land at  the  present  day.  The  family  and 
possessions  of  Freville  have  merged  in  the 
Earls  of  F"errars.  I  have  not,  therefore, 
created  a  new  family,  but  only  revived  the 
titles  of  an  old  one  in  an  imaginary  person- 
age. 

It  was  one  of  the  Marmion  family  who,  in 
the  reign  of  Edward  II.,  performed  that 
chivalrous  feat  before  the  very  castle  of 
Norham,  which  Bishop  Percy  has  woven 
into  his  beautiful  ballad,  "  The  Hermit  of 
Warkworth."  The  story  is  thus  told  by 
Leland  :  — 

"  The  .Scottes  cam  yn  to  the  marches  of 
England,  and  destroyed  the  castles  of  Work 
and  Herbotel.  and  overran  much  of  Northum- 
berland marclies. 

"  At  this  tyme,  Thomas  Gray  and  his 
friendes  defended  Norham  from  the  Scottes. 

"  It  were  a  wonderful  processe  to  declare, 
what  mischefes  cam  by  hungre  and  asseges 
by  the  space  of  xi.  years  in  Northumberland  ; 
for  the  Scottes  became  so  proude.  after  they 
had  got  Berwick,  that  they  nothing  esteemed 
the  Englishmen. 

"  About  this  tyme  there  was  a  great  feste 
made  yn  Lincolnshir,  to  which  came  many 
gentlemen  and  ladies  ;  and  among  them  one 
lady  brought  a  heaulme  for  a  man  of  were, 
with  a  very  riclie  creste  of  gold,  to  William 
Marmion,  knight,  with  a  letter  of  commande- 
ment  of  her  lady,  that  he  should  go  into  the 
daungerest  place  in  England,  and  therto  let 
the  heaulme  be  scene  and  known  as  famous. 
So  he  went  to  Norham  ;  whither,  within  4 
days   of    cumming,   cam    Philip    Moubray, 


guardian  of  Berwicke,  having  yn  his  bande 
40  men  of  armes,  the  very  flour  of  men  of 
the  Scottish  marches. 

"Thomas  Gray,  capitayne  of  Norham, 
seynge  this,  brought  his  garrison  afore  the 
barriers  of  the  castel,  behind  whom  cam 
William,  richly  arrayed,  as  al  glittering  in 
gold,  and  wearing  the  heaulme,  his  lady's 
present. 

"Then  said  Thomas  Gray  to  Marmion, 
'  Sir  Knight,  ye  be  cum  hither  to  fame  your 
helmet :  mount  up  on  yowr  horse,  and  ryde 
lyke  a  valiant  man  to  yowr  foes  even  here  at 
hand,  and  I  forsake  God  if  I  rescue  not  thy 
body  deade  or  alive  or  1  myself  wyl  dye  for 
it.' 

"  Whereupon  he  toke  his  cursere,  and  rode 
among  tiie  throng  of  ennemyes ;  the  which 
layed  sore  stripes  on  him,  and  pulled  him  at 
the  last  out  of  his  sadel  to  the  grounde. 

"  Then  Thomas  Gray,  with  al  the  hole 
garrison,  lette  prick  yn  among  the  .Scottes, 
and  so  wondid  them  and  their  horses,  that 
they  were  overthrowan  ;  and  Marmion,  sore 
beten,  was  horsid  agayn,  and,  with  Gray, 
l^ersewed  the  Scottes  yn  chase.  There  were 
taken  fifty  horse  of  price :  and  the  women  of 
Norham  brought  them  to  the  foote  men  to 
follow  the  chase." 

Note  10. 

Sir  Hugh  the  Heron  bold. 
Baron  of  Tiviscl,  and  of  Ford, 

And  Capiain  of  the  Hold.—  V.  57. 
Were  accuracy  of  any  consequence  in  a 
fictitious  narrative,  this  castellans  name 
ought  to  have  been  William  :  for  William 
Heron  of  Ford  was  husband  to  the  famous 
Lady  Ford,  whose  siren  charms  are  said  to 
liave  cost  our  James  1 V.  so  dear.  Moreover, 
the  said  William  Heron  was,  at  the  time 
supposed,  a  prisoner  in  Scotland,  Ixing  sur- 
rendered bv  Henry  Vlll.,  on  account  of  his 
share  in  the  slaughter  of  Sir  Robert  Ker  of 
Cessford.  His  wife,  lepresented  in  the  text 
as  residing  at  the  Court  of  .Scotland,  was, 
in  fact,  living  in  her  own  Castle  at  Ford.  — 
.SeeSiK  RicHAKU  Huron's  curious  Geneal- 
ogy of  the  Heron  Family. 

Note  11. 
James  back'd  the  cause  of  that  mock  frince. 
War  heck,  that  Flemish  counterfeit. 
Who  on  the  i^ibhet  faid  the  cheat. 
Then  did  I  march  with  Surreys  fower, 
What  time  we  razed  old  Ayton  tower. 

—  V.  58. 

The  story  of  Perkin  Warbeck,oT  Richard, 
Duke  of  York,  is  well  known.  In  1496  he 
was  received  honorably   in  Scotland  ;   and 


694 


APPENDIX. 


James  IV.,  after  conferring  upon  him  in 
marriage  his  own  relation,  the  Lady  Cather- 
ine Gordon,  made  war  on  England  in  be- 
half of  his  pretensions.  To  retaUate  an 
invasion  of  England,  Surrey  advanced  into 
Berwickshire  at  the  head  of  considerable 
forces,  but  retreated,  after  taking  the  incon- 
siderable fortress  of  Ayton. 

Note  12. 

/  trow, 

Norham  can  find  you  guides  enmv  ; 
For  here  be  some  have  pricked  as  far, 
On  Scottish  ground,  as  to  Dunbar ; 
Have  drunk  the  monks  of  St.  Bothan's  ale, 
And  driven  the  beeves  of  Lauderdale  : 
Harried  the  vives  of  Greenlaw'' s  goods. 
And  given  them  light  to  set  their  hoods. 

-  P.  5S. 
The  garrisons  of  the  English  castles  of 
Wark,  Norham,  and  Berwick,  were,  as  may 
be  easily  supposed,  very  troublesome  neigh- 
bors to  Scotland.  Sir  Richard  Maitland  of 
Ledington  wrote  a  poem,  called  "  The  Blind 
Baron's  Comfort ; "  when  his  barony  of 
Blythe  in  Lauderdale  was  harried  by  Row- 
land Foster,  the  English  captain  of  Wark, 
with  his  company,  to  the  numter  of  300  men. 
They  spoiled  the  poetical  knight  of  5,000 
sheep,  200  nolt,  30  horses  and  mares ;  the 
whole  furniture  of  his  house  of  Blythe,  worth 
100  pounds  Scots  (S^^.  bs.  8t/.),  and  every- 
thing else  that  was  portable. 

Note  13. 
The  priest  of  Shoreswood —  he  could  rein 
The  wildest  war-horse  in  your  train.  —  P.  58. 

This  churchman  seems  to  have  been  akin 
to  Welsh,  the  vicar  of  St.  Thomas  of  E.xe- 
ter,  a  leader  among  the  Cornish  insurgents 
in  1 549.  "  This  man,"  says  Holinshed, "  had 
many  good  things  in  him.  He  was  of  no 
great  stature,  but  well  set,  and  mightilie 
compact.  He  was  a  very  good  wrestler ; 
shot  well,  both  in  the  longbow  and  also  in 
the  crossbow  ;  he  handled  his  handgun  and 
peece  very  well ;  he  was  a  very  good  wood- 
man, and  a  bardie,  and  such  a  one  as  would 
not  give  his  head  for  the  polling,  or  his 
beard  for  the  washing.  He  was  a  compan- 
ion in  any  exercise  of  activitie,  and  of  a 
courteous  and  gentle  behaviour.  He  de- 
scended of  a  good  honest  parentage,  being 
borne  at  Peneverin  in  Cornwall ;  and  yet, 
in  this  rebellion,  an  arch-captain  and  a  prin- 
cipal doer." — Vol.  iv.,  p.  95S,  4to  edition. 
This  model  of  clerical  talents  had  the  mis- 
fortune to  be  hanged  upon  the  steeple  of  his 
own  church. 


Note  14. 

that  Grot  where  Oliz'es  nod, 

Where,  darling  of  each  heart  and  fye, 
From  all  the  yottth  of  Sicily, 

Saint  Rosalie  retired  to  God.  —  P.  59. 
"  Sante  Rosalia  was  of  Palermo,  and  born 
of  a  very  noble  family,  and  when  very  young 
abhorred  so  much  the  vanities  of  this  world, 
and  avoided  the  converse  of  mankind,  resolv- 
ing to  dedicate  herself  wholly  to  God  Al- 
mighty, that  she,  by  divine  inspiration,  for- 
sook her  father's  house,  and  never  was  more 
heard  of,  till  her  body  was  found  in  that  cleft 
of  a  rock,  on  that  almost  inaccessible  moun- 
tain, where  now  the  chapel  is  built ;  and  they 
affirm  that  she  was  carried  up  there  by  the 
hands  of  angels ;  for  that  place  was  not  for- 
merly so  accessible  (as  now  it  is)  in  the  days 
of  the  .'^aint :  and  even  now  it  is  a  very  bad, 
and  steepy,  and  breakneck  way.  In  this 
frightful  place,  this  holy  woman  lived  a  great 
many  )-ears,  feeding  only  on  what  she  found 
growing  on  that  barren  mountain,  and  creep- 
ing into  a  narrow  and  dreadful  cleft  in  a 
rock,  which  was  always  dropping  wet,  and 
was  her  place  of  retirement  as  well  as  prayer  ; 
having  worn  out  even  the  rock  with  her 
knees  in  a  certain  place,  which  is  now 
open'd  on  purpose  to  show  it  to  those 
who  come  here.  This  chapel  is  very  richly 
adorn'd ;  and  on  the  spot  where  the  Saint's 
dead  body  was  discovered,  which  is  just  be- 
neath the  hole  in  the  rock,  which  is  open'd 
on  purpose,  as  I  said,  there  is  a  very  statue 
of  marble  representing  her  in  a  lying  posture, 
railed  in  all  about  with  fine  iron  and  brass 
work ;  and  the  altar,  on  which  they  say 
mass,  is  built  just  over  it." —  Voyage  to  Si- 
cily and  Malta,  by  Sir  John  Dryden  (son  to 
the  poet),  p.  107. 

Note  15. 

Friar  J  oh  it    

Himself  still  sleeps  before  his  beads 

Have  mark'd  ten  aves,  and  two  creeds.  — 

P.  59. 

Friar  John  understood  the  sopwrific  virtue 
of  his  beads  and  breviary  as  well  as  his 
namesake  in  Rabelais.  "  But  Gargantua 
could  not  sleep  by  any  means,  on  which  side 
soever  he  turned  himself.  Whereupon  the 
monk  said  to  him,  '  I  never  sleep  soundly 
but  when  I  am  at  sermon  or  prayers.  Let 
us  therefore  begin,  you  and  I,  the  seven 
penitential  psalms,  to  try  whether  you  shall 
not  quickly  fall  asleep.'  The  conceit  pleased 
Gargantua  very  well ;  and,  beginning  the  first 
of  these  psalms,  as  soon  as  they  came  to 
Beati  quorum,  they  fell  asleep,  both  the  one 
and  the  other." 


MARMION. 


695 


Note  16. 
T]ie  summoned  Pahner  came  in  place.  — 

P.  59- 
A  Palmer,  opposed  to  a  Pilgrim,  was  one 
who  made  it  his  sole  business  to  visit  differ- 
ent holy  shrines  ;  travelling  incessantly,  and 
subsisting  by  charity  :  whereas  the  Pilgrim 
retired  to  his  usual  home  and  occupations, 
when  he  had  paid  his  devotions  at  the  par- 
ticular spot  which  was  the  object  of  his  pil- 
grimage. The  Palmers  seem  to  have  been 
the  Quitstionarii  of  the  ancient  Scottish  can- 
ons 1242  and  1296. 

Note  17. 

To  fair  St.  Andrew's  bound, 
Within  the  ocean-cave  to  fray, 
Where  good  Saint  Rule  his  holy  lay, 
From  midnight  to  the  dawn  of  day, 
Sung  to  the  hilloivs'  sound.  —  P.  60. 

St.  Kegulus  (Scottice,  St.  Rule),  a  monk 
of  Patra;,  in  Achaia,  warned  by  a  vision,  is 
said,  A.u.  370,  to  have  sailed  westward, 
until  he  landed  at  .Saint  .Andrews  in  Scot- 
land, where  he  founded  a  chajx-l  and  tower. 
The  latter  is  still  standing,  and,  though  we 
may  doubt  the  precise  date  of  its  foundation, 
is  certainly  one  of  the  most  ancient  edifices 
in  Scotland.  A  cave,  nearly  fronting  the 
ruinous  castle  of  the  .\rchbishops  of  St. 
.Andrews,  bears  the  name  of  this  religious 
person.  It  is  difficult  of  access ;  and  the 
rock  in  which  it  is  hewed  is  washed  by  the 
German  Ocean.  It  is  nearly  round,  about 
ten  feet  in  diameter,  and  the  same  in  height. 
On  one  side  is  a  sort  of  stone  altar ;  on  the 
other  an  aperture  into  an  inner  den,  where 
the  miserable  ascetic  who  inhabited  this 
dwelling  probably  slept.  .\t  full  tide,  egress 
and  regress  are  hardly  practicable.  As  Keg- 
ulus first  colonized  the  metropolitan  see  of 
Scotland,  and  converted  the  inhabitants  in 
the  vicinity,  he  has  some  reason  to  complain, 
that  the  ancient  name  of  Killrule  (Cella 
Regiili)  should  have  been  superseded  even  in 
favor  of  the  tutelar  saint  of  Scotland.  The 
reason  of  the  change  was,  that  St.  Rule  is 
said  to  have  brought  to  Scotland  the  relics 
of  St.  Andrew. 

Note  18. 

Saint  Fillan's  blessed  well. 

Whose  spring  can  frenzied  dreams  dispel. 
And  the  crazed  brain  restore.  —  P.  60. 

St.  Fillan  was  a  Scottish  saint  of  some 
reputation.  .Although  Popery  is,  with  us, 
matter  of  abomination,  yet  the  common 
people  still  retain  some  of  the  superstitions 
connected  with  it.  There  are  in  J'erthshire 
several  wells   and  springs  dedicated  to  St. 


Fillan,  which  are  still  places  of  pilgrimage 
and  offerings,  even  among  the  Protestants. 
They  are  held  powerful  i  .  cases  of  madness ; 
and,  in  some  of  very  late  occurrence,  luna- 
tics have  been  left  all  night  bound  to  the 
holy  stone,  in  confidence  that  the  saint  would 
cure  and  unloose  them  before  morning. 

Note  19. 

The  scenes  are  desert  now,  and  bare, 

WhereflourisKd  once  a  forest  fair.  —  P.  61. 

Ettrick  Forest,  now  a  range  of  riiountain- 
ous  sheep-walks,  was  anciently  reserved  lor 
the  pleasure  of  the  royal  chase.  Since  it 
was  disparked,  the  wood  has  been,  by  de- 
grees, almost  totally  destroyed,  although, 
wherever  protected  from  the  sheep,  copses 
soon  arise  without  any  planting.  When  the 
King  hunted  there,  he  often  summoned  the 
array  of  the  country  to  meet  and  assist 
his  sport.  Thus,  in  152S,  James  V.  "made 
proclamation  to  all  lords,  barons,  gentfemen, 
landwardmen,  and  freeholders,  that  they 
should  compear  at  Edinburgh,  with  a  month's 
victuals,  to  pass  with  the  king  where  !« 
pleased,  to  danton  the  thieves  of  Tiviotdale. 
Annandale,  Liddisdale,  and  other  parts  of 
that  country  ;  and  also  warned  all  gentlemen 
that  had  good  dogs  to  bring  them,  that  he 
might  hunt  in  the  said  country  as  he  pleased  : 
The  whilk  the  Earl  of  Argyle,  the  Earl  of 
Huntley,  the  Earl  of  Athole,  and  so  all  the 
rest  of  the  gentlemen  of  the  Highland,  did, 
and  brought  their  hounds  with  them  in  like 
manner,  to  hunt  with  the  King,  as  he 
pleased. 

'•  The  second  day  of  June  the  King  past 
out  of  Edinburgh  to  the  hunting,  with 
many  of  the  nobles  and  gentlemen  of  Scot- 
land with  him,  to  the  number  of  twelve 
thousand  men  ;  and  then  past  to  Meggit- 
land,  and  hounded  and  hawked  all  the 
country  and  bounds ;  that  is  to  say.  Cram- 
mat,  Pappert-law,  St.  Mary-laws,  Carlavirick, 
Chapel,  Ewindoores,  and  Longhope.  1 
heard  say,  he  slew,  in  these  bounds,  eighteen 
score  of  harts."  * 

These  huntings  had,  of  course,  a  military 
character,  and  attendance  upon  them  was  a 
part  of  the  duty  of  a  vassal.  The  act  for 
abolishing  ward  or  military  tenures  in 
Scotland,  enumerates  the  services  of  hunt- 
ing, hosting,  watching,  and  warding,  as  those 
which  were  in  future  to  be  illegal. 

Taylor,  the  water-poet,  has  given  an  ac- 
count of  the  mode  in  which  these  huntings 
were  conducted  in  the  Highlands  of  Scot- 
land,  in   the    seventeenth    century,   having 

*  Pitscottib's  History  of  Scotland,  folio  edi- 
tion, p.  143. 


696 


APPENDIX. 


been  present  at  Braemar  upon  such  an 
occasion  :  — 

"  There  did  I  find  the  truly  noble  and 
right  honorable  lords,  John  Erskine,  Earl  of 
Mar ;  James  Stewart,  Earl  of  Murray ; 
George  Gordon,  Earl  of  Engye,  son  and 
heir  to  the  Marquess  of  Huntley  ;  James 
Erskine,  Earl  of  15uchan  ;  and  John,  Lord 
Erskine,  son  and  heir  to  the  Earl  of  Mar, 
and  their  Countesses,  with  my  much  lionored 
and  my  last  assured  and  approved  friend, 
Sir  William  Murray,  knight  of  Abercarney, 
and  hundreds  of  others,  knights,  esquires, 
and  their  followers  ;  all  and  every  man  in 
general,  in  one  hal^it,  as  if  Lycurgus  had 
been  there,  and  made  laws  of  equality  ;  for 
once  in  the  year,  which  is  the  whole  month 
of  August,  and  sometimes  part  of  Septem- 
ber, many  of  the  nobility  and  gentry  of  the 
kingdom  (for  their  pleasure)  do  come  into 
these  Highland  countries  to  hunt ;  where 
they  do  conform  themselves  to  the  habit  of 
the  Highlandmen,  who,  for  the  most  part, 
speak  nothing  but  Irish;  and,  in  former 
time,  were  those  people  which  were  called 
the  Red-shanks.  'J'heir  habit  is,  —  shoes, 
with  but  one  sole  a-piece ;  stockings  (which 
they  call  short  hose),  made  of  a  warm  stuff 
of  divers  colours,  which  they  call  tartan  ;  as 
for  breeches,  many  of  them,  nor  their  fore- 
fathers, never  wore  any,  but  a  jerkin  of  the 
same  stuff  that  their  hose  is  of  ;  their  garters 
being  bands  or  wreaths  of  hay  or  straw  ; 
with  a  plaid  about  their  shoulders  ;  which  is 
a  mantle  of  divers  colours,  much  finer  and 
lighter  stuff  than  their  hose  ;  with  blue  flat 
caps  on  their  heads ;  a  handkerchief,  knit 
with  two  knots,  about  their  necks;  and  thus 
are  they  attired.  Now  their  weapons  are  — 
long  lx)wes  and  forked  arrows,  swords,  and 
targets,  harquebusses,  muskets,  durks,  and 
Lochaber  axes.  With  these  arms  1  found 
many  of  them  armed  for  tlie  hunting.  As 
for  their  attire,  any  man,  of  what  degree 
soever,  that  comes  amongst  them,  must  not 
disdain  to  wear  it ;  for,  if  they  do,  then  they 
will  disdain  to  hunt,  or  wini.ngly  to  bring  in 
their  dogs;  but  if  men  be  kind  unto  them, 
and  be  in  their  habit,  then  are  they  con- 
quered with  kindness,  and  the  sport  will  be 
plentiful.  This  was  the  reason  that  1  found 
so  many  noblemen  and  gentlemen  in  those 
shapes.     But  to  proceed  to  the  hunting  :  — 

"  My  good  Lord  of  Mar  having  put  me 
into  that  shape,  I  rode  with  him  from  his 
house,  where  1  saw  the  ruins  of  an  old  castle, 
called  the  Castle  of  Kindroghit.  It  was 
built  by  King  Malcolm  Canniore  (for  a 
hunting-house),  who  reigned  in  Scotland, 
when  Edward  the  Confessor,  Harold,  and 
Norman    William,  reigned   in   England.     I 


speak  of  it,  because  it  was  the  last  house  I 
saw  in  those  parts  ;  for  I  was  the  space  of 
twelve  days  after,  before  1  saw  either  house, 
corn-field,  or  habitation  for  any  creature  but 
deer,  wild  horses,  wolves,  and  such  like 
creatures, —  which  made  me  doubt  that  I 
should  never  have  seen  a  house  again. 

•'  Thus,  the  first  day,  we  travelled  eight 
miles,  where  there  were  small  cottages  built 
on  purpose  to  lodge  in,  which  they  call  I-on- 
quhards.  1  thank  my  good  Lord  Erskine, 
he  commanded  that  I  should  always  be 
lodged  in  his  lodging:  the  kitchen  being 
always  on  the  side  of  a  bank :  many  kettles 
and  pots  boiling,  and  many  spits  turning 
and  winding,  with  great  variety  of  cheer,  • — 
as  venison  baked  ;  sodden,  roast,  and  stewed 
beef ;  mutton,  goats,  kid,  hares,  fresh  salmon, 
pigeons,  hens,  capons,  chickens,  partridges, 
muir-coots,  heath-cocks,  caperkellies,  and 
termagants ;  good  ale,  sacke,  white  and 
claret,  tent  (or  allegant),  with  most  potent 
aquavita;. 

"  All  these,  and  more  than  these,  we  had 
continually  in  superfluous  abundance,  caught 
by  falconers,  fowlers,  fishers,  and  brought  by 
my  lord's  tenants  and  purveyors  to  victual 
our  camp,  which  consisteth  of  fourteen  or 
fifteen  hundred  men  and  horses.  The  manner 
of  the  hunting  is  this :  Five  or  six  hundred 
men  do  rise  early  in  the  morning,  and  they 
do  disperse  themselves  divers  ways,  and 
seven,  eight,  or  ten  miles  compass,  they  do 
bring,  or  chase  in,  the  deer  in  many  herds 
(two,  three,  or  four  hundred  in  a  herd),  to 
such  or  such  a  place,  as  the  noblemen  shall 
appoint  them ;  then,  when  day  is  come,  the 
lords  and  gentlemen  of  their  companies  do 
ride  or  go  to  the  said  places,  sometimes  wad- 
ing up  to  the  middles,  throui;h  burns  and 
rivers  ;  and  then,  they  being  come  to  the 
place,  do  lie  down  on  the  ground  till  those 
foresaid  scouts,  which  are  called  the  'J'ink- 
hell,  do  bring  down  the  deer;  but,  as  the 
proverb  says  of  the  bad  cook,  so  these  tink- 
iiell  men  do  lick  their  own  fingers ;  for,  be- 
sides their  bows  and  arrows,  which  they 
carry  with  them,  we  can  hear,  now  and  then,  a 
harquebuss  or  a  musket  go  oft,  which  they 
do  seldom  discharge  in  vain.  Then,  after 
we  had  staid  there  three  hours  or  thereabouts, 
we  might  perceive  the  deer  appear  on  the 
hills  round  abtmt  us  (their  heads  making  a 
show  like  a  wood),  which,  being  followed 
close  by  the  tinkhell,  are  chased  down  into 
the  valley  where  we  lay  ;  then  all  the  valley, 
on  each  side,  being  svaylaid  with  a  hundred 
couple  of  strong  Irish  greyhounds,  they  are 
all  let  loose,  as  occasion  serves,  upon  the 
herd  of  deer,  th.at  with  dogs,  guns,  arrows, 
durks,   and   daggers,   in   the   space   of  two 


MARMION. 


697 


hours,  fourscore  fat  deer  were  slain ;  which 
after  are  disposed  of,  some  one  way,  and 
some  anotiier,  twenty  and  thirty  miles,  and 
more  than  enough  left  for  us,  to  make 
merry  withall  at  our  rendezvous. 

Note  20. 

By  lone  Saint  Mary's  silent  lake. 

—  P.  62. 

This  beautiful  sheet  of  water  forms  tlie 
reservoir  from  which  the  Varrow  takes  its 
source.  It  is  connected  with  a  smaller  lake, 
called  the  Loch  of  the  Lowes,  and  sur- 
rounded by  mountains.  In  the  winter  it  is 
still  frequented  by  flights  of  wild  swans; 
hence  my  friend  Mr.  Wordsworth's  lines :  — 

"The  swan  on  still  St.  Mary's  Lake 
Floats  double,  swan  and  sliadow." 

Near  the  lower  extremity  of  the  lake  are 
the  ruins  of  Dryhope  tower,  the  birthplace 
of  Mary  Scott,  daughter  of  Philip  Scott,  of 
Dryhope,  and  famous  by  the  traditional 
name  of  the  Flower  of  Varrow.  .She  was 
married  to  Walter  Scott  of  Harden,  no  less 
renowned  for  his  depredations,  than  his 
bride  for  her  beauty.  Her  romantic  appel- 
lation was  in  later  days,  with  equal  justice, 
conferred  on  Miss  Mary  Lilias  Scott,  the 
last  of  the  elder  branch  of  the  Harden  fam- 
ily. The  author  well  remembers  the  talent 
and  spirit  of  the  latter  Flower  of  Yarrow, 
though  age  had  then  injured  the  charms 
which  procured  her  the  name.  The  words 
usually  sung  to  the  air  of  "  Tweedside,"  be- 
ginning, "  What  beauties  does  Flora  dis- 
close," were  composed  in  her  honor. 

Note  21. 

in  feudal  strife,  a  foe. 

Hath  laid  Our  Lady's  chapel  low. 

—  P.  62. 

The  chapel  of  St.  Mary  of  the  Lowes  (iie 
lacubus)  was  situated  on  the  eastern  side  of 
the  lake,  to  which  it  gives  name.  It  was  in- 
jured by  the  clan  of  Scott,  in  a  feud  with  the 
Cranstouns ;  but  continued  to  be  a  place 
of  worship  during  the  seventeenth  century. 
The  vestiges  of  the  building  can  now  scarcely 
be  traced  ;  but  the  burial-ground  is  still  used 
as  a  cemetery.  A  funeral,  in  a  spot  so  very 
retired,  has  an  uncommonly  striking  effect. 
The  vestiges  of  the  chaplain's  house  are  yet 
visible.  Being  in  a  high  situation,  it  com- 
manded a  full  view  of  the  lake,  with  the 
opposite  mountain  of  Bourhope,  belonging, 
with  the  lake  itself,  to  Lord  Napier.  On 
the  left  hand  is  the  tower  of  Dryhope,  men- 
tioned in  a  preceding  note. 


Note  22. 

The  Wizard^ s  grave  ; 

That    Wizard  Priest's,   whose    bones    are 

thrust 
From  company  of  holy  dust.  —  P.  63. 

At  one  corner  of  the  burial-ground  of  the 
demolished  chapel,  but  without  its  precincts, 
is  a  small  mound,  called  Binram's  Corse, 
where  tradition  deposits  the  remains  of  a 
necromantic  priest,  the  former  tenant  of  the 
chaplainry. 

Note  23. 
Some  ruder  and  more  savage  scene. 
Like  that  which  frowns  round  dark  Loch- 
skene.  —  P.  63. 
Loch-skene  is  a  mountain  lake,  of  consid- 
erable size,  at  the  head  of  the  Moflfat-water. 
The  character  of  the  scenery  is  uncommonly 
savage  ;  and  the  earn,  or  Scottish  eagle,  has, 
for  many  ages,  built  its  nest  yearly  upon  an 
islet  in  the  lake.  Loch-skene  discharges  it- 
self into  a  brook,  which,  after  a  short  and 
precipitate  course,  falls  from  a  cataract  of 
immense  height,  and  gloomy  grandeur,  called 
from  its  appearance,  the  "  Gray  Mare's 
Tail."  The  "  Giant's  Grave,"  afterwards 
mentioned,  is  a  sort  of  trench,  which  bears 
that  name,  a  little  way  from  the  foot  of  the 
cataract.  It  has  the  appearance  of  a  battery, 
designed  to  command  the  pass. 

Note  24. 

St.  Cuthbert's  Holy  Isle.  —  P.  64. 

Lindisfarne,  an  isle  on  the  coast  of  Nortli- 
umberland,  was  called  Holy  Island,  from  the 
sanctity  of  its  ancient  monastery,  and  from 
its  having  been  the  episcopal  seat  of  the  see 
of  Durham  during  the  early  ages  of  British 
Christianity.  A  succession  of  holy  men  held 
that  office ;  but  their  merits  were  swallowed 
up  in  the  superior  fame  of  .St.Cuthbert,  who 
was  sixth  Bishop  of  Durham,  and  who  be- 
stowed the  name  of  his  "  patrimony  "  upon 
the  extensive  property  of  the  see.  The  ruins 
of  the  monastery  upon  Holy  Island  betoken 
great  antiquity.  The  arches  are,  in  general, 
strictly  Saxon,  and  the  pillars  which  support 
them,  short,  strong,  and  massy.  In  some 
places,  however,  there  are  pointed  windows, 
which  indicate  that  the  building  has  been 
repaired  at  a  period  long  subsequent  to  the 
original  foundation.  The  exterior  orna- 
ments of  the  building,  being  of  a  light  sandy 
stone,  have  been  wasted,  as  described  in  the 
text.  Lindisfarne  is  not  properly  an  island, 
but  rather,  as  the  venerable  Bede  has  termed 
it,  a  semi-isle  :  for.  although  surrounded  by 
the  sea  at  full  tide,  the  ebb  leaves  the  sands 


698 


APPENDIX. 


dry  between  it  and  the  opposite  coast  of 
Northumberland,  from  which  it  is  about 
three  miles  distant. 

Note  25. 

in  their  convent  cell, 

A  Saxon  princess  once  did  dwell. 
The  lovely  Edelfled.  —  P.  66. 

She  was  the  daughter  of  King  Oswy,  who, 
in  gratitude  to  Heaven  for  the  great  victory 
which  he  won  in  655,  against  Penda,  the 
Pagan  King  of  Mercia,  dedicated  Edelfleda, 
then  but  a  year  old,  to  the  service  of  God,  in 
the  monastery  of  Whitby,  of  which  St.  Hilda 
was  then  abbess.  She  afterwards  adorned 
the  place  of  her  education  with  great  mag- 
nificence. 

Note  26. 

of  thousand  snakes,  each  one 

Was  changed  into  a  coil  of  stone, 

\  Vhen  holy  Hilda  pray'd  ; 
Tltcy  told,  haiv  seafoivW  pinions  fail, 
As  aver  Whitby  s  towers  they  sail.  — 

P.  66. 

These  two  miracles  are  much  insisted  upon 
by  all  ancient  writers  who  have  occasion  to 
mention  either  Whitby  or  .'^t.  Hilda.  The 
relics  of  the  snakes  which  infested  the  pre- 
cincts of  the  convent,  and  were,  at  the 
abbess's  prayer,  not  only  beheaded,  but  pet- 
rified, are  still  found  about  the  rocks,  and  are 
termed  by  Protestant  fossilists,  Amtnonita. 

The  other  miracle  is  thus  mentioned  by 
Camden  :  "  It  is  also  ascribed  to  the  power 
of  her  sanctity,  that  these  wild  geese,  which, 
in  the  winter,  fly  in  great  flocks  to  the  lakes 
and  rivers  unfrozen  in  the  southern  parts,  to 
the  great  amazement  of  every  one,  fall  down 
suddenly  upon  the  ground,  when  they  are 
in  their  flight  over  certain  neighboring  fields 
hereabouts ;  a  relation  I  should  not  have 
made,  if  1  had  not  received  it  from  several 
credible  men.  But  those  who  are  less  in- 
clined to  heed  superstition  attribute  it  to 
some  occult  quality  in  the  ground,  and  to 
somewhat  of  antipathy  between  it  and  the 
geese,  such  as  they  say  is  betwixt  wolves  and 
scylla  roots  :  For  that  such  hidden  tenden- 
cies and  aversions,  as  we  call  sympathies  and 
antipathies,  are  implanted  in  many  things  by 
provident  Nature,  for  the  preservation  of 
them,  is  a  thing  so  evident  that  everybody 
grants  it."  Mr.  Charlton,  in  his  History  of 
Whitby,  points  out  the  true  origin  of  the 
fable,  from  the  number  of  sea-gulls  that, 
when  flying  from  a  storm,  often  alight  near 
Whitby  ;  and  from  the  woodcocks,  and  other 
birds  of  passage,  who  do  the  same  upon 
their  arrival  on  shore,  after  a  long  flight. 


Note  27. 
His  body's  resting-place,  of  old. 
How  oft  their  Patron  changed,  they  cold.  — 

P.  66. 

-St.  Cuthbert  was,  in  the  choice  of  his 
sepulchre,  one  of  the  most  mutable  and  un- 
reasonable saints  in  the  Calendar.  He  died 
A.D.  6S8,  in  a  hermitage  upon  the  Fame 
Islands,  having  resigned  tlie  bishopric  of 
Lindisfarne,  or  Holy  Island,  aljout  two  years 
before.  His  body  was  brought  to  Lindis- 
farne, where  it  remained  until  a  descent  of 
the  Danes,  aljout  7<i3,  when  the  monastery 
was  nearly  destroyed.  The  monks  fled  to 
Scotland  with  what  they  deemed  their  chief 
treasure,  the  relics  of  St.  Cuthbert.  The 
.Saint  was,  however,  a  most  capricious  fel- 
low traveller,  which  was  the  more  intolerable, 
as,  like  -Sinbad's  Old  Man  of  the  .'^ea,  he 
journeyed  upon  the  shoulders  of  his  com- 
panions. They  paraded  him  through  Scot- 
land for  several  years,  and  came  as  far  west 
as  Whithern,  in  Galloway,  whence  they  at- 
tempted to  sail  for  Ireland,  but  were  driven 
back  by  tempests.  He  at  length  made  a 
halt  at  Norham  ;  from  thence  he  went  to 
Melrose,  where  he  remained  stationary  for  a 
short  time,  and  then  caused  himself  to  be 
launched  upon  the  Tweed  in  a  stone  coffin, 
which  landed  him  at  Tilmouth,  in  Northum- 
berland. 

The  resting-place  of  the  remains  of  this 
Saint  is  not  now  matter  of  uncertainty.  So 
recently  as  17th  May.  1S27,  1,139  years  after 
his  death,  their  discovery  and  disinterment 
were  effected.  Under  a  blue  stone  in  the 
middle  of  the  shrine  of  St.  Cuthbert,  at  the 
eastern  extremity  of  the  choir  of  Durham 
Cathedral,  there  was  then  found  a  walled 
grave,  containing  the  coffins  of  the  .^aint. 
The  first,  or  outer  one,  was  ascertained  to  be 
that  of  1 54 1,  the  second  of  1041  ;  the  third, 
or  inner  one,  answering  in  every  particular 
to  the  description  of  that  of  698,  was  found 
to  contain,  not  indeed,  as  had  been  averred 
then,  and  even  until  1539,  the  incorruptible 
body,  but  the  entire  skeleton  of  the  Saint ; 
the  bottom  of  the  grave  being  perfectly  dry, 
free  from  offensive  smell,  and  without  the 
slightest  symptom  that  a  human  tody  had 
ever  undergone  decomposition  within  its 
walls.  The  skeleton  was  found  swathed  in 
five  silk  robes  of  emblematic  embroidery,  the 
ornamental  parts  laid  with  gold  leaf,  and 
these  again  covered  with  a  robe  of  linen. 
Beside  the  skeleton  were  also  deposited  sev- 
eral gold  and  silver  insignia,  and  other 
relics  of  the  Saint. 

[.'^peaking  of  the  burial  of  Cuthbert,  Mr. 
Hartshorne  says,  "  .\ldhune  was  at  that  time 


MARMION. 


699 


bishop  of  the,  previously  for  a  long  period, 
wandering  see  of  Lindisfarne.  But  we  now 
liear  no  more  of  that  ancient  name  as  the 
seat  of  Episcopacy.  A  cathedral  church, 
such  as  it  was  .  .  .  was  speedily  erected  ui> 
on  the  hill  of  Durham.  This  church  was 
consecrated,  with  much  magnificence  and 
solemnity,  in  the  year  999."  —  History  of 
Northumberland,  P.  221.] 

Note  2S. 
Even   Scotland's  datinllcss  king  and  heir, 

etc., 
Before  his  standard  fled.  —  P.  67. 

Every  one  has  heard,  that  when  David  1., 
with  his  son  Henry,  invaded  Northumber- 
land in  iijfi,  the  English  host  marched 
against  them  under  the  holy  banner  of  St. 
Cuthbcrt ;  to  the  efficacy  of  which  was  im- 
puted the  great  victory  which  they  obtained 
in  the  bloody  battle  of  Northallerton,  or 
Cutonmoor.  The  conquerors  were  at  least 
as  much  indebted  to  tlie  jealousy  and  intract- 
ability of  the  ditferent  tribes  who  composed 
David's  army :  among  whom,  as  mentioned 
in  the  text,  were  the  Galwegians,  the  Britons 
of  Strath-Clyde,  the  men  of  Teviotdale  and 
Lothian,  with  many  Norman  and  German 
warriors,  who  asserted  the  cause  of  the 
Empress  Maud.  .See  Chalmers's  Caledo- 
nia, vol.i.,  p.  622  ;  a  most  laborious,  curious, 
and  interesting  publication,  from  which  con- 
siderable defects  of  style  and  manner  ought 
not  to  turn  aside  the  Scottish  antiquary. 

Note  29. 
'Twos  he,  to  vindicate  his  reign. 
Edged  Alfred'' s  falchion  on  the  Dane, 
And  turned  the  Conqtieror  back,  again.  — 

P.  67. 
Cuthbert,  we  have  seen,  had  no  great  rea- 
son to  spare  the  Danes,  w^hen  opportunity 
offered.  Accordingly,  1  find,  in  Simeon  of 
Durham,  that  the  Saint  appeared  in  a  vision 
to  Alfred,  when  lurking  in  the  marshes  of 
Glastonbury,  and  promised  him  assistance 
and  victory  over  his  heathen  enemies ;  a  con- 
solation which,  as  was  reasonable,  Alfred, 
after  the  victory  of  Ashendown,  rewarded  by 
a  royal  offering  at  the  shrine  of  the  Saint. 
.•\s  to  William  the  Conqueror,  the  terror 
spread  before  his  army,  when  he  marched  to 
punish  the  revolt  of  the  Northumbrians  in 
1096,  had  forced  the  monks  to  fly  once  more 
to  Holy  Island  with  the  body  of  the  Saint. 
It  was,  however,  replaced  before  William  left 
the  north  ;  and,  to  balance  accounts,  the 
Conqueror  having  intimated  an  indiscreet 
curiosity  to  view  the  Saint's  body,  he  was, 
while  in  the  act  of  commanding  the  shrine 


to  be  opened,  seized  with  heat  and  sickness, 
accompanied  with  such  a  panic  terror,  that, 
notwithstanding  there  was  a  sumptuous  din- 
ner prepared  for  him,  he  fled  without  eating 
a  morsel  (which  the  monkish  historian  seems 
to  have  thought  no  small  part  both  of  the 
miracle  and  the  penance),  and  never  drew  his 
bridle  till  he  got  to  the  river  Tees. 

Note  30. 

Saint  Cuthbcrt  sits,  and  toils  to  frame 

The  sea-born  beads  that  bear  his  name. — 

P.  67. 

Although  we  do  not  learn  that  Cuthbert 
was,  during  his  life,  such  an  artificer  as 
Dunstan,  his  brother  in  sanctity,  yet,  since 
his  death,  he  has  acquired  the  reputation  of 
forging  those  Entrochi  which  are  found 
among  the  rocks  of  Holy  Island,  and  pass 
there  by  the  name  of  St.  Cuthljerfs  Beads. 
While  at  this  task,  he  is  supposed  to  sit 
during  the  night  upon  a  certain  rock,  and 
use  another  as  his  anvil.  This  story  was 
perhaps  credited  in  former  days ;  at  least 
the  Saint's  legend  contains  some  not  more 
probable. 

Note  31. 
OldCohvtilf.—  V.dT. 

Ceolwulf,  or  Colwulf,  King  of  Northum- 
berland, flourished  in  the  eighth  century. 
He  was  a  man  of  some  learning ;  for  the 
venerable  Bede  dedicates  to  him  his  "  Eccle- 
siastical History."  He  abdicated  the  throne 
about  738,  and  retired  to  Holy  Island,  where 
he  died  in  the  odor  of  sancity.  Saint  as 
Colwulf  was,  however,  I  fear  the  foundation 
of  the  penance  vault  does  not  correspond 
w  ith  his  character ;  for  it  is  recorded  among 
his  memorabilia,  that,  finding  the  air  of  the 
island  raw  and  cold,  he  indulged  the  monks, 
whose  rule  had  hitherto  confined  them  to 
milk  or  water,  with  the  comfortable  privi- 
lege of  using  wine  or  ale.  If  any  rigid  an- 
tiquary insists  on  this  objection,  he  is  welcome 
to  suppose  the  penance-vault  was  intended, 
by  the  founder,  for  the  more  genial  purposes 
of  a  cellar. 

Note  32. 

Tynemoiitli' s  haughty  Prioress.  —  P.  67. 
That  there  was  an  ancient  priory  at  Tyne- 
mouth  is  certain.  Its  ruins  are  situated  on 
a  high  rocky  point;  and,  doubtless,  many  a 
vow  was  made  to  the  shrine  by  the  distressed 
mariners  who  drove  towards  the  iron-bound 
coast  of  Northumberland  in  stormy  weather. 
It  was  anciently  a  nunnery  ;  for  Virca, abbess 
of  Tynemouth^  presented  St.  Cuthbert  (yet 
alive)  with  a  rare  winding-sheet,  in  emulation 
of  a  holy  lady  called  Tuda,  who  had  sent 


700 


APPENDIX. 


him  a  coffin.  But,  as  in  the  case  of  Whitby, 
and  of  Holy  Island,  the  introduction  of  nuns 
at  Tyneniouth  in  the  reign  of  Henry  VHI. 
is  an  anachronism.  The  nunnery  at  Holy 
Island  is  altogether  fictitious.  Indeed,  St. 
Cuthbert  was  unlikely  to  permit  such  an  es- 
tablishment;  for,  notwithstanding  his  ac- 
cepting the  mortuary  gitts  above  mentioned, 
and  his  carrying  on  a  visiting  acquaintance 
with  the  Abljess  of  Coldingham,  he  certainly 
hated  the  whole  female  sex  ;  and,  in  revenge 
of  a  slipjjery  trick  played  to  him  by  an  Irish 
princess,  he,  after  death,  inflicted  severe  pen- 
ances on  such  as  presumed  to  approach  with- 
in a  certain  distance  of  his  shrine. 

Note  33. 
On  those  the  wall  was  to  enclose, 
Alive  within  the  tomb.  —  P.  69. 
It  is  well  known  that  the  religious,  who 
broke  their  vows  of  chastity,  were  subjected 
to  the  same  penalty  as  the  Roman  vestals 
in  a  similar  case.  A  small  niclie,  sufficient 
to  enclose  their  bodies,  was  made  in  the  mas- 
sive wall  of  the  convent ;  a  slender  pittance 
of  food  and  water  was  deposited  in  it,  and 
the  awful  words,  Vade  in  Pace,  were  the 
signal  for  immuring  the  criminal.  It  is  not 
likely  that,  in  later  times,  tiiis  punishment 
was  often  resorted  to ;  but  among  the  ruins 
of  the  .Abbey  of  Coldingham  were  some  years 
ago  discovered  the  remains  of  a  female  skele- 
ton, which  from  the  shape  of  the  niche  and 
position  of  the  figure  seemed  to  be  that  of 
an  immured  nun. 

Note  34. 
The  village  inn. —  P.  "]■},. 
The  accommodations  of  a  Scottish  hostel- 
rie,  or  inn,  in  the  si.xteenth  century,  may  be 
collected  from  Dunbar's  admirable  tale  of 
"  The  Friars  of  Berwick."  Simon  Lawder, 
"the  gay  ostlier,"  seems  to  have  lived  very 
comfortably  ;  and  his  wife  decorated  her  jx;r- 
son  with  a  scarlet  kirtle,  and  a  belt  of  silk 
and  silver,  and  rings  upon  her  fingers  ;  and 
feasted  her  paramour  with  rabbits,  capons, 
partridges,  and  Bordeaux  wine.  At  least,  if 
the  .Scottish  inns  were  not  good,  it  was  not 
for  want  of  encouragement  from  the  legis- 
lature ;  who,  so  early  as  the  reign  of  James 
I.,  not  only  enacted  that  in  all  boroughs  and 
fairs  there  be  hostellaries,  having  stables  and 
chamlxTs,  and  provision  for  man  and  horse, 
but  by  another  statute  ordained  that  no  man, 
travelling  on  horse  or  foot,  should  presume 
to  lodge  anywhere  except  in  these  hostella- 
ries;  and  that  no  person,  save  innkeepers, 
should  receive  such  travellers,  under  the 
penalty  of  forty  shillings,  for  exercising  such 


hospitality.  But,  in  spite  of  these  provident 
enactments,  the  Scottish  hostels  are  but  in- 
different, and  strangers  continue  to  find  re- 
ception in  the  houses  of  individuals. 

Note  35. 
The  death  of  a  dear  friend.  —  P.  76. 

Among  other  omens  to  which  faithful 
credit  is  given  among  the  Scottish  peasantry, 
is  what  is  called  the  "  dead-bell,"  explained 
by  my  friend  James  Hogg  to  be  that  tink- 
ling in  the  ears  which  the  country  people 
regard  as  the  secret  intelligence  of  some 
friend's  decease. 

Note  36. 
The  Goblin  Hall.  —  P.  77. 

A  vaulted  hall  under  the  ancient  castle  of 
Gifford  or  Vester  (for  it  bears  either  name 
indifferently),  the  construction  of  which  has 
from  a  very  remote  period  been  ascribed  to 
magic.  The  Statistical  Account  of  the  Par- 
ish of  Garvald  and  Baro  gives  the  following 
account  of  the  present  state  of  this  castle 
and  apartment  ;  —  "  Upon  a  peninsula 
formed  by  the  water  of  Hopes  on  the  east, 
and  a  large  rivulet  on  the  west,  stands  the 
ancient  castle  of  Yester.  Sir  Uavid  Ual- 
ryniple,  in  his  Annals,  relates,  that  'Hugh 
Gifford  de  Yester  died  in  1267;  that  in  his 
castle  there  was  a  capacious  cavern,  formed 
by  magical  art,  and  called  in  the  country 
Bo-Hall;  i.e..  Hobgoblin  Hall.'  A  staircase 
of  twenty-four  steps  led  down  to  this  apart- 
ment, which  is  a  large  and  spacious  hall, 
with  an  arched  roof,  and  though  it  had  stood 
for  so  many  centuries,  and  been  exposed  to 
the  external  air  for  a  {)eriod  of  fifty  or  sixty 
years,  it  is  still  as  firm  and  entire  as  if  it 
liad  only  stood  a  few  years.  From  the  floor 
of  this  hall  another  staircase  of  thirty-six 
steps  leads  down  to  a  pit  which  hath  a  com- 
munication with  Hopes-water.  A  great  part 
of  the  walls  of  this  large  and  ancient  castle 
are  still  standing.  There  is  a  tradition  that 
the  castle  of  Yester  was  the  last  fortification 
in  this  country  that  surrendered  to  General 
CJray,  sent  into  Scotland  by  Protector  Som- 
erset." —  Statistical  Account,  vol.  xiii.  1 
have  only  to  add,  that,  in  1737,  the  Goblin 
Hall  was  tenanted  by  the  Marquess  of  Tweed- 
dale's  falconer,  as  I  learn  from  a  poem  by 
Boyse,  entitled  "  Retirement,"  written  upon 
visiting  Yester.  It  is  now  rendered  inac- 
cessible by  the  fall  of  the  stair. 

Note  37. 
There  floated  Hacd's  banner  trim 
Above  IVorwcya?i  warriors  grim.  —  P.  77. 
In  1263,  Haco,  King  of  Norway,  came  into 


MARMTON. 


701 


the  Frith  of  Clyde  with  a  powerful  armament, 
and  made  a  descent  at  Largs,  in  Ayrshire. 
Here  he  was  encountered  and  defeated,  on 
the  2d  October,  by  Alexander  III.  Haco  re- 
treated to  Orkney,  where  he  died  soon  after 
this  disgrace  to  his  arms.  There  are  still 
existing,  near  the  place  of  battle,  many  bar- 
rows, some  of  which,  having  Ijeen  opened, 
were  found,  as  usual,  to  contain  bones  and 
urns. 

Note  38. 

U^on  his  breast  a  pentacle. —  P.  77. 

"  A  pentacle  is  a  piece  of  fine  Unen,  folded 
with  five  corners,  according  to  the  five  senses, 
and  suitably  inscribed  with  characters.  This 
the  magician  extends  towards  the  spirits 
which  he  invokes,  when  they  are  stubborn 
and  rebellious,  and  refuse  to  be  conformable 
unto  the  ceremonies  and  rites  of  magic."  — 
See  the  discourses,  etc.,  in  Reginald  Scott's 
Discovery  of  Witchcraft,  ed.  1O65,  p.  66. 

Note  39. 
As  born  upon  that  blessed  night, 
Whett  yawning  graves  and  dying  groan 
Proclaifn^d  Hell's  empire  overthrown.  — 

V.  78. 
It  is  a  popular  article  of  faith  that  those 
who  are  born  on  Christmas,  or  Good  Friday, 
have  the  power  of  seeing  spirits,  and  even  of 
commanding  them.  The  Spaniards  imputed 
the  haggard  and  downcast  looks  of  their 
Philip  II.  to  the  disagreeable  visions  to 
which  this  privilege  subjected  him. 

Note  40. 
Yet  still  the  knightly  spear  and  shield 
The  Elfin  ivarrior  doth  wield 

Upon  the  brown  hilfs  breast.  —  P.  79. 

The  following  extract  from  the  Essay  upon 
the  Fairy  superstitions,  in  the  "  Minstrelsy 
of  the  Scottish  Border,"  vol.  ii.,  will  show 
whence  many  of  the  particulars  of  the  com- 
bat Ijetween  .Alexander  111.  and  the  Goblin 
Knight  are  derived  :  — 

(iervase  of  Tilbury,  Otia  Imperial,  ap. 
Script,  rer.  Brunsvic.  (vol.  i.  p.  797),  relates 
the  following  popular  story  concerning  a  fairy 
knight  :  '•  Oslxirt,  a  bold  and  powerful  baron, 
visited  a  noble  family  in  the  vicinity  of  Wan- 
delbury,  in  the  bishopric  of  Ely.  .Among 
other  stories  related  in  the  social  circle  of 
his  friends,  who,  according  to  custom,  amused 
each  other  by  repeating  ancient  tales  and  tra- 
ditions, he  was  informed,  that  if  any  knight, 
unattended,  entered  an  adjacent  plain  by 
moonlight,  and  challenged  an  adversary  to 
appear,  he  would  be  immediately  encountered 
by  a  spirit  in  the  form  of  a  knight.     Osbert 


resolved  to  make  the  experiment,  and  set  out, 
attended  by  a  single  squire,  whom  he  ordered 
to  remain  without  the  limits  of  the  plain, 
which  was  surrounded  by  an  ancient  intrench- 
ment.  On  repeating  the  challenge,  he  was 
instantly  assailed  by  an  adversary,  whom  he 
quickly  unhorsed,  and  seized  the  reins  of  his 
steed.  During  this  operation,  his  ghostly 
opponent  sprung  up,  and  darting  his  spear, 
like  a  javelin,  at  Osbert,  wounded  him  in  the 
thigh.  Osbert  returned  in  triumph  with  the 
horse,  which  he  committed  to  the  care  of  his 
servants.  The  horse  was  of  a  sable  color, 
as  well  as  his  whole  accoutrements,  and  ap- 
parently of  great  beauty  and  vigor.  He 
remained  with  his  keeper  till  cock<rowing, 
when,  with  eyes  flashing  fire,  he  reare<i, 
spurned  the  ground,  and  vanished.  On  dis- 
arming himself,  Ostert  perceived  that  he  was 
wounded,  and  that  one  of  liis  steel  boots 
was  full  of  blood."  Gervase  adds,  that  "  as 
long  as  he  lived,  the  .scar  of  his  wound 
opened  afresh  on  the  anniversary  of  the  eve 
on  which  he  encountered  the  spirit."  Less 
fortunate  was  the  gallant  Bohemian  knight, 
who,  travelling  by  night  with  a  single  com- 
panion, "came  in  sight  of  a  fairy  host,  ar- 
rayed under  displayed  banners.  Despising 
the  remonstrances  of  his  friend,  the  knight 
pricked  forward  to  break  a  lance  with  a  cham- 
pion, who  advanced  from  the  ranks  appar- 
ently in  defiance.  His  coniixmion  Ix'held 
the  Bohemian  overthrown,  horse  and  man, 
by  his  aerial  adversary  ;  and  returning  to  the 
spot  next  morning,  he  found  the  mangled 
corpses  of  the  knight  and  steed."  —  Hier- 
archy of  Blessed  Angels,  p.  554. 

Besides  these  instances  of  Elfin  chivalry 
alx)ve  quoted,  many  others  might  Ix;  alleged 
in  support  of  employing  fairy  machinery  in 
this  manner.  The  forest  of  (ilenmore,  in  the 
North  Highlands,  is  believed  to  be  haunted 
by  a  spirit  called  Lham-dearg,  in  the  array 
of  an  ancient  warrior,  having  a  bloody  h.and, 
from  which  he  takes  his  name.  He  insists 
upon  those  with  whom  he  meets  doing  battle 
with  him  ;  and  the  clergyman  who  makes  up 
an  account  of  the  district,  extant  in  the 
Macfarlane  MS.  in  the  .Advocates'  Library, 
gravely  assures  us,  that,  in  his  time,  Lham- 
dearg  fought  with  three  brothers,  whom  he 
met  in  his  walk,  none  of  whom  long  survived 
the  ghostly  conflict.  Barclay,  in  his  "  Eu- 
phormion,"  gives  a  singular  account  of  an 
officer  who  had  ventured,  with  his  servant, 
rather  to  intrude  upon  a  haunted  house  in  a 
town  in  Flanders,  than  to  put  up  with  worse 
quarters  elsewhere.  After  taking  the  usual 
precautions  of  providing  fires,  lights,  and 
arms,  they  watched  till  midnight,  when  be- 
hold !  the  severed  arm  of  a  man  dropped  from 


702 


APPENDIX. 


the  ceiling ;  this  was  followed  by  the  legs, 
the  other  arm,  the  trunk,  and  the  head  ot  the 
body,  all  separately.  The  members  rolled 
together,  united  themselves  in  the  presence 
ot  the  astonished  soldiers,  and  formed  a 
gigantic  warrior,  who  defied  them  both  to 
combat.  The  blows,  although  they  pene- 
trated the  body  and  amputated  the  limbs  of 
their  strange  antagonist,  had,  as  tiie  reader 
may  easily  believe,  little  effect  on  an  enemy 
who  possessed  such  powers  of  self-union  ; 
nor  did  his  efforts  make  more  effectual  im- 
pression upon  them.  How  the  combat  ter- 
minated 1  do  not  exactly  remeniter,  and  have 
not  the  book  by  me;  but  1  think  the  spirit 
made  to  the  intruders  on  liis  mansion  the 
usual  proposal  that  they  should  renounce 
their  redemption  ;  which  being  declined,  he 
was  obliged  to  retreat. 

The  nortliern  champions  of  old  were  accus- 
tomed peculiarly  to  search  for,  and  delight 
in,  encounters  with  such  military  spectres. 
See  a  whole  chapter  on  the  subject,  in  Har- 
TiiOLiNUS,  De  Causis  contempliF.  Atoriis  a 
Danis.  p.  253. 

Note  41. 
Close  to  the  hut  no  more  his  own, 
Close  to  tlie  aid  he  soiioht  in  vain, 
The  morn  may  find  the  stiffen\t  swain. 
—  P.  Si. 

I  cannot  help  here  mentioning  that,  on  the 
night  in  which  these  lines  were  written,  sug- 
gested, as  they  were,  by  a  sudden  fall  ot  snow, 
beginning  after  sunset,  an  unfortunate  man 
perished  exactly  in  the  manner  here  descrited, 
and  his  body  was  next  mf)rning  found  close 
to  his  own  house.  The  accident  happened 
within  five  miles  of  the  farm  ol  Ashestiel. 

Note  42. 
Forbes.  — V.ii. 
Sir  William  I-'orbes  of  Pitsligo,  Baronet ; 
unequalled,  perhaps,  in  the  degree  of  indi- 
vidual affection  entertained  for  him  by  his 
friends,  as  well  as  in  the  general  respect  and 
esteem  of  Scotland  at  large.  llis"Lifeof 
Beattie,"  whom  he  befriended  and  patronizefl 
in  life,  as  well  as  celebrated  after  his  decease, 
was  not  long  published  before  the  tenevolent 
and  affectionate  bifigrapher  was  called  to 
follow  the  subject  of  his  narrative.  This 
melancholy  event  very  shortly  succeeded  the 
marriage  of  the  friend,  to  whom  this  intro- 
duction is  addressed,  with  one  of  Sir  Wil- 
liam's daughters. 

Note  43. 
Friar  Rush.  — V.^T,. 
Alias  "  Will  o'  the  W'isp."     This  person- 


age is  a  strolling  demon,  or  esprit  follet,  who, 
once  upon  a  time,  got  admittance  into  a 
monastery  as  a  scullion,  and  played  the 
monks  many  pranks.  He  was  also  a  sort 
of  Robin  Goodfellow  and  Jack  o'  Lantern. 
It  is  in  allusion  to  this  mischievous  demon 
that  Milton's  clown  speaks,  — 

"  She  was  pinch'd,  and  pull'd,  she  said, 
And  he  by  Friar'' s  Lantern  led." 

"  The  history  of  Friar  Rush  "  is  of  extreme 
rarity,  and  for  some  time,  even  tlie  existence 
of  such  a  took  was  doubted,  although  it  is 
expressly  alluded  to  by  Reginald  .Scott,  in  his 
"  Discovery  of  Witchcraft."  I  have  perused 
a  copy  in  the  valuable  library  of  my  friend, 
Mr.  Heter;  and  1  observe  from  Mr.  Beloo's 
"  Anecdotes  of  Literature,"  that  there  is  one 
in  tlie  excellent  collection  of  the  Marquess  ol 
Stafford. 

'  Note  44.  ■ 
Sir  David  Lindesay  of  the  Mount, 
Lord  Lion  Kint^-al-arms. —  P.  84. 
The  late  elaborate  edition  of  .Sir  David 
Lindesay's  Works, by  Mr.  George  Chalmers, 
has  probably  introduced  him  to  many  ot  my 
readers.  It  is  perhaps  to  te  regretted  that 
the  learned  Editor  had  not  bestowed  more 
pains  inelucidatinghis  author,  even  althougl; 
he  should  have  omitted,  or  at  lea.st  reserved, 
his  disquisitions  on  the  origin  of  the  lan- 
guage used  by  the  poet.  But,  with  all  its 
faults,  his  work  is  an  acceptable  present  to 
Scottish  antiquaries.  Sir  David  Lindesay 
was  well  known  for  liis  early  efforts  in  favor 
of  the  Reformed  doctrines,  and.  indeed,  his 
play,  coarse  as  it  now  seems,  nnist  have  had 
a  powerful  effect  upon  tlie  people  of  his  age. 
I  am  uncertain  if  1  abuse  poetical  license  by 
introducing  Sir  David  Lindesay  in  the  char- 
acter ot  Lion-Herald,  sixteen  years  lx?fore  he 
obtained  that  office.  At  any  rate,  I  am  not 
the  first  who  has  been  guilty  of  the  anachron- 
ism ;  for  the  author  of  "  I'"lodden  Field" 
despatches  Dcllamoiint,  which  can  mean  no- 
body but  Sir  l^avid  de  la  Mont,  to  I'lance,  on 
the  message  of  defiance  from  James  IV'.to 
Henry  \T1I.  It  was  often  an  office  imposed 
on  the  Lion  King-at-arms  to  receive  foreign 
ambassadors;  and  Lindesay  himself  did  this 
honor  to  Sir  Ralph  Sadler  in  1530-40.  In- 
deed, the  oath  of  the  Lion,  in  its  first  article, 
bears  reference  to  his  frequent  employment 
uf>on  royal  messages  and  embassies. 

The  office  of  heralds  in  feudal  times  being 
held  of  the  utmost  importance,  the  inaugura 
tion  of  the  King-at-arms,  who  presided  over 
their  colleges,  w.as  proportionally  solemn.  In 
fact,  it  was  the  mimicry  of  a  royal  coronation, 
except  that  the  unction  was  made  with  wine 


MARMION. 


703 


instead  of  oil.  In  Scotland,  a  namesake  and 
kinsman  of  Sir  David  Lindesay,  inaugurated 
in  1592,  "  was  crowned  by  King  James  with 
the  ancient  crown  of  Scotland,  which  was 
used  before  the  Scottish  kings  assumed  a  close 
crown  ; "'  and  on  occasion  of  the  same  solem- 
nity, dined  at  the  King's  table  wearing  the 
crown.  It  is  probable  that  the  coronation  of 
his  predecessor  was  not  less  solemn.  So 
sacred  was  the  herald'S  office,  that  in  15 15, 
Lord  Drummond  was  by  Parliament  declared 
guilty  of  treason,  and  his  lands  forfeited,  be- 
cause he  had  struck  with  his  fist  the  Lion 
King-at-arms  when  he  reproved  him  for  his 
follies.  Nor  was  he  restored,  but  at  the 
Lion's  earnest  solicitation. 

Note  45. 
Crichtoun  Castle.  —  P.  85. 
A  large  ruinous  castle  on  the  banks  of  the 
Tyne,  about  ten  miles  from  Edinburgh.  As 
indicated  in  the  text,  it  was  built  at  different 
times,  and  with  a  very  differing  regard  to 
splendor  and  accommodation.  The  oldest 
part  of  the  building  is  a  narrow  keep,  or  tower, 
such  as  formed  the  mansion  of  a  lesser  Scot- 
tish baron  ;  but  so  many  additions  have  been 
made  to  it,  that  there  is  now  a  large  court- 
yard, surrounded  by  buildings  of  different 
ages.  The  eastern  front  of  the  court  is  raised 
above  a  portico,  and  decorated  with  entabla- 
tures, iDearing  anchors.  All  the  stones  of 
this  front  are  cut  into  diamond  facets,  the 
angular  projections  of  which  have  an  uncom- 
monly rich  appearance.  The  inside  of  this 
part  of  the  building  appears  to  have  contained 
a  gallery  of  great  length  and  uncommon  ele- 
gance. Access  was  given  to  it  by  a  magnifi- 
cent staircase,  now  quite  destroyed.  The 
soffits  are  ornamented  with  twining  cordage 
and  rosettes ;  and  the  whole  seems  to  have 
been  far  more  splendid  than  was  usual  in 
Scottish  castles.  The  castle  belonged  origi- 
nally to  the  Chancellor,  Sir  William  Crichton, 
and  probably  owed  to  him  its  first  enlarge- 
ment, as  well  as  its  being  taken  by  the  Earl 
of  Douglas,  who  imputed  to  Crichton's  coun- 
sels the  death  of  his  predecessor,  Earl  Wil- 
liam, beheaded  in  Edinburgh  Castle,  with  his 
brother,  in  1440.  It  is  said  to  have  been 
totally  demolished  on  that  occasion ;  but  the 
present  state  of  the  ruin  shows  the  contrary. 
In  1483  it  was  garrisoned  by  Lord  Crichton, 
then  its  proprietor,  against  King  James  111., 
whose  displeasure  he  had  incurred  by  sedu- 
cing his  sister  Margaret,  in  revenge,  it  is  said, 
for  the  Monarch  having  dishonored  his  bed. 
From  the  Crichton  family  the  castle  passed 
to  that  of  the  Hepburns,  Earls  of  Bothwell ; 
and  when  the  forfeitures  of  Stewart,  the  last 


Earl  of  Bothwell,  were  divided,  the  barony 
and  Castle  of  Crichton  fell  to  the  share  of 
the  Earl  of  Buccleuch.  They  were  after- 
wards the  property  of  the  Pringles  of  Clifton, 
and  are  now  that  of  Sir  John  Callander, 
Baronet.  It  were  to  be  wished  the  proprietor 
would  take  a  little  pains  to  preserve  these 
splendid  remains  of  antiquity,  which  are  at 
present  used  as  a  fold  for  sheep,  and  winter- 
ing cattle  ;  although,  perhaps,  there  are  very 
few  ruins  in  Scotland  which  display  so  well 
the  style  and  beauty  of  ancient  castle-archi- 
tecture. The  castle  of  Crichton  has  a  dun- 
geon vault,  called  the  Massy  More.  The 
epithet,  which  is  not  uncommonly  applied  to 
the  prisons  of  other  old  castles  in  Scotland, 
is  of  Saracenic  origin.  It  occurs  twice  in  the 
'' Epistol<e  Hitter arice"  of  ToUius,  "  Crtr«r 
sitbterraneus,  sive,  ut  Mann  appellant, 
Mazmorra,"  p.  147  ;  and  again,  "  Coguntur 
omnes  Captivi  sub  noctem  in  ergastula  sub- 
terranea,  qua  TurccB  Algezerani  vacant 
Mazmorras,"  p.  243.  The  same  word  ap- 
plies to  the  dungeons  of  the  ancient  Moorish 
castles  in  Spain,  and  serves  to  show  from 
what  nation  the  Gothic  style  of  castle-build- 
ing was  originally  derived. 

Note  46. 
Earl  Adam  Hepburn.  —  P.  85. 
He  was  the  second  Earl  of  Bothwell,  and 
fell  in  the  field  of  Flodden,  where,  according 
to  an  ancient  English  poet,  he  distinguished 
himself  by  a  furious  attempt  to  retrieve  the 
day  :  — 

"  Then  on  the  Scottish  part,  right  proud, 

The  Earl  of  Bothwell  then  out  brast, 

And  stepping  forth,  with  stomach  good. 

Into  the  enemies'  throng  he  thrast; 
And  Bothwell!  Botktvellt  cried  bold. 

To  cause  his  souldiers  to  ensue ; 
But  there  he  caught  a  welcome  cold, 

The  Englishman  straight  down  him  threw. 
Thus  Habum  through  his  hardy  heart 
His  fatal  fine  in  conflict  found,"  etc 

Flodden  Field,  a  Poem  ;  edited  by 
H.  Weber.     Edin.,  1808. 
Adam  was  grandfather  to  James,  Earl  of 
Bothwell,  too  well  known  in  the  history  of 
Queen  Mary. 

Note  47. 
For  that  a  messenger  from  Heaven, 
In  vain  to  James  had  counsel  given. 
Against  the  English  var.  —  P.  85. 
This  story  is  told  by  Pitscottie  with  char- 
acteristic simplicity:—  "  The  King,  seeing 
that  France  could  get  no  support  of  him  for 
that  time,  made  a  proclamation,  full  hastily, 
through  all  the  realm  of  Scotland,  both  east 
and  west,  south  and  north,  as  well  in  the 


5ro4 


APPENDIX. 


isles  as  in  the  firm  land,  to  all  manner  of 
men,  between  sixty  and  sixteen  years,  that 
they  should  be  ready,  within  twenty  days,  to 
pass  with  him,  with  forty  days'  victual,  and 
to  meet  at  the  Hurrow-muir  of  Edinburgh, 
and  there  to  pass  forward  where  he  pleased. 
II  is  proclamations  were  hastily  obeyed,  con- 
trary to  the  Council  of  Scotland's  will ;  but 
every  man  loved  his  prince  so  well  that  they 
would  on  no  ways  disobey  him  ;  but  every 
man  caused  make  his  proclamation  so  has- 
tily, conform  to  the  charge  of  the  King's 
proclamation. 

"  The  King  came  to  Lithgow,  where  he 
happened  to  be  for  the  time  at  the  Council, 
very  sad  and  dolorous,  making  his  devotion 
to  God,  to  send  him  good  chance  and  fortune 
in  his  voyage.  In  this  meantime  there  came 
a  man,  clad  in  a  blue  gown,  in  at  the  kirk 
door,  and  belted  about  him  in  a  roll  of  linen 
cloth  ;  a  pair  of  brotikings  *  on  his  feet,  to 
the  great  of  his  legs ;  with  all  other  hose 
and  clothes  conform  thereto ;  but  he  had 
nothing  on  his  head,  but  syde  t  red  yellow 
hair  behind,  and  on  his  haffets.  X  which  wan 
down  to  his  shoulders ;  but  his  forehead 
was  bald  and  bare.  He  seemed  to  be  a  man 
of  two-and-fifty  years,  with  a  great  pike-staff 
in  his  hand,  and  came  first  forward  among 
the  lords,  crying  and  speiring  §  for  the  King, 
saying,  he  desired  to  speak  with  him.  While 
at  the  last,  he  came  where  the  priest  was  sit- 
ting in  the  desk  at  his  prayers;  but  when  he 
saw  the  King,  he  made  him  little  reverence 
or  salutation,  but  leaned  down  grotfling  on 
the  desk  before  him,  and  said  to  him  in  this 
manner,  as  after  follows:  —  'Sir  King,  my 
mother  hath  sent  me  to  you,  desiring  you 
not  to  pass,  at  this  time,  where  thou  art  pur- 
posed ;  for  if  thou  does,  thou  wilt  not  fare 
well  in  thy  journey,  nor  none  that  passeth 
with  thee.  Further,  she  bade  thee  mell  II 
with  no  woman,  nor  use  their  counsel,  nor 
let  them  touch  thy  Ixjdy,  nor  thou  theirs  ; 
for.  if  thou  do  it,  thou  wilt  be  confounded 
and  brought  to  shame  ' 

"  Hy  this  man  had  spoken  thir  words  unto 
the  King's  grace,  the  evening  song  was  near 
done,  and  the  King  paused  on  thir  words, 
studying  to  give  him  an  answer:  but,  in  the 
meantime,  tefore  the  King's  eyes,  and  in  the 
presence  of  all  the  lords  that  were  about  him 
tor  the  time,  this  man  vanished  away,  and 
could  no  ways  be  seen  or  comprehended,  but 
vanished  away  as  he  had  teen  a  blink  of  the 
sun,  or  a  whip  of  the  whirlwind,  and  could 
no  more  be  seen.  I  heard  say.  Sir  David 
Lindesay,  Lyon-herauld,  and  John  Inglis  the 


marshal,  who  were,  at  that  time,  young  men, 
and  special  servants  to  the  King's  grace, 
were  standing  presently  beside  the  King, 
who  thought  to  have  laid  hands  on  this 
man,  that  they  might  have  speired  further 
tidings  at  him  :  But  all  for  nought ;  they 
could  not  touch  him  ;  for  he  vanished  away 
betwixt  them,  and  was  no  more  seen." 


Note  48. 
The  -wild-buck  bells.  - 


P.  86. 


•  Buskins, 
t  Long. 


X  Cheeks. 
§  Asking. 


n  Meddle. 


I  am  glad  of  an  opportunity  to  descrite 
the  cry  of  the  deer  by  another  word  than 
braying,  although  the  latter  has  been  sancti- 
fied by  the  use  of  the  Scottish  metrical  trans- 
lation of  the  Psalms.  Bell  seems  to  be  an 
abbreviation  of  tellow.  This  sylvan  sound 
conveyed  great  delight  to  our  ancestors, 
chiefly,  1  suppose,  from  association.  A 
gentle  knight  in  the  reign  of  Henry  VIII,, 
Sir  Thomas  Wortley,  built  Wantley  Lodge, 
in  Wancliffe  Forest,  for  the  pleasure  (as  an 
ancient  inscription  testifies)  of  "listening  to 
the  hart's  belW 

Note  49. 

June  saw  his  father  s  overthrow.—  P.  86. 

The  retellion  against  James  III.  was  sig- 
nalized by  the  cruel  circumstance  of  his  son's 
presence  in  the  hostile  army.  When  the 
King  saw  his  own  baimer  displayed  against 
him,  and  his  son  in  the  faction  of  his  ene- 
mies, he  lost  the  little  courage  he  had  ever 
possessed,  fled  out  of  the  field,  fell  from  his 
horse  as  it  started  at  a  woman  and  water- 
pitcher,  and  was  slain,  it  is  not  well  under- 
stood by  whom.  James  I V.,  after  the  battle, 
passed  to  Stirling,  and  hearing  the  monks  of 
the  chapel-royal  deploring  the  death  of  his 
father,  their  founder,  he  was  seized  with  deep 
remorse,  which  manifested  itself  in  severe 
penances.  (See  Note  56  on  stanza  ix.  of 
canto  V.)  The  battle  of  Sauchie-burn,  in 
which  James  III.  fell,  was  fought  i8th  June, 
1488. 

Note  50. 
The  Borough-moor.  —  P.  88. 

The  Borough,  or  Common  Moor  of  Edin 
burgh,  was  of  very  great  extent,  reaching 
from  the  southern  walls  of  the  city  to  the 
lx)ttom  of  Braid  Hills.  It  was  anciently  a 
forest;  and,  in  that  state,  was  so  great  a 
nuisance,  that  the  inhabitants  of  Edinburgh 
had  [x;rmission  granted  to  them  of  building 
wooden  galleries,  projecting  over  the  street, 
in  order  to  encourage  them  to  consume  the 
timter,  which  they  seem  to  have  done  very 
effectually.  When  James  W .  mustered  the 
array  of  the  kingdom  there,  in  15 13,  the 
Borough-moor  was,  according  to  Hawthorn- 


MARMION. 


705 


den,  "a  field  spacious,  and  delightful  by  the 
shade  of  many  stately  and  aged  oaks." 
Upon  that,  and  similar  occasions,  the  royal 
standard  is  traditionally  said  to  have  been 
displayed  from  the  Hare-Stane,a  high  stone 
now  built  into  the  wall,  on  the  left  hand  of 
the  highway  leading  towards  Braid,  not  far 
from  tiie  head  of  Burntsfield  Links.  The 
Hare-Stane  probably  derives  its  name  from 
the  British  word  Har,  signifying  an  army. 

Note  51. 

in  fraud  ScotlamVs  royal  shield, 

The  ruddy  lion  ramfd  in  gold.  —  P.  89. 
The  well-known  arms  of  Scotland.  If 
you  will  believe  Boethius  and  Buchanan, 
the  double  treasure  round  the  shield,  men- 
tioned, counter  fleurile-lysed  or  lingued  and 
armed  azure,  was  first  assumed  by  Achaius, 
King  of  .Scotland,  contem|x)rary  of  Charle- 
magne, and  founder  of  the  celebrated  League 
with  France;  but  later  antiquaries  make 
poor  Eochy,  or  Achy,  little  better  than  a 
sort  of  King  of  Brentford,  whom  old  Grig 
(who  has  also  swelled  into  Gregorius  Mag- 
nus) associated  with  himself  in  the  impor- 
tant duty  of  governing  some  part  of  the 
north-eastern  coast  of  Scotland. 

Note  52. 

Caledonia's  Queen  is  changed. —  P.  91. 

The  Old  'J"own  of  Edinburgh  was  secured 
on  the  north  side  by  a  lake,  now  drained, 
and  on  the  south  by  a  wall,  which  there  was 
some  attempt  to  make  defensible  even  so 
late  as  1745.  The  gates,  and  the  greater 
part  of  the  wall,  have  been  pulled  down,  in 
the  course  of  the  late  e-xtensive  and  beauti- 
ful enlargement  of  the  city.  My  ingenious 
and  valued  friend,  Mr.  Thomas  Campbell, 
proposed  to  celebrate  Edinburgh  under  the 
epithet  here  Ixirrowed.  But  the  "  Queen  of 
the  North  "  has  not  been  so  fortunate  as  to 
receive  from  so  eminent  a  pen  the  proposed 
distinction. 

Note  53. 
The  cloth-yard  arrcru's. —  P.  92. 
This    is    no    poetical    exaggeration.      In 
some   of   the   counties   of   England,  distin- 
guished for  archery,  shafts  of  this  extraordi-  I 
nary  length  were   actually  used.     Thus  at 
the  battle  of  Blackheath,  between  the  troops 
of  Henry  VII.,  and  the  Cornish  insurgents,  | 
in  1496,  the  bridge  of  Dartford  was  defended   | 
by  a  picked  band  of  archers  from  tlie  rebel  ^ 
army,    "  whose    arrows,"    says    Holinshed,  I 
"  were  in  length   a   full  cloth  yard."     The  I 
Scottish,  according  to  Ascham,  had  a  prov- 
erb,   that    every    English     archer    carried  1 


under  his  belt  twenty-four  Scots,  in  allusion 
to  his  bundle  of  unerring  shafts. 

Note  54 
He  saiv  the  hardy  burghers  there 
March  artn'd  on  foot  with  faces  bare. « 

P-93- 
The  Scottish  burgesses  were,  like  yeo- 
men, appointed  to  be  armed  with  bows  and 
sheaves,  sword,  buckler,  knife,  spear,  or  a 
good  a-xe  inste.-id  of  a  bow,  if  worth  /'loo  : 
their  armor  to  be  of  white  or  bright  harness. 
They  wore  white  hats,  i.e.,  bright  steel  caps, 
without  crest  or  visor.  By  an  act  of  Janies 
IV.  their  weafon-schaivings  are  appointed 
to  be  held  four  times  a  year,  under  the  alder- 
I   men  or  bailiffs. 

Note  55. 

On  foot  the  yeoman  too 

I        Each  at  his  back  {a  slender  store) 
I        //is  forty  days'  provision  bore, 

//is  arms  were  halbert,  axe,  or  spear.  — 

P-  93- 
I       Bows   and  quivers  were  in  vain   recom- 
I   mended   to  the  peasantry  of  Scotland,  by 
j   re|)eated   statutes ;    spears  and   axes  seem 
j   universally   to   have  been    used  instead   of 
them.     Their  defensive  armor  was  the  plate- 
[  jack,  hauberk,  or  brigantine  ;  and  their  mis- 
sile   weapons     cross-lx)ws     and    culverins. 
All  wore  swords  of  excellent  temper,  accord- 
ing to  Patten ;   and  a  voluminous  handker- 
chief round  their  neck,  "not  for  cold,  but 
for  cutting."     The  mace  also  was  much  used 
in  the  Scottish  army.     The  old  poem  on  the 
battle  of  Flodden  mentions  a  band  — 

"  Who  manfully  did  meet  their  foes, 
With  le.iden  mauls,  and  lances  long." 

When  the  feudal  array  of  the  kingdom 
was  called  forth,  each  man  was  obliged  to 
appear  with  forty  days'  provision.  When 
this  was  e.xfiended,  which  took  place  before 
the  battle  of  Flodden,  the  army  melted  aw.-iy 
of  course.  Almost  all  the  Scottish  forces, 
except  a  few  knights,  men-at-arms,  and  the 
Border-prickers,  who  formed  excellent  light 
cavalry,  acted  upon  foot. 

Note  56. 
A  banquet  rich,  and  costly  wtnes. 
To  /\darmion  and  his  train.  —  F.  94. 
In  all  transactions  of  gre.tt  or  petty  im- 
portance,  and    among   whomsoever   taking 
pl.ice,  it  would  seem  that  a  present  of  wine 
was  a   uniform   and  indispensable   prelimi- 
nary.    It  was  not  to  Sir  John  Falstaff  .alone 
that  such  an  introductory  preface  was  neces- 
sary, however  well  judged  and  acceptable  on 


7o6 


APPENDIX. 


the  part  of  Mr.  Brook ;  for  Sir  Ralph  Sadler, 
while  on  an  embassy  to  Scotland  in  1539-40, 
mentions,  with  complacency,  "  the  same 
night  came  Rothesay  (the  herald  so  called) 
to  me  again,  and  brought  me  wine  from  the 
,  King,  both  white  and  red."  —  Clifford's  Edi- 
tion, p.  39. 

Note  57. 

his  iron-belt^ 

That  bound  his  breast  in  fcnance-pain, 
In  memory  0/  his  father  slain.  —  P.  95. 
Few  readers  need  to  be  reminded  of  this 
belt,  to  the  weight  of  which  James  added 
certain  ounces  every  year  that  he  lived. 
Pitscottie  founds  his  belief  that  James  was 
not  slain  in  the  battle  of  Flodden,  because 
the  English  never  had  this  token  of  the  iron- 
belt  to  show  to  any  Scottishman.  The  person 
and  character  of  James  are  delineated  ac- 
cording toour  best  historians.  His  romantic 
disposition,  which  led  him  highly  to  relish 
gayety,  approaching  to  license,  was,  at  the 
same  time,  tinged  with  enthusiastic  devotion. 
These  propensities  sometimes  formed  a 
strange  contrast.  He  was  wont,  during  his 
fits  of  devotion,  to  assume  the  dress,  and 
conform  to  the  rules,  of  the  order  of  Fran- 
ciscans ;  and  when  he  had  thus  done  penance 
for  some  time  in  Stirling,  to  plunge  again 
into  the  tide  of  pleasure.  Probably,  too,  with 
no  unusual  inconsistency,  he  sometimes 
laughed  at  the  superstitious  observances  to 
which  he  at  other  times  subjected  himself. 

Note  58. 
Sir  Hugh  the  Heron'' s  wife. —  P.  95. 
It  has  been  already  noticed  (see  note  10) 
that  King  James's  acquaintance  with  Lady 
Heron  of  Ford  did  not  commence  until  he 
marched  into  England.  Our  historians  im- 
pute to  the  King's  infatuated  passion  the 
delays  which  led  to  the  fatal  defeat  of 
Flodden.  The  author  of  "  The  Genealogy 
of  the  Heron  Family  "  endeavors,  with  laud- 
able anxiety,  to  clear  the  Lady  Ford  from 
the  scandal ;  that  she  came  and  went,  how- 
ever, between  the  armies  of  James  and  Surrey 
is  certain.  See  Pinkerton's  History  and 
the  authorities  he  refers  to,  vol.  ii.,  p.  99. 

Note  59. 
The  fair  Queen  of  France 
Sent  him  a  turquois  ring  and  glove, 
And  charged  him,  as  her  knight  and  love, 

For  her  to  break  a  lance.  —  P.  95. 
"  Also  the  Queen  of  France  wrote  a  love 
letter  to  the  King  of  .Scotland,  calling  him 
her  love,  showing  him  that  she  had  suffered 
much  rebuke  in  France  for  the  defending  of 
his   honor.      She    believed    surely    that    he 


would  recomjjense  her  again  with  some  of 
his  kingly  support  in  her  necessity ;  that  is 
to  say,  that  he  would  raise  her  an  army,  and 
come  three  foot  of  ground  on  English  ground, 
for  her  sake.  To  that  effect  she  sent  him  a 
ring  off  her  finger,  witli  fourteen  thousand 
French  crowns  to  pay  his  expenses."  Pit- 
scottie, p.  110.  —  A  turquois  ring,  probably 
this  fatal  gift,  is,  with  James's  sword  and 
dagger,  preserved  in  the  College  of  Heralds, 
London. 

Note  60. 
Archibald  Bcll-the-Cat.  —  P.  97. 
Archibald  Douglas,  Earl  of  Angus,  a  man 
remarkable  for  strength  of  body  and  mind, 
acquired  tiie  popular  name  of  Bcll-the-Cat, 
upon  the  following  remarkable  occasion  :  — 
James  the  Third,  of  whom  Pitscottie  com- 
plains that  he  delighted  more  in  music,  and 
"  policies  of  building,"  than  in  hunting, 
hawking,  and  other  noble  exercises,  was  so 
ill  advised  as  to  make  favorites  of  his  archi- 
tects and  musicians,  whom  the  same  liisto- 
rian  irreverently  terms  masons  and  fiddlers. 
His  nobility,  who  did  not  sympathize  in 
the  King's  respect  for  the  fine  arts,  were 
extremely  incensed  at  the  honors  conferred 
on  those  persons,  particularly  on  Cochrane, 
a  mason,  who  had  been  created  Earl  of  Mar  ; 
and,  seizing  the  opportunity,  when,  in  1482, 
the  King  had  convoked  the  whole  array  of 
the  country  to  march  against  the  English, 
they  held  a  midnight  council  in  the  church 
of  Lauder,  for  the  purpose  of  forcibly  remov- 
ing these  minions  from  the  King's  person. 
When  all  had  agreed  on  the  propriety  of  this 
measure.  Lord  Gray  told  the  assembly  the 
apologue  of  the  Mice,  who  had  formed  a 
resolution  that  it  would  he.  highly  advanta- 
geous to  their  community  to  tie  a  bell  round 
the  cat's  neck,  that  they  might  hear  her 
approach  at  a  distance;  but  which  public 
measure  unfortunately  miscarried,  from  no 
mouse  being  willing  to  undertake  the  task  of 
fastening  the  bell.  "  1  understand  the  moral," 
said  Angus,  "and,  that  what  we  propose 
may  not  lack  execution,  I  will  bell-the-cat." 

Note  61. 

Against  the  war  had  Angus  stood. 

And  chafed  his  royal  Lord.  —  P.  97. 

Angus   was   an   old   man    when   the  war 

against    England   was   resolved   upon.     He 

earnestly  spoke  against  that  measure  from  its 

commencement ;  and,  on  the  eve  of  the  battle 

of  Flodden,  remonstrated  so  freely  upon  the 

impolicy  of  fighting,  that  the  King  said  to 

him.  with  scorn  and  indignation,  '•  if  he  was 

afraid  he  might  go  home."     The  Earl  burst 

into  tears  at  this  insupportable  insult,  and 


MARMION. 


707 


retired  accordingly,  leaving  his  sons  George, 
Master  of  Angus,  and  Sir  William  of  Glen- 
bervie,  to  command  his  followers.  They 
were  both  slain  in  the  battle,  with  two  hun- 
dred gentlemen  of  the  name  of  Douglas. 
The  aged  earl,  broken-hearted  at  the  calami- 
ties of  his  house  and  his  country,  retired 
into  a  religious  house,  where  he  died  about  a 
year  after  the  field  of  Flodden. 

Note  62. 
Tantallon  hold.  —  P.  97. 
The  ruins  of  Tantallon  Castle  occupy  a 
high  rock  projecting  into  the  German  Ocean, 
about  two  miles  east  of  North  Berwick. 
The  building  formed  a  principal  castle  of 
the  Douglas  family,  and  when  the  Earl  of 
Angus  was  banished,  in  1527,  it  continued  to 
hold  out  against  James  V.  The  King  went 
in  person  against  it,  and  for  its  reduction 
borrowed  from  the  Castle  of  Dunbar,  then 
belonging  to  the  Duke  of  Albany,  two  great 
cannons,  "  Thrawn-mouth'd  Meg  and  her 
Marrow ;  "  also,  •'  two  great  botcards,  and 
two  moyan,  two  double  falcons,  and  four 
quarter  falcons."  Yet,  notwithstanding  all 
this  apparatus,  James  was  forced  to  raise 
the  siege,  and  only  afterwards  obtained  pos- 
session of  Tantallon  by  treaty  with  the 
governor,  Simon  Panango.  When  the  Earl 
of  Angus  returned  from  banishment,  upon 
the  death  of  James,  he  again  obtained  posses- 
sion of  Tantallon,  and  it  actually  afforded 
refuge  to  an  English  ambassador,  under 
circumstances  similar  to  those  described  in 
the  text.  This  was  no  other  than  the  cele- 
brated Sir  Ralph  Sadler,  who  resided  there 
for  some  time  under  Angus's  protection,  af- 
ter the  failure  of  his  negotiations  for  match- 
ing the  infant  Mary  with  Edward  VI. 


Note  63. 
Their  motto  on  his  blade. 


P.  97. 


A  very  ancient  sword,  in  possession  of 
Lord  Douglas,  bears  among  a  great  deal  of 
flourishing,  two  hands  pointing  to  a  heart, 
which  is  placed  lietwixt  them,  and  the  date 
1329,  being  the  year  in  which  Bruce  charged 
the  good  Lord  Douglas  to  carry  his  heart  to 
the  Holy  Land. 

Note  64. 

Martin  Sivart.  —  P.  99- 

A  German  general,  who  commanded  the 
auxiliaries  sent  by  the  Duchess  of  Burgundy 
with  Lambert  Simnel.  He  was  defeated  and 
killed  at  Stokefield.  The  name  of  this 
German  general  is  preserved  by  that  of  the 
field   of   battle,  which   is   called,  after  him. 


Swartmoor.  There  were  songs  about  him 
long  current  in  England.  —  See  Dissertation 
prefixed  to  Ritson's  Ancient  Songs,  1792, 
p.  Ixi. 

Note  65. 
— —  The  Cross.  —  P.  100. 
The  Cross  of  Edinburgh  was  an  ancient 
and  curious  structure.  I'he  lower  part  was 
an  octagonal  tower,  sixteen  feet  in  diameter, 
and  about  fifteen  feet  high.  At  each  angle 
there  was  a  pillar,  and  between  them  an 
arch,  of  the  Grecian  shape.  Above  these 
was  a  projecting  battlement,  with  a  turret  at 
each  corner,  and  medallions,  of  rude  but 
curious  workmanship,  between  them.  Above 
this  rose  the  proper  Cross,  a  column  of  one 
stone,  upwards  of  twenty  feet  high,  sur- 
mounted with  a  unicorn.  This  pillar  is 
preserved  in  the  grounds  of  the  property  of 
Drum,  near  Edinburgh.  The  magistrates 
of  Edinburgh  in  1756,  with  consent  of  the 
Lords  of  Session,  destroyed  this  curious 
monument  under  a  wanton  pretext  that  it 
encumbered  the  streets.  From  the  Tower 
of  the  Cross,  so  long  as  it  remained,  the 
heralds  published  the  acts  of  Parliament. 

Note  66. 
This  awful  summons  came. 

—  P. loi. 

This  supernatural  citation  is  mentioned  by 
all  our  Scottish  historians.  It  was,  probably, 
like  the  apparition  at  Linlithgow,  an  at- 
tempt, by  those  averse  to  the  war,  to  impose 
upon  the  superstitious  temper  of  James  IV. 

Note  67. 
One  of  his  rnvn  ancestry. 
Drove  the  Monks  forth  of  Coventry. 

P.  103. 

This  relates  to  the  catastrophe  of  a  real 
Rotert  de  Marmion,  in  the  reign  of  King 
Stephen,  whom  William  of  Newbury  de- 
scribes with  some  attributes  of  my  fictitious 
hero.  "  Homo  hellicosus,  ferocia,  ct  astucta, 
fere  nulla  suo  tern  fore  imfar:'  This  Baron, 
having  expelled  the  Monks  from  the  church 
of  Coventr>',  was  not  long  of  experiencing 
the  Divine  judgment,  as  the  same  monks, 
no  doubt,  termed  his  disaster.  Having 
waged  a  feudal  war  with  the  Earl  of  Chester, 
Marmion's  horse  fell,  as  he  chargcnl  in  the 
van  of  his  troop,  against  a  body  of  the 
Earl's  followers;  the  rider's  thigh  being 
broken  by  thfe  fall,  his  head  was  cut  off  by  a 
common  foot-soldier,  ere  he  could  receive 
any  succor.  The  whole  storj-  is  told  by 
William  of  Newbury. 


7o8 


APPENDIX. 


Note  68. 

The  savage  Dane 

At  lol  more  deep  the  mead  did  drain.  — 

P.  104. 
The  lol  of  the  heathen  Danes  (a  word 
still  applied  to  Christmas  in  Scotland)  was 
solemnized  with  great  festivity.  The  humor 
of  the  Danes  at  table  displayed  itself  by 
pelting  each  other  with  bones  ;  and  Torfajus 
tells  a  long  and  curious  story,  in  the  History 
of  Hrolfe  Kraka,  of  one  Hottus,  an  inmate 
of  the  Court  of  Denmark,  who  was  so 
generally  assailed  with  these  missiles,  that 
he  constructed,  out  of  the  bones  witli  whicli 
he  was  overwhelmed,  a  very  respectable  in- 
trenchment,  against  those  who  continued 
the  raillery. 

Note  69. 

Who  lists  may  in  their  mumming  see 
Traces  of  ancient  mystery. —  P.  105. 

It  seems  certain  that  the  Mummers  of 
England,  who  (in  Northumberland  at  least) 
used  to  go  about  in  disguise  to  the  neighbor- 
ing houses,  bearing  the  then  useless  plough- 
share ;  and  the  Guisards  of  Scotland,  not 
yet  in  total  disuse,  present,  in  some  indis- 
tinct degree,  a  shadow  of  the  old  mysteries, 
which  were  the  origin  of  the  English  drama. 
In  Scotland  {ine  ipso  teste),  we  were  wont, 
during  my  boyhood,  to  take  the  characters 
of  the  apostles,  at  least  of  Peter,  Paul,  and 
Judas  Iscariot ;  the  first  had  the  keys,  the 
second  carried  a  sword,  and  the  last  the  bag, 
in  which  tiie  dole  of  our  neighbors'  plum- 
cake  was  deposited.  One  played  a  cliam- 
pion,  and  recited  some  traditional  rhymes ; 
another  was  :  — 

"  Alexander,  King  of  Macedon, 
Who   conquer'd   all    the   world   but    Scotland 
alone. 

These,  and  many  such  verses,  were  repeated, 
but  by  rote,  and  unconnectedly.  There  was 
also,  occasionally,  1  believe,  a  Saint  George. 
In  all,  there  was  a  confused  resemblance  of 
the  ancient  mysteries,  in  which  the  charac- 
ters of  Scripture,  the  Nine  Worthies,  and 
ether  popular  personages,  were  usually  ex- 
hibited. 

Note  70. 

The  Highlander 

Will,  on  a  Friday  morn,  look  pale. 
If  ask'd  to  tell  a  fairy  tale.  — 

P.  106. 

The  Daoine  shi ,  or  Men  of  Peace,  of  the 
Scottish  Highlanders,  rather  resemble  the 
Scandinavian  Diiergar  than  the  English 
Fairies.     Notwithstanding  their  name,  they 


are,  if  not  absolutely  malevolent,  at  least 
peevish,  discontented,  and  apt  to  do  mischief 
on  slight  provocation.  The  belief  of  their 
existence  is  deeply  impressed  on  the  High- 
landers, who  think  they  are  particularly  of- 
fended at  mortals  who  talk  to  them,  who 
wear  their  favorite  color  (green),  or  in  any 
respect  interfere  with  their  affairs.  This  is 
especially  to  be  avoided  on  Friday,  when, 
whether  as  dedicated  to  Venus,  with  whom, 
in  Germany,  this  subterraneous  people  are 
held  nearly  connected,  or  for  a  more  solemn 
reason,  they  are  more  active,  and  possessed 
of  greater  power.  Some  curious  particulars 
concerning  the  popular  superstition  of  the 
Highlanders  may  be  found  in  Dr.  Graham's 
Picturesque  Sketches  of  Perthshire. 

Note  71. 
The  last  lord  of  Franchcmont.  —  P.  106. 

The  journal  of  the  friend  to  whom  the 
Fourth  Canto  of  the  Poem  is  inscribed,  fur- 
nished me  with  the  following  account  of  a 
striking  superstition. 

"  Passed  the  pretty  little  village  of  Franchd- 
mont  (near  Spaw),  with  the  romantic  ruins 
of  the  old  castle  of  the  Counts  of  that  name. 
The  road  leads  through  many  delightful 
vales  on  a  rising  ground;  at  the  extremity 
of  one  of  them  stands  the  ancient  castle,  now 
the  subject  of  many  super.stitious  legends. 
It  is  firmly  Ixjlieved  by  the  neigliboring  peas- 
antry, that  the  last  Baron  of  Franchemont 
deposited,  in  one  of  the  vaults  of  the  castle, 
a  ponderous  chest,  containing  an  immense 
treasure  in  gold  and  silver,  which,  by  some 
magic  spell,  was  intrusted  to  the  care  of  the 
Devil,  who  is  constantly  found  sitting  on 
the  chest  in  the  shape  of  a  huntsman.  Any 
one  adventurous  enough  to  touch  the  chest 
is  instantly  seized  with  the  palsy.  Upon 
one  occasion,  a  priest  of  noted  piety  was 
brouglit  to  the  vault  :  he  used  all  the  arts  of 
exorcism  to  persuade  his  infernal  majesty  to 
vacate  his  seat,  but  in  vain  ;  the  huntsman 
remained  iminovable.  At  last,  moved  by 
the  earnestness  of  the  priest,  he  told  him 
that  lie  would  agree  to  resign  the  chest,  if 
the  exorciser  would  sign  his  name  with 
blood.  But  the  priest  understood  his  mean- 
ing, and  refused,  as  by  that  act  he  would 
have  delivered  over  his  soul  to  the  Devil. 
Vet  if  anybody  can  discover  the  mystic 
words  used  by  the  person  who  deposited  the 
treasure,  and  pronounce  them,  the  fiend  must 
instantly  decamp.  I  had  many  stories  of  a 
similar  nature  from  a  peasant,  who  had  him- 
self seen  the  Devil  in  the  shape  of  a  great 
cat." 


MARMION. 


709 


Note  72. 

the  huge  and  sweeping  brand 

Which  wont  of  yore,  in  battle  fray, 
His  focman's  limbs  to  shred  away, 
As  wood-knife  lops  the  sapling  spray.- 
—  P.  no. 
The  Earl  of  Angus  had  strength  and  per- 
sonal activity  corresponding  to  his  courage. 
Speiis  of  Kilspindie,  a  favorite  of  James  IV., 
iiaviiig  spoken  of  him  lightly,  the  Earl  met 
iiim  while  hawking,  and,  compelling  him  to 
single  combat,  at  one  blow  cut  asunder  his 
thigli-bone,  and  killed  him  on  the  spot.  lUit 
ere  he  could  obtain  James's  pardon  for  this 
slaughter,  Angus  was  obliged  to  yield  his 
castle  of  Hermitage,  in  exchange  for  that  of 
IJotliwell,  which  was  some  diminution  to  the 
family  greatness.  The  sword  with  which  he 
struck  so  remarkable  a  blow,  was  presented 
by  his  descendant  James,  E:arl  of  Morton, 
afterwards  Regent  of  Scotland,  to  Lord 
I.indesay  of  the  Byres,  when  he  defied  Both- 
well  to  single  combat  on  Carberry  Hill. 
See  Introduction  to  the  Minstrelsy  of  the 
Scottish  Border. 

Note  -j-^. 
And  hopcst  thou  hence  unscathed  logo  ?  — 
No ;  by  St.  Bride  of  Bothwell,  no.' 
Up  drawbridge,  grooms .'  —  what.  Warder, 
ho.' 

Let  the  portcullis  fall.  —  P.  in. 

This  ebullition  of  violence  in  the  potent 
Earl  of  Angus  is  not  without  its  example  in 
the  real  history  of  the  house  of  Douglas, 
whose  chieftains  possessed  the  ferocity  with 
the  heroic  virtues  of  a  savage  state.  The 
most  curious  instance  occurred  in  the  case 
of  Maclellan,  Tutor  of  Homby,  who,  having 
refused  to  acknowledge  the  pre-eminence 
claimed  by  Douglas  over  the  gentlemen  and 
Barons  of  Galloway,  was  seized  and  impris- 
oned by  the  Earl,  in  his  castle  of  the  Thrieve, 
on  the  borders  of  Kirkcudbrightshire.  Sir 
Patrick  fJray,  commander  of  King  James 
tiie  Second's  guard,  was  uncle  to  the  Tutor 
of  Bomby,  and  obtained  from  the  King  a 
"sweet  letter  of  supplication,"  praying  the 
Earl  to  deliver  his  prisoner  into  Gray's  hand. 
When  Sir  Patrick  arrived  at  the  castle,  he 
was  received  with  all  the  honor  due  to  a 
favorite  servant  of  the  King's  household  ; 
but  while  he  was  at  dinner,  the  Earl,  wlio 
suspected  his  errand,  caused  his  prisoner  to 
be  led  forth  and  beheaded.  .After  dinner. 
Sir  Patrick  presented  the  King's  letter  to 
the  Earl,  who  received  it  with  great  affecta- 
tion of  reverence;  "and  took  him  by  the 
hand,  and  led  him  forth  to  the  green,  where 
the  gentleman  was  lying  dead,  and  showed 


him  the  manner,  and  said.  '  Sir  Patrick,  you 
are  come  a  little  too  late ;  yonder  is  your  sis- 
ter's son  lying,  but  he  wants  his  head  :  take 

his  body,  and  do  with  it  what  you  will.' 

Sir  Patrick  answered  again,  with  a  sore 
heart,  and  said,  '  My  lord,  if  ye  have  taken 
from  him  his  head,  dispone  upon  the  body 
as  ye  please ; '  and  with  that  called  for  his 
horse,  and  leaped  thereon  ;  and  when  he  was 
on  horseback,  he  said  to  the  Earl  on  this 
manner,  '  My  lord,  if  I  live,  you  shall  be  re- 
warded for  your  labors  that  you  have  used 
at  this  time,  according  to  your  demerits.' 

"  At  this  saying  the  Earl  was  highly  of- 
fended, and  cried  for  horse.  Sir  Patrick,  see- 
ing the  Earl's  fury,  spurred  his  horse,  but  he 
was  chased  near  Edinburgh  ere  they  left  him  ; 
and  had  it  not  been  his  1^  horse  was  so  tried 
and  good  he  had  been  taken."  —  Pitscot- 
tie's  History,  p.  39. 

Note  74, 

A  letter  forged .'  —  Saint  Jude  to  speed? 

Did  ever  knight  so  foul  a  deed.'  —  P.  in. 
Lest  the  reader  should  partake  of  the 
Earl's  astonishment,  and  consider  these 
crimes  inconsistent  with  the  manners  of  the 
period,  I  have  to  remind  him  of  the  numer- 
ous forgeries  (partly  executed  by  a  female 
assistant)  devised  by  Robert  of  Artois,  to 
forward  his  suit  against  the  Countess  Ma- 
tilda ;  which,  being  detected,  occasioned  his 
flight  into  England,  and  proved  the  remote 
cause  of  Edward  the  Third's  memorable  wars 
in  Erance.  John  Harding,  also,  was  ex- 
pressly hired  by  Edward  I.  to  forge  such 
documents  as  might  appear  to  establish  the 
claim  of  fealty  asserted  over  Scotland  by  the 
English  monarchs. 

Note  75. 
Twisel  Bridge. —  P.  1 13. 
On  tlie  evening  previous  to  the  memora- 
ble battle  of  Flodden,  Surrey's  headquarters 
were  at  Barmoor  Wood,  and  King  James 
held  an  inaccessible  position  on  the  ridge  of 
Flodden-hill,  one  of  the  last  and  lowest  emi- 
nences detached  from  the  ridge  of  Cheviot. 
The  Till,  a  deep  and  slow  river,  winded  be- 
tween the  armies.  On  the  morning  of  the 
9th  September,  1513,  Surrey  marched  in  a 
north-westerly  direction,  and  crossed  the 
Till,  with  his  van  and  artillery,  at  Twistl- 
bridge,  nigh  where  that  river  joins  the 
Tweed,  his  rear-guard  coliunn  passing  about 
a  mile  higher,  by  a  ford.  This  movement 
had  tlie  double  effect  of  placing  his  army 
between  King  James  and  his  supplies  from 
Scotland,  and  of  striking  the  Scottish  mon- 


7IO 


APPENDIX. 


arch  with  surprise,  as  he  seems  to  have  re- 
lied on  the  depth  of  the  river  in  liis  front. 
But  ;is  the  passage,  botli  over  the  bridge  and 
through  the  ford,  was  dithcidt  and  slow,  it 
seems  possible  tliat  the  Engiisli  might  have 
been  attacked  to  great  advantage  wliile  strug- 
gling with  these  natural  obstacles.  1  know 
not  if  we  are  to  impute  James's  forbearance 
to  want  of  military  skill,  or  to  the  romantic 
declaration  which  I'itscottie  puts  in  his 
mouth,  "  that  he  was  determined  t<}  have  his 
enemies  before  him  on  a  plain  field,"  and 
therefore  would  suffer  no  interruption  to  Ije 
given,  even  by  artillery,  to  their  passing  the 
river. 

The  ancient  bridge  of  Twisel,  by  which 
the  English  crossed  the  Till,  is  still  standing 
beneath  Twisel  Castle,  a  splendid  pile  of 
Gothic  architecture  rebuilt  by  Sir  Francis 
Blake.  Beneath  a  tall  rock  near  the  bridge 
is  a  plentiful  fountain  called  St.  Helen's  Well. 

Note  76. 
Hence  might  they  see  the  full  array. 
Of  either  host,  for  deadly  fray.  —  F.  114. 
The  reader  cannot  here  expect  a  full  ac- 
count of  the  battle  of  Flodden  ;  but,  so  far  as 
is  necessary  to  understand  the  romance,  I 
beg  to  remind  him,  that,  when  the  English 
army,  by  their  skilful  countermarch,  were 
fairly  placed  between  King  James  and  his 
own  country,  the  Scottish  monarch  resolved 
to  fight ;  and,  setting  fire  to  his  tents,  de- 
scended from  the  ridge  of  Flodden  to  secure 
the  neighboring  eminence  of  Brankstone,  on 
which  that  village  is  built.  Thus  the  two 
armies  met,  almost  without  seeing  each 
other,  when,  according  to  the  old  poem,  of 
"  Flodden  Field," 

"  The  English  line  stretch'd  east  and  west. 
And  southward  were  their  faces  set ; 
The  Scottish  northward  proudly  prest, 
And  manfully  their  foes  they  met." 

The  English  army  advanced  in  four  divis- 
ions. On  the  right,  which  first  engaged,  were 
the  sons  of  Earl  Surrey  ;  namely.  Thomas 
Howard,  the  .Admiral  of  England,  and  .Sir 
Edmund,  the  Knight  Marshal  of  the  army. 
Their  divisions  were  separated  from  each 
other ;  but,  at  the  request  of  Sir  Edmund, 
his  brother's  battalion  was  drawn  very  near 
to  his  own.  The  centre  was  commanded  by 
Surrey  in  person  ;  the  left  wing  by  Sir  Ed- 
ward Stanley,  with  the  men  of  Lancashire, 
and  of  the  palatinate  of  Chester.  Lord 
Dacre,  with  a  large  body  of  horse,  formed  a 
reserve.  When  the  smoke,  which  the  wind 
had  driven  between  the  armies,  was  some- 
what dispersed,  they  perceived  the  Scots, 
who  had  moved  down  the  hill  in  a  similar 


order  of  battle  and  in  deep  silence.  The 
Earls  of  Huntly  and  of  Home  commanded 
their  left  wing,  and  charged  Sir  Ednmnd 
Howard  with  such  success  as  entirely  to 
deJeat  liis  part  of  the  English  right  wing. 
Sir  Edmund's  banner  was  beaten  down,  and 
he  himself  escajjed  with  ditticulty  to  his 
brothers  division.  The  Admiral,  however, 
stood  firm;  and  Dacre  advancing  to  his  sup 
port  with  the  reserve  of  cavalry,  probably 
between  the  intervals  of  the  divisions  com- 
manded by  the  brothers  Howard,  apjjears  to 
have  kept  the  victors  in  effectual  check. 
Home's  men,  chiefiy  Borderers,  began  to 
pillage  the  baggage  of  both  armies ;  and 
their  leader  is  branded  by  the  Scottish  his- 
torians with  negligence  or  treachery.  On 
the  other  hand,  Huntly,  on  whom  they  be- 
stow many  encomiums,  is  said  by  the  Eng- 
lish historians  to  have  left  the  field  after 
the  first  charge.  Meanwhile  the  Admiral, 
whose  Hank  these  chiefs  ought  to  have  at- 
tacked, availed  himself  of  their  inactivity, 
and  pushed  forward  against  another  large 
division  of  the  Scottish  army  in  his  front, 
headed  by  the  Earls  of  Crawford  and  Mont- 
rose, both  of  whom  were  slain,  and  their 
forces  routed.  On  the  left,  the  success  of 
the  English  was  yet  more  decisive ;  for  the 
Scottish  right  wing,  consisting  of  undisci- 
plined Highlanders,  commanded  by  Lennox 
and  Argyle,  was  unable  to  sustain  the  charge 
of  Sir  Edward  .Stanley,  and  especially  the 
severe  execution  of  the  Lancashire  archers. 
The  King  and  Surrey,  who  commanded  the 
respective  centres  of  their  armies,  were  mean- 
while engaged  in  close  and  dubious  conflict. 
James,  surrounded  by  the  flower  of  his  king- 
dom, and  impatient  of  the  galling  discharge 
of  arrows,  supported  also  by  his  reserve 
under  Bothwell,  charged  with  such  fury, 
that  the  standard  of  Surrey  was  in  danger. 
At  that  critical  moment,  Stanley,  who  had 
routed  the  left  wing  of  the  Scottish,  pursued 
his  career  of  victory  and  arrived  on  the  right 
flank,  and  in  the  rear  of  James's  division, 
which,  throwing  itself  into  a  circle,  disputed 
the  battle  till  night  came  on.  .Surrey  then 
drew  back  his  forces ;  for  the  Scottish  centre 
not  having  been  broken,  and  their  left  wing 
being  victorious,  he  yet  doubted  the  event  of 
the  field.  The  -Scottish  army,  however,  felt 
their  loss,  and  abandoned  the  field  of  battle 
in  disorder,  before  dawn.  They  lost,  per- 
haps, from  eight  to  ten  thousand  men  ;  but 
that  included  the  very  prime  of  their  nobil- 
ity, gentry,  and  even  clergy.  Scarce  a  family 
of  eminence  but  has  an  ancestor  killed  at 
Flodden  :  and  there  is  no  province  in  Scot- 
land, even  at  this  day,  where  the  battle  is 
mentioned  without  a  sensation  of  terror  and 


AfARMION. 


711 


sorrow.  The  English  lost,  also,  a  great 
number  of  men,  perhaps  within  one-third  of 
the  vanquished,  but  they  were  of  inferior  note. 

Note  77. 

Brian  Tunstall,  stainless  knight.  — 

P.  114. 
Sir  Brian  Tunstall,  called  in  the  romantic 
language  of  the  time,  Tunstall  the  Unde- 
filed,  was  one  of  the  few  Englishmen  of  rank 
slain  at  Flodden.  He  figures  in  the  ancient 
English  poem,  to  which  I  may  safely  refer 
my  readers  ;  as  an  edition,  with  full  explan- 
atory notes,  has  been  published  by  my 
friend,  Mr.  Henry  Weber.  Tunstall,  per- 
haps, derived  his  epithet  of  undefiled  from 
his  white  armor  and  banner,  the  latter  bear- 
ing a  white  cock,  about  to  crow,  as  well  as 
from  his  unstained  loyalty  and  knightly 
faith.  His  place  of  residence  was  Thurland 
Castle. 

Note  7S. 
Reckless  of  life,  he  desferaie  fought, 

And  fell  on  Flodden  /lain  ; 
And  -U'cU  in  death  his  trusty  brand. 
Firm  clench' d  -within  his  manly  hand, 
Bcseent'd  the  monarch  slain.  — 

P.  iiS. 
There  can  be  no  doubt  that  King  James 
fell  in  the  battle  of  Flodden.  He  was  killed, 
says  the  curious  French  Gazette,  within  a 
lance's  length  of  the  Earl  of  Surrey  ;  and  the 
same  account  adds,  that  none  of  his  division 
were  made  prisoners,  though  many  were 
killed  ;  a  circumstance  that  testifies  the  des- 
peration of  their  resistance.  The  Scottish 
historians  record  many  of  the  idle  reports 
which  passed  among  the  vulgar  of  their  day. 
Home  was  accused  by  the  pf)pular  voice,  not 
only  of  failing  to  support  the  King,  but  even 
of  having  carried  him  out  of  the  field,  and 
murdered  him.  .And  this  tale  was  revived 
in  my  remembrance  by  an  unauthenticated 
story  of  a  skeleton,  wrapped  in  a  bull's  hide, 
and  surrounded  with  an  iron  chain,  said  to 
have  been  found  in  the  well  of  Home  Castle ; 
for  which,  on  inquiry,  I  could  never  find  any 
better  authority  than  the  sexton  of  the  par- 
isli  having  said  that,  if  the  -ivell  were  cleaned 
out,  he  would  not  be  surprised  at  such  a  dis- 


cmiery.  Home  was  the  chamberlain  of  the 
King,  and  his  prime  favorite ;  he  had  much 
to  lose  (in  fact  did  lose  all)  in  consequence 
of  James's  death,  and  nothing  earthly  to  gain 
by  that  event ;  but  the  retreat,  or  inactivity 
of  the  left  wing  which  he  commanded,  after 
defeating  Sir  Edmund  Howard,  and  even 
the  circumstance  of  his  returning  unhurt, 
and  loaded  with  spoil,  from  so  fatal  a  con- 
flict, rendered  the  propagation  of  any  cal- 
umny again.st  him  easy  and  acceptable. 
Other  reports  gave  a  still  more  romantic 
turn  to  the  King's  fate,  and  Averred,  that 
James,  weary  of  greatness,  after  the  carnage 
among  his  nobles,  had  gone  on  a  pilgrimage, 
to  merit  absolution  ior  the  death  of  his 
father,  and  the  breach  of  his  oath  of  an.ity 
to  Henry.  In  particular,  it  was  objected  to 
the  English,  that  they  could  never  show  the 
token  of  the  iron  belt,  which,  however,  he 
was  likely  enough  to  have  laid  aside  on  the 
day  of  the  battle,  as  encumtering  his  per- 
sonal e.\ertions.  They  produce  a  better  evi- 
dence, the  monarch's  sword  and  dagger, 
which  are  still  preserved  in  the  Herald's 
College  in  London.  Stowe  has  recorded  a 
degrading  storj-  of  the  disgrace  with  which 
the  remains  of  the  unfortunate  monarch 
were  treated  in  his  time.  An  unhewn  col- 
umn marks  the  spot  where  James  fell,  still 
called  the  King's  Stone. 


Note  79. 

The  fair  cathedral  stormed  and  took.  — 

P.  118. 

This  storm  of  Lichfield  cathedral,  which 
had  been  garrisoned  on  the  part  of  the  King, 
took  place  in  the  Great  Civil  War.  Lord 
Brook,  who,  with  Sir  John  Gill,  commanded 
the  assailants,  was  shot  with  a  musket-ball 
through  the  vizor  of  his  helmet.  The  roy- 
alists remarked,  that  he  was  killed  by  a  shot 
fired  from  St.  Chad's  cathedral,  and  upon 
St.  Chad's  Day,  and  received  his  death- 
wound  in  the  very  eye  with  which,  he  had 
said,  he  hoped  to  see  the  ruin  of  all  the 
cathedrals  in  England.  The  magnificent 
church  in  question  suffered  cruelly  upon 
this  and  other  occasions  ;  the  principal  spire 
being  ruined  by  the  fire  of  the  besiegers. 


712 


APPENDIX. 


THE   LADY   OF   THE   LAKE. 


Note  i. 

the  heights  of  Uam-  Var, 

And  roused  the  cavern^  where.  Uis  told, 
A  giant  made  his  den  of  old.  —  P.  125. 
Ua-var,  as  the  name  is  pronounced,  or 
more  properly  Uaighmor,  is  a  mountain  to 
the  north-east  of  the  village  of  Callender  in 
Menteith,  deriving  its  name,  which  signifies 
the  great  den  or  cavern,  from  a  sort  of  re- 
treat among  the  rocks  on  the  south  side, 
said,  by  tradition,  to  have  been  the  abode  of 
a  giant.  In  latter  times,  it  was  the  refuge 
of  robbers  and  banditti,  who  have  been  only 
extirpated  within  these  forty  or  fifty  years. 
Strictly  speaking,  this  stronghold  is  not  a 
cave,  as  the  name  would  imply,  but  a  sort  of 
small  enclosure,  or  recess,  surrounded  with 
large  rocks,  and  open  above  head. 

Note  2. 
Two  dogs  of  black  Saint  Hubert's  breed, 
UntnatcKd  for  courage,  breath,  and  speed. 
-P.125. 
"  The  hounds  which  we  call  Saint  Hu- 
bert's hounds,  are  commonly  all  blacke,  yet 
neuertheless,  the  race  is  so  mingled  at  these 
days,  that  we  find  them  of  all  colours.  These 
are  the  hounds  which  the  abbots  of  St.  Hu- 
bert haue  always  kept  some  of  their  race 
or  kind,  in  honour  or  remembrance  of  the 
saint,  which  was  a  hunter  with  S.  Eustace. 
WhereujM)n  we  may  conceiue  that  (by  the 
grace  of  God)  all  good  huntsmen  shall  follow 
them  into  paradise." —  The  Noble  Art  of 
Venerie  or  Hunting,  translated  and  col- 
lected for  the  Use  of  all  Noblemen  and 
Gentlemen.     Lond.  i6ii,4to,  p.  15. 

Note  3. 
For  the  death-wound  and  death-halloo, 
Mustered  his  breath,  his  xvhinyard  dreiv. 
—  P.  126. 
When  the  stag  turned  to  bay,  the  ancient 
hunter   had  the  perilous  task  of  going  in 
upon,  and  killing  or  disabling  the  desf)erate 
animal.     .At  certain  times  of  the  \-ear  this 
was  held  particularly   dangerous,  a  wound 
received    from   a   stag's    horn    being    then 
deemed  poisonous,  and  more  dangerous  than 
one  from  the  tusks  of  a  boar,  as  the  old 
rhyme  testifies :  — 

"  If  thou  be  hurt  witli  hart,  it  brings  thee  to  thy 
bier, 
But  barber's  hand  will  boar's  hurt  heal,  there- 
fore thou  need'st  not  fear." 

At  all  times,  however,  the  task  was  danger- 


ous, and  to  be  adventured  upon  wisely  and 
warily,  either  by  getting  behind  the  stag 
while  he  was  gazing  on  the  hounds,  or  by 
watching  an  opportunity  to  gallop  roundly 
in  upon  him,  and  kill  him  with  a  sword. 

Note  4. 
And  now  to  issue  from  the  glen, 
No  pathway  meets  the  ■wanderer'' s  ken. 
Unless  he  climb,  with  footing  nice, 
A  far  projecting  precipice.  —  P.  127. 
Until  the  present  road  was  made  through 
the  romantic  pass  which  1  iiave  presumptu- 
ously attempted  to  descrilje  in  the  preceding 
stanzas,  there  was  no  mode  of  issuing  out  of 
the  defile  called  the  Trosachs,  excepting  l)y 
a  sort  of  ladder,  composed  of  the  branches 
and  roots  of  trees. 

Note  5. 
To  meet  luith  Highland  plunderers  here. 
Were  worse  than  loss  of  steed  or  deer.  — 

P.  129. 
The  clans  who  inhabited  the  romantic  re- 
gions in  the  neighborhood  of  Loch  Katrine, 
were,  even  until  a  late  period,  much  addicted 
to  predatory  excursions  upon  their  Lowland 
neighbors. 

Note  6. 
A  gray-haired  sire,  whose  eye  intent. 
Was  on  the  vision' d  future  bent. —  P.  129. 
If  force  of  evidence  could  authorize  us  to 
believe  facts  inconsistent  with  the  general 
laws  of  nature,  enough  might  be  produced  in 
favor  of  the  existence  of  the  second-sight. 
It  is  called  in  Gaelic  Taishitaraugh.  from 
Taish,  an  unreal  or  shadowy  appearance ; 
and  those  possessed  of  the  faculty  are  called 
Taishatrin,  which  may  be  aptly  translated 
visionaries.  Martin,  a  steady  believer  in  the 
second-sight,  gives  the  following  account  of 
it:  — 

"  The  second-sight  is  a  singular  faculty  of 
seeing  an  otherwise  invisible  object  without 
any  previous  means  used  by  the  person  that 
used  it  for  that  end  ;  the  vision  makes  such 
a  lively  impression  upon  the  seers,  that  they 
neither  see  nor  think  of  anytiiing  else,  ex- 
cept the  vision,  as  long  as  it  continues:  and 
then  they  app)ear  pensive  or  jovial,  according 
to  the  object  that  was  represented  to  them. 

"At  the  sight  of  a  vision,  the  eyelids  of 
the  jjerson  are  erected,  and  the  eyes  continue 
staring  until  the  object  vanishes.  This  is  ob. 
vious  to  others  who  are  by  when  the  persons 
happen  to  see  a  vision,  and  occurred  more 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE. 


7«3 


than  once  to  my  own  observation,  and  to 
others  that  were  with  me. 

"  If  a  woman  is  seen  standing  at  a  man's 
left  hand,  it  is  a  presage  tliat  slie  will  be  his 
wife,  whether  they  be  married  to  others,  or 
unmarried  at  the  time  of  the  apparition. 

"  To  see  a  spark  of  fire  fall  upon  one's  arm 
or  breast,  is  a  forerunner  of  a  dead  child  to 
be  seen  in  the  arms  of  those  persons;  of 
which  there  are  several  fresh  instances. 

"  To  see  a  seat  empty  at  the  time  of  one's 
sitting  in  it,  is  a  presage  of  that  person's 
death  soon  after." —  Martin's  Dcscrif<tion 
of  the  Western  Islands,  1716,  8vo,  p.  300, 
et  scq. 

To  these  particulars  innumerable  examples 
might  be  added,  all  attested  by  grave  and 
credible  authors.  But,  in  despite  of  evidence 
which  neither  Bacon,  Boyle,  nor  Johnson 
were  able  to  resist,  the  Taisc/i,  with  all  its 
visionary  properties,  seems  to  be  now  uni- 
versally abandoned  to  the  use  of  poetry. 
The  exquisitely  beautiful  poem  of  Lochiel 
will  at  once  occur  to  the  recollection  of  every 
reader. 

Note  7. 
Here,  for  retreat  in  dangerous  hour, 
Soim  chief  had  framed  a  rustic  bower. — 

P.  130. 

The  Celtic  chieftains,  whose  lives  were 
continually  exposed  to  peril,  had  usually,  in 
the  most  retired  spot  of  their  domains,  some 
place  of  retreat  for  the  hour  of  necessity, 
which,  as  circumstances  would  admit,  was  a 
tower,  a  cavern,  or  a  rustic  hut,  in  a  strong 
and  secluded  situation.  One  of  these  last 
gave  refuge  to  the  unfortunate  Charles  Ed- 
ward, in  his  perilous  wanderings  after  the 
battle  of  CuUoden. 

Note  S. 
Afy  sirens  tall  form  might  grace  the  fart 
Of  Fcrragus  or  Ascabart.  —  P.  130. 
These  two  sons  of  Anak  flourished  in  ro- 
mantic fable.     The  first  is  well  known  to  the 
admirers  of  Ariosto,  by  the  name  of  Ferrau. 
He  was  an  antagonist  of  Orlando,  and  was 
at  length  slain  by  him  in  single  combat. 

.Ascapart,  or  .\scabart,  makes  a  very  ma- 
terial figure  in  the  History  of  Bevis  Hamp- 
ton, by  whom  he  was  conquered.  His  effigies 
may  be  seen  guarding  one  side  of  a  gate  at 
Southampton,  while  the  other  is  occupied  by 
Sir  Bevis  himself. 

Note  9. 

Thouch  all  tinaslSd  his  birth  and  name. 
^  —P.  131. 

The  Highlanders,  who  carried  hospitality 
to  a  punctilious  excess,  are  >aid  to  have  con- 


sidered it  as  churlish  to  ask  a  stranger  his 
name  or  lineage  before  he  had  taken  refresh- 
ment. Feuds  were  so  frequent  among  them, 
that  a  contrary  rule  would  in  many  cases 
have  produced  the  discovery  of  some  circum- 
stance which  might  have  excluded  the  guest 
from  the  benefit  of  the  assistance  he  stood  in 
need  of. 

Note  10. 

Morn's  genial  influence  roused  a  minstrel  • 
gray. 

Allan  Bane.  —  P.  132. 

The  Highland  chieftains  retained  in  their 
service  the  bard,  as  a  family  officer,  to  a  late 
period. 

Note  ii. 

The  Grame. —  P.  134. 

The  ancient  and  powerful  family  of  Gra- 
ham (which,  for  metrical  reasons,  is  here 
spelt  after  the  Scottish  pronunciation)  held 
extensive  possessions  in  thecountiesof  Dum- 
barton and  Stirling.  Few  families  can  boast 
of  more  historical  renown,  having  claim  to 
three  of  the  most  remarkable  characters  in 
the  Scottish  annals.  Sir  John  the  Grame, 
the  faithful  and  undaunted  partaker  of  the 
labors  and  patriotic  warfare  of  Wallace,  fell 
in  the  unfortunate  field  of  Falkirk,  1298. 
The  celebrated  Marquis  of  Montrose,  in 
whom  De  Ketz  saw  realized  his  abstract 
idea  of  the  heroes  of  antiquity,  was  the  sec- 
ond of  these  worthies.  And,  notwithstand- 
ing the  severity  of  his  temper,  and  the  rigor 
with  which  lie  executed  the  oppressive  man- 
dates of  the  princes  whom  he  served,  I  do  not 
hesitate  to  name  as  a  third.  John  Grwnie 
of  Claverhouse,  \iscount  of  Dundee,  whose 
heroic  death  in  the  arms  of  victory  may  be 
allowed  to  cancel  the  memory  of  his  cruelty 
to  the  nonconformists,  during  the  reigns  of 
Charles  11.  and  James  U. 

Note  12. 
this  hart'.,  which  erst  Saint  Afodan  sway'd. 
-  P.  134- 
I  am  not  prepared  to  show  that  Saint 
Modan  was  a  performer  on  the  harp.  It 
was,  however,  no  unsaintly  accomplishment; 
for  Saint  Dunstan  certainly  did  play  upon 
that  instrument,  which  retaining,  as  was 
natural,  a  portion  of  the  sanctity  attached 
to  its  master's  character,  announced  future 
events  by  its  spontaneous  sound. 

Note  13. 

Ere  Douglasses,  to  ruin  drii'en, 

Were  exiled  from  their  native  heaven. — 

P'34- 
The  downfall  of  the  Douglasses  of  the 


714 


APPENDIX. 


house  of  Angus  during  the  reign  of  James 
V.  is  the  event  alluded  to  in  tlie  text. 

Note  14. 
In  Holy-Rood  a  knight  he  slew.  —  P.  135. 
Tliis  was  by  no  means  an  uncommon  oc- 
currence in  the  Court  of  Scotland  ;  nay,  the 
presence  of   the   sovereign   himself    scarcely 
restrained  the  ferocious  and  inveterate  feuds 
"which  were  the  jierpetual  source  of  bloodshed 
among  the  Scottish    nobility.     The  murder 
of   Sir    William  .Stuart  of  Ochiltree,  called 
The  Bloody,  by  the  celebrated  Francis,  Karl 
of    Bothvvell,     may     be     mentioned    among 
many  others.  —  Johnstoni  Historia  Rcriivi 
Britannuiirum,   ab   anno    1572   ad   annum 
162S.     Amstelodami,  1655,  fol.  p.  135. 

Note  15. 

The  Douglas,  like  a  stricken  deer, 
Dis(nvn\l  by  every  noble  peer. —  P.  135. 
The  exile  state  of  this  powerful  race  is  not 
exaggerated  in  this  and  subsequent  passages. 
The  hatred  of  James  against  the  race  of 
Douglas  was  so  inveterate,  that  numerous  as 
their  allies  were,  and  disregarded  as  the  regal 
authority  had  usually  been  in  similar  cases, 
their  nearest  friends,  even  in  the  most  remote 
parts  of  Scotland,  durst  not  entertain  them, 
unless  under  the  strictest  and  closest  dis- 
guise. 

Note  16. 

Alaronnan^s  cell. —  P.  135. 

The  parish  of  Kilmaronock,  at  the  east- 
ern extremity  of  Loch  Lomond,  derives  its 
name  from  a  cell  or  chajiel  detlicated  to  ."->t. 
Maronock,  or  Marnock,  or  Maronnan,  about 
whose  sanctity  very  little  is  now  remembered. 
There  is  a  fountain  devoted  to  him  in  the 
same  parish  ;  but  its  virtues,  like  the  merits 
of  its  patron,  have  fallen  into  oblivion. 

Note  17. 
Bracklinn's  thundering  7vave. — 

This  is  a  beautiful  cascade  made  by  a 
mountain  stream  called  the  Keltic,  at  a  place 
called  the  Ilridge  of  Bracklinn,  about  a  mile 
from  the  village  of  Callender  in  Menteith. 

Note  iS. 
I' or  Tine-man  forged  by  fairy  lore.  — 

P.  136. 

Archibald,  the  third  Earl  of  Douglas,  was 
so  unfortunate  in  all  his  enterprises,  that  he 
acquired  the  epithet  of  Tine-man,  because 
he  lined,  or  lost,  his  followers,  in  every  battle 
which  he  fought. 


Note  19. 
Did,  selfttnscabbarded,  foreshow 
The  footstep  of  a  secret  foe. —  P.  136. 
The   ancient    warriors,   whose    hope   and 
conlidence  rested  chiefly  in  their  blades,  were 
accustomed  to  deduce  omens  from  them,  es- 
pecially from  such  a.s  was  suppf^sed  to  have 
been  fabricated  by  enchanted  skill,  of  which 
we  have  various  instances  in  the  romances 
and  legends  of  the  time. 

Note  20. 
Those  thrilling  sounds  that  call  the  mi^ht 
Of  old  Clan- Alpine  to  thcjight.—  P.  136. 
The  connoisseurs  in  pipe-music  affect  to 
discover  in  a  well-composed  pibroch,  the  im- 
itative sounds  of  march,  conflict,  flight,  pur- 
suit, and  all  the  "  current  of  a  heady  tight." 

Note  21. 
Rodcriqh  Vich  Alpine  dhu,  ho .'  ieroe .'  — 

P-  137- 
Roderick  the  Black,  the  descendant  of 
Alpine.  Besides  his  ordinary  name  and  sur- 
name, which  were  chiefly  used  in  the  inter- 
course with  the  Lowlands,  every  Highland 
chief  had  an  epithet  expressive  of  his  patri- 
archal dignity  as  head  of  the  clan,  and  which 
was  common  to  all  his  predecessors,  as  Pha- 
raoh to  the  kings  of  Egypt,  or  Arsaces  to 
those  of  Parthia,  this  name  was  usually  a 
patronymic,  expressive  of  his  descent  from 
the  founder  of  the  family.  Thus  the  Duke 
of  Argyle  is  called  MacCallum  More,  or  the 
Son  of  Colin  the  Great. 

Note  22. 
.///(/  while  the  Fiery  Cross  glanced,  like  a 
meteor,  round.  —  P.  142. 
When  a  chieftain  designed  to  summon  his 
clan  upon  any  sudden  or  important  emer- 
gency, he  slew  a  goat,  and  making  a  cross 
of  any  light  wood,  seared  its  extremities  in 
the  fire,  and  extinguished  them  in  the  blood 
of  the  animal.  This  was  called  the  Fiery 
Cross,  also  Crean  Tarigh,  or  the  Cross  of 
.Shame,  Ijecause  disolxKlience  to  what  the 
symbol  implied,  inferred  infamy.  It  was  de- 
livered to  a  swift  and  trusty  messenger,  who 
ran  full  sjxjed  with  it  to  the  next  hamlet, 
where  he  presented  it  to  the  principal  person, 
with  a  single  word,  implying  the  place  of 
rendezvous.  He  who  received  the  symbol 
was  bound  to  send  it  forward  with  eqnal  de- 
spatch to  the  next  village  ;  and  thus  it  passed 
with  incredible  celerity  through  all  the  dis- 
trict which  owed  allegiance  to  the  chief,  and 
also  among  his  allies  and  neighlx)rs,  if  the 
danger  was  common  to  them.    At  sight  of  the 


THE  LADY   OF   THE   LAKE. 


715 


Fiery  Cross,  every  man,  from  sixteen  years 
old  to  sixty,  capable  of  bearing  arms,  was 
obliged  instantly  to  repair,  in  his  best  wea- 
pons and  accoutrements,  to  the  place  of  ren- 
dezvous. He  who  failed  to  appear,  suffered 
the  extremities  of  fire  and  sword,  which  were 
emblematically  denounced  to  the  disobedient 
by  the  bloody  and  burnt  marks  upon  this 
warlike  signal.  During  the  civil  war  of 
1745-56,  tile  Fiery  Cross  often  made  its  cir- 
cuit :  and  uj^in  one  occasion  it  passed 
through  the  whole  district  of  Breadalbane,  a 
tract  of  thirty-two  miles,  in  three  hours. 

Note  23. 

That  monk,  of  savage  form  and  face.  — 

P.  143. 

The  state  of  religion  in  the  Middle  .Ages 
afforded  considerable  facilities  for  those 
whose  mode  of  life  excluded  them  from  reg- 
ular worship,  to  secure,  nevertheless,  the 
ghostly  assistance  of  confessors,  jierfectly 
willing  to  adapt  the  nature  of  their  doctrine 
to  the  necessities  and  peculiar  circumstances 
of  their  tlock.  Robin  Hood,  it  is  well  known, 
had  his  celebrated  domestic  chaplain,  Friar 
Tuck. 

NOTU  24. 
Of  Brian's  birth  strange  tales  were  toUl.  — 

P.  143. 

The  legend  which  follows  is  not  of  the 
author's  invention.  It  is  jwssible  he  may 
differ  from  modern  critics,  in  supposing  that 
the  records  of  human  superstition,  if  peculiar 
to,  and  characteristic  of.  the  country  in  which 
the  scene  is  laid,  are  a  legitimate  subject  of 
fxietry.  He  gives,  however,  ready  assent  to 
the  narrower  proposition  which  condemns 
all  attempts  of  an  irregular  and  disordered 
fancy  to  excite  terror,  by  accumulating  a 
train  of  fantastic  and  incoherent  horrors, 
whether  borrowed  from  all  countries  and 
patched  upon  a  narrative  belonging  to  one 
which  knew  thenj  not,  or  derived  from  the 
author's  own  imagination.  In  the  present 
case,  therefore,  I  appeal  to  the  record  which 
I  have  transci  iixxl,  with  the  variation  of  a 
very  few  words  from  the  geographical  collec- 
tions made  by  the  Laird  of  ilacfarlane.  I 
know  not  whether  it  be  necessary  to  remark, 
that  the  miscellaneous  concourse  of  youths 
and  maidens  on  the  night  and  on  the  spot 
where  the  miracle  is  said  to  have  taken  place, 
might,  even  in  a  credulous  age,  have  some- 
what diminished  the  wonder  which  accom- 
panied the  conception  of  Gilli-Doir-Magre- 
vollich. 

'■  There  is  bot  two  myles  from  Inverloghie, 
the  church  of  Kilmalee,  in  Loghyeld.     In  an- 


cient tymes  there  was  ane  church  builded 
upon  ane  hill,  which  was  above  this  church, 
which  doeth  now  stand  in  this  tonne ;  and' 
ancient  men  doeth  say,  thattlwre  was  a 
battell  foughten  on  ane  litk  hill  not  the  tenth 
part  of  a  myle  from  this  church,  be  certaine 
men  which  they  did  not  know  what  they 
were.  .And  long  tyme  thereafter,  certaine 
herds  of  that  toune,  and  of  the  next  tonne, 
calkxl  Unnatt,  both  wenches  and  youthes' 
did  on  a  tyme  convecn  with  others  on  that 
hill;  and  the  day  being  somewhat  cold,  did 
gather  the  bones  of  the  dead  men  that  were 
slayne  long  tyme  before  in  that  place,  and 
did  make  a  fire  to  warm  them.  At  List  they 
did  all  remove  from  the  fire,  except  one  maid 
or  wench,  which  was  verie  cold,  and  slie  did 
remaine  there  for  a  space.  She  being  quyet- 
lie  her  alone,  without  anie  other  companie. 
took  up  her  cloaths  above  her  knees,  or 
thereby  to  warm  her  ;  a  wind  did  come  and 
caste  the  ashes  upon  lier,  and  she  was  con- 
ceived of  ane  man-chyld.  Severall  tymes 
thereafter  slie  was  verie  sick,  and  at  last  she 
was  knowne  to  be  with  cliyld.  And  tlK-n  her 
parents  did  ask  at  her  the  matter  Ijeiroff, 
which  the  wench  could  not  weel  answer  which 
way  to  satisfie  them.  At  last  she  resolved 
them  with  ane  answer.  As  fortune  fell  upon 
her  concerning  this  marvellous  miracle,  the 
chyld  being  borne,  his  name  was  called  Gilli- 
Doir-Maghrcvollich,  that  is  to  say,  the  Black 
Child,  Son  to  the  Bones,  ^o  called,  his 
grandfather  sent  him  to  school,  and  so  he 
was  a  good  schoUar,  and  gt)dlie.  He  did 
build  this  church  which  doeth  now  stand  in 
Lochyeld,  calletl  Kilmalee."  —  Macfar- 
LANii,  lit  su/-ra,  ii.  iSS. 

Note  25. 
Yet  ne'er  again  to  braid  her  hair 
The  Virgin  snood  did  Alice  wear.  —  P.  143. 
The  snood,  or  riband,  with  which  a  Scot- 
tish Liss  braidetl  her  hair,  had  an  emblemati- 
cal signification,  and  applied  to  her  maiden 
character.  It  was  exchanged  for  the  curch, 
toy,  or  coif,  when  she  passed,  by  marriage, 
into  the  matron  state.  But  if  the  damsel 
was  so  unft)rtunate  as  to  lose  pretensions  to 
the  name  of  maiden  without  gaining  a  right 
to  that  of  matron,  she  was  neither  permitted 
to  use  the  snood,  nor  advanced  to  the  graver 
dignity  of  the  curch.  In  old  Scottish  songs 
there  occur  many  sly  allusions  to  such  mis- 
fortune :  as  in  the  old  words  to  the  popular 
tune  of  "  Ower  the  muir  amang  the  heather.* 

"  Down  am.ing  the  broom,  the  briiom, 
Down  amang  the  broom,  my  dearie. 
The  lassie  lost  her  silken  sno»>d, 
Tliat  gard  her  greet  till  she  was  wearie" 


7i6 


APPENDIX. 


Note  26. 
The  fatal  Ben-Skid's  boding  scream.  — 

P.  144. 
Most  great  families  in  the  Highlands  were 
supposed  to  have  a  tutelar,  or  rather  a  domes- 
tic spirit,  attached  to  them,  who  took  an  in- 
terest in  their  prosperity,  and  intimated,  by 
its  waitings,  any  approaching  disaster.  A 
superstition  of  the  same  kind  is,  I  believe, 
universally  received  by  the  inferior  ranks  of 
the  native  Irish. 

Note  27. 
Sounds,  too,  had  come  in  midnieht  blast 
Of  charging  steeds,  careering  fast 
Along  Bcnharroui's  shingly  side, 
Where  mortal  horsemen  ne'er  might  ride. 

-P.  144. 
A  presage  of  the  kind  alluded  to  in  the 
text  is  still  believed  to  announce  death  to 
the  ancient  Highland  family  of  M'I.ean  of 
Lochbuy.  The  spirit  of  an  ancestor  slain  in 
battle  is  heard  to  gallop  along  a  stony  bank, 
and  then  to  ride  thrice  around  the  family 
residence,  ringing  his  fairy  bridle,  and  thus 
intimating  the  approaching  calamity. 

Note  28. 

the  dun  deer's  hide 

On  fleeter  foot  was  never  tied. —  P.  145. 

The  present  brogue  of  the  Highlanders  is 
made  of  half-dried  leather,  with  holes  to 
admit  and  let  out  the  water  ;  for  walking  the 
moors  dry-shod  is  a  matter  altogether  out  of 
the  question.  Tiie  ancient  buskin  was  still 
ruder,  being  made  of  undressed  deer's  hide, 
with  tiie  hair  outwards  ;  a  circumstance  which 
procured  the  Highlanders  the  well-known 
epithet  of  Redshanks. 

Note  29. 
The  dismal  coronach.  —  P.  146. 
The  coronach  of  the  Highlanders,  like  the 
itlulatus  of  the  Romans,  and  the  ttluloo  of 
the  Irish,  was  a  wild  expression  of  lamen- 
tation, poured  forth  by  the  mourners  over 
the  body  of  a  departed  friend.  When  the 
words  of  it  were  articulate,  they  expressed 
the  praises  of  the  deceased,  and  the  loss  the 
clan  would  sustain  by  his  death. 

Note  30. 
Not  faster  o'er  thy  heathery  braes, 
Balquidder,  speeds  the  midnight  blaze.  — 

P.  14S. 
It  may  lie  necessary  to  inform  the  southern 
reader,  that  the  heath  on  the  Scottish  moor- 
lands is  often  set  fire  to,  that  the  sheep  may 
have  the  advantage  of  the  young  herbage 


produced  in  room  of  the  tough  old  heather 
plants.  This  custom  (execrated  by  spcjrts- 
men)  produces  occasionally  the  most  beauti- 
ful nocturnal  ap{)earances,  similar  almost  to 
the  discharge  of  a  volcano.  This  simile  is 
not  new  to  poetry.  The  charge  of  a  warrior, 
in  the  fine  ballad  of  Hardyknute,  is  said  to 
be  "  like  fire  to  heather  set." 

Note  31. 

By  many  a  bard,  in  Celtic  tongue, 

Has  Coir-nan-  Uriskin  been  sung. —  P.  149. 
This  is  a  very  steep  and  most  romantic 
hollow  in  the  mountain  of  lienvenue,  over- 
hanging the  southeastern  extremity  of  Loch 
Katrine.  It  is  surrounded  with  stupendous 
rocks,  and  overshadowed  with  birch-trees, 
mingled  with  oaks,  the  spontaneous  produc- 
ton  of  the  mountain,  even  where  its  cHlfs 
appear  denuded  of  soil. 

Note  32. 
The  Taghairm  call'd  ;  by  which,  afar, 
Our  sires  foresaw  the  events  of  war.  — 

P.  ,51. 
The  Highlanders,  like  all  rude  people,  had 
various  superstitious  modes  of  inquiring  into 
futurity.  One  of  the  most  noted  was  the  Tag- 
hairm, mentioned  in  the  text.  A  person 
was  wrapjied  up  in  the  skin  of  a  newly  slain 
bullock,  and  deposited  beside  a  waterfall,  or 
at  the  bottom  of  a  precipice,  or  in  some  other 
strange,  wild,  and  unusual  situation,  where 
the  scenery  around  him  suggested  nothing 
but  subjects  of  horror.  In  this  situation,  he 
revolved  in  his  mind  the  question  proposed; 
and  whatever  was  impressed  upon  him  by 
his  exalted  imagination,  passed  for  the  in- 
spiration of  the  disembodied  spirits  who 
haunt  the  desolate  recesses. 

Note  33. 

that  huge  cliff,  whose  am  pic  verge 

Tradition  calls  the  Hero's  Targe.  —  P.  152. 

There  is  a  rock  so  named  in  the  Forest  of 
Glenfinlas,  by  which  a  tumultuary  cataract 
takes  its  course.  This  wild  place  is  said  in 
former  times  to  have  afforded  refuge  to  an 
outlaw,  who  was  supplied  with  provisions  by 
a  woman,  who  lowered  them  down  from  the 
brink  of  the  precipice  above.  His  water  he 
procured  for  himself,  by  letting  down  a  flagon 
tied  to  a  string,  into  the  black  pool  beneath 
the  fall. 

Note  34. 
Which  spills  the  foremost  focman^ s  life. 
That  party  conquers  in  the  strife. —  P.  152. 

Though  this  be  in  the  text  described  as  a 
response  of  the  Taghairm,  or  Oracle  of  the 


THE   LADY   OF   THE   LAKE. 


717 


Hide,  it  was  of  itself  an  augury  frequently 
attended  to.  The  fate  of  the  battle  was  often 
anticipated  in  the  imagination  of  the  com- 
batants, by  observing  which  party  first  shed 
blood.  It  is  said  that  the  Highlanders  un- 
der Montrose  were  so  deeply  imbued  with 
this  notion,  that,  on  the  morning  of  the 
battle  of  Tippermoor,  they  murdered  a  de- 
fenceless herdsman,  whom  they  found  in  the 
fields,  merely  to  secure  an  advantage  of  so 
much  consequence  to  their  party. 

Note  35. 
Why  sounds  yon  stroke  on  beech  and  oak, 

Our  moonlight  tireless  screen  <* 
Or  7i'ho  comes  here  to  chase  the  deer, 
Beloved  of  our  Elfin  Queen  ?  —  P.  154. 
Fairies,  if  not  positively  malevolent,  are 
capricious,  and  easily  offended.     They  are, 
like  other  proprietors  of  the  forest,  peculiarly 
jealous  of  their  rights  of  vert  and  venison. 
This  jealousy  was  also  an  attribute  of  the 
northern   Duergar,  or  dwarfs ;    to   many  of 
whose  distinctions  the  fairies  seem  to  have 
succeeded,  if,  indeed,  they  are  not  the  same 
class  of  beings. 

Note  36. 

-who  tnay  dare  on  wold  to  wear 

The  fairies'  fatal  green  ?  —  P.  154. 
As  the  Daoine  Shi\  or  Men  of  Peace,  wore 
green  habits,  they  were  supposed  to  take  of- 
fence when  any  mortals  ventured  to  assume 
their  favorite  color.  Indeed,  from  some 
reason  which  has  been,  perhaps,  originally  a 
general  superstition,  green  is  held  in  Scot- 
land to  be  unlucky  to  particular  trites  and 
counties.  The  Caithness  men,  who  hold 
this  belief,  allege  as  a  reason,  that  their 
bands  wore  that  color  when  they  were  cut 
off  at  the  battle  of  Flodden  ;  and  for  the 
same  reason  thev  avoid  crossing  the  Ord  on 
a  Monday,  being  the  day  of  the  week  on 
which  their  ill-omened  array  set  forth.  Green 
is  also  disliked  by  those  of  the  name  of  Og- 
ilvy :  but  more  especially  it  is  held  fatal  to 
the  whole  clan  of  Grahame.  It  is  remem- 
bered of  an  aged  gentleman  of  that  name, 
that  when  his' horse  fell  in  a  fox-chase,  he 
accounted  for  it  at  once  by  observing,  that 
the  whipcord  attached  to  his  lash  was  of 
.  this  unlucky  color. 

Note  37. 
For  thou  wert  christened  man.  —  P.  1 54- 
The  elves  were  supposed  greatly  to  envy 
the  privileges  acquired  by  Christian  initia- 
tion, and  thev  gave  to  those  mortals  who  had 
fallen  into  their  power  a  certain  precedence, 
founded  upon  this  advantageous  distinction. 


Tamlane,  in  the  old   ballad,  describes   his 

own  rank  in  the  fairy  procession  :  — 

"  For  I  ride  on  a  milk-white  steed. 

And  aye  nearest  the  town  ; 

Because  I  was  a  christen'd  knieht. 

They  gave  me  that  renown. 

Note  38. 
Who  ever  reck'd,  where,  how,  or  when, 
The  prowling  fox  was  trapfd  or  slain  ?  — 

P.  159. 
St.  John  actually  used  this  illustration 
when  engaged  in  confuting  the  plea  of  law 
proposed  for  the  unfortunate  Earl  of  Straf- 
ford :  "  It  was  true  we  gave  laws  to  hares 
and  deer,  because  they  are  teasts  of  chase ; 
but  it  was  never  accounted  eitiier  cruelty  or 
foul  play  to  knock  fo.xes  or  wolves  on  the 
head  as  they  can  be  found,  because  they  are 
beasts  of  prey.  In  a  word,  the  law  and  hu- 
manity were  alike  :  the  one  being  more  falla- 
cious, and  the  other  more  barbarous,  than  in 
any  age  had  been  vented  in  such  an  author- 
ity."—  Cl.arendon"s  History  of  the  Rebel- 
lion.    Oxford,  1702,  fol.  vol.  p.  183. 

Note  39. 

his  Highland  cheer. 

The  hardened  flesh  'of  mountain  deer.  — 

P.  159. 
The  Scottish  Highlanders  in  former 
times,  had  a  concise  mode  of  cooking  their 
venison,  or  rather  of  dispensing  with  cook- 
ing it,  which  appears  greatly  to  have  sur- 
prised the  French  whom  chance  made  ac- 
quainted with  it.  The  Vidame  of  Charters, 
when  a  hostage  in  England,  during  the 
reign  of  Edward  VI.,  was  permitted  totr.ivel 
into  Scotland,  and  penetrated  as  far  as  to 
the  remote  Highlands  (au fin  fond  des  Sau- 
va^es).  After  a  great  hunting  party,  at  which 
a  most  wonderful  quantity  of  game  was 
destroyed,  he  saw  these  Scottish  Savages  de- 
vour a  part  of  their  venison  raw,  without 
any  further  preparation  than  compressing  it 
between  two  batons  of  wood,  so  as  to  force 
out  the  blood  and  render  it  extremely  hard. 
This  thev  reckoned  a  great  delicacy;  and 
when  the  Vidame  partook  of  it,  his  compli- 
ance with  their  taste  rendered  him  extremely 
popular. 

Note  40. 
Not  then  claimed  sovereignty  his  due. 
While  Albany,  with  feeble  hand. 
Held  borrow  d  truncheon  of  command. — 

P.  161 

There  is  scarcely  a  more  disorderly  period 
in  Scottish  historv  than  that  which  succeeded 
the  battle  of  Flodden,  and  occupied  the  mi 


7i8 


APPENDIX. 


nority  of  James  V.  Feuds  of  ancient  stand- 
ing broke  out  like  old  wounds,  and  every 
quarrel  among  the  indeiJendent  nobility, 
which  occurred  daily,  and  almost  hourly, 
gave  rise  to  fresh  bloodshed. 

Note  41. 

/  07tly  meant 

To  show  the  reed  on  which  you  leant. 
Deeming  this  fath  yoti  might  fur  site 
Without  a  pass  from  Roderick  Dhu. — 

P.  ^(.i. 
This  incident,  like  some  other  passages  in 
the  poem,  illustrative  of  the  character  of  the 
ancient  Gael,  is  not  imaginary,  but  borrowed 
from  fact.  The  Highlanders,  with  the  in- 
consistency of  most  nations  in  the  same 
state,  were  alternately  capable  of  great  exer- 
tions of  generosity,  and  of  cruel  revenge  and 
perfidy. 

Note  42. 
On  Bochastle  the  mouldering  lines, 
Where  Rome,  the  Etnpress  of  the  world. 
Of  yore  her  eagle-wings  unfurVd. —  P.  163. 
The  torrent  which  discharges  itself  from 
T.och  Vennachar,  the  lowest  and  eastniost  of 
the  three  lakes  which  form  the  scenery  ad- 
joining to  the  Trosaciis,  sweeps  through  a  flat 
and  extensive  moor,  called  Bochastle.    Upon 
a  small  eminence,  called  the  Dun  of  Boch- 
astle, and  indeed  on  the  plain  itself,  are  some 
intrenchments,  which  have  been  thought  Ro- 
man.    There  is,    adjacent    to   Callender,   a 
sweet  villa,  the  residence  of  Captain  Fair- 
foul,  entitled  the  Roman  Camp. 

Note  43. 
See,  here,  all  vantageless  I  stand, 
j4rm'd,  like  thyself,  -with  simple  brand.  — 

P.  163. 
The  duellists  of  former  times  did  not  al- 
ways stand  upon  those  punctilios  resjx^cting 
equality  of  arms,  which  are  now  judged  es- 
sential to  fair  combat.  It  is  true,  that  in 
former  combats  in  the  lists,  the  parties  were, 
by  the  judges  of  the  field,  put  as  nearly  as 
possible  in  the  same  circumstances.  But  in 
private  duel  it  was  often  otherwise. 

Note  44. 
Ill  fared  it  then  ivith  Roderick  Dhu, 
That  on  the  field  his  targe  lie  threiv. 
For  irain'd  abroad  his  arms  to  ii'icld, 
Filz-fames''s  blade  was  sivord  a7id  shield.  — 

P.  164. 

A  round  target  of  light  wood,  covered  witli 

strong  leather,  and  studded   with  brass  or 

iron,  was  a  necessary  part  of  a  Highlander's 


equipment.  In  charging  regular  troops, 
tiiey  received  the  thrust  of  the  bayonet  in 
this  buckler,  twisted  it  aside,  and  used  the 
broadsword  against  the  encumbered  soldier. 
In  the  civil  war  of  1745,  most  of  the  front 
rank  of  the  clans  were  thus  armed  ;  and  Cap- 
tain Grose  informs  us,  tiiat,  in  1747,  the  pri- 
vates of  the  42d  regiment,  then  in  Flanders, 
were,  for  the  most  part,  jsermitted  to  carry 
targets.  —  Aliliiary  Antiquities,  vol.  i.,  p. 
164.  ^ 

Note  45. 
The  burghers  hold  their  sports  to-day.  — 

P.  ir>r>. 

Every  burgh  of  Scotland,  of  the  least  note, 
but  more  esj>ecially  the  considerable  towns, 
had  their  solemn  play,  or  festival,  when 
feats  of  archery  were  exhibited,  and  prizes 
distributed  to  those  who  excelled  in  wrest- 
ling, hurling  the  bar,  and  the  other  gymnas- 
tic exercises  of  the  period.  Stirling,  a  usual 
place  of  royal  residence,  was  not  likely  to  be 
deficient  in  pomp  upon  such  occasions,  es- 
])ecially  since  James  V.  was  very  partial  to 
them.  His  ready  participation  in  these  pop- 
ular aniusen)ents  was  one  cause  of  his  ac- 
quiring the  title  of  King  of  the  Commons, 
or  Rex  Plebeiorum,  a.s  Lesley  has  latinized 
it.  The  usual  prize  to  the  best  shooter  was 
a  silver  arrow.  Such  a  one  is  preserved  at 
Selkirk  and  at  Peebles. 

Note  46. 
Robin  Hood.  —  P.  167, 
The  exhibition  of  this  renowned  outlaw 
and  his  band  was  a  favorite  frolic  at  such 
festivals  as  we  are  describing.  This  sport- 
ing, in  which  kings  did  not  disdain  to  l)e 
actors,  was  prohibited  in  Scotland  upon  the 
Reformation,  by  a  statute,  of  the  6th  Parlia- 
ment of  Queen  Mary,  c.  61,  a.d.  1555,  which 
ordered,  under  heavy  penalties,  that,  "  na 
manner  of  person  be  chosen  Robert  Hude, 
nor  Little  John,  Ablxjt  of  Unreason,  Queen 
of  M.ay,  nor  otherwise."  But  in  i-,(^i,  the 
"  ra.scal  multitude,"  says  John  Knox,  "  were 
stirred  up  to  make  a  Robin  Hude,  whilk 
enormity  was  of  many  years  left  and  damned 
by  statute  and  act  of  Parliament ;  yet  would 
they  not  lie  forbidden."  Accordingly,  they 
raised  a  very  serious  tumult,  and  at  length 
made  prisoners  the  magistrates  who  en- 
deavored to  suppress  it,  and  would  not  re- 
lease them  till  they  extorted  a  formal  prom- 
ise that  no  one  should  be  punished  for  his 
share  of  the  disturbance.  It  would  seem, 
from  the  complaints  of  the  General  Assembly 
of  the  Kirk,  that  these  profane  festivities 
were  continued  down  to  1592. 


THE   LADY   OF   THE  LAKE. 


719 


Note  47. 
Prizt  of  the  wrestling  match,  the  King 
To  Douglas  gave  a  golden  ring.  —  P.  167. 
The  usual  prize  of  a  wrestling  was  a  ram 
and  a  ring,  but  the  animal  would  have  em- 
barrassed  my   story.      Jhus,  in   the   Cokes 
Tale  of  Gamelyn,  ascbribed  to  Chaucer  :  — 
"There  liapped  to  be  there  beside, 
Tryed  a  wrestling ; 
Aud  therefore  there  was  y-setten 
A  rain  and  als  a  ring." 

Note  48. 
These  drc-ai  not  for  their  fields  the  sword 
Like  tenants  of  a  feudal  lord, 
Nor  oivn'd  the  patriarchal  claim 
Of  Chieftain  in  their  leader's  name ; 
Adventurers  they. —  P.  170. 

The  Scottish  armies  consisted  chiefly  of 
the  nobility  and  barons,  with  their  vassals, 
who  held  lands  under  them,  for  military  ser- 
vice by  themselves  and  their  tenants.  The 
patriarchal  influence  exercised  by  the  heads 
of  clans  in  the  Highlands  and  borders  was  of 
a  different  nature,  and  sometimes  at  vari- 
ance with  feudal  principles.  It  flowed  from 
the  Fatria  Potes/as.  exercised  by  the  chief- 
tain as  representing  the  original  father  of 
the  whole  name,  and  was  often  obeyed  in 
contradiction  to  the  feudal  superior. 

Note  49. 
Thoti  now  hast  glee-maiden  and  harp .' 
Get  thee  an  ape,  aiid  trudge  the  land, 
The  leader  of  a  juggler  band.  —  P.  171. 
The  jongleurs,  or  jugglers,  used  to  call  in 
the  aid  of  various  assistants,  to  render  these 
performances  as  captivating  as  possible.   The 
glee-maiden  was  a  necessary  attendant.    Her 
duty  was  tumbling  and  dancing ;  and  there- 
fore the  .Anglo-.Saxon  version  of  St.  Mark's 
Gospel  states  Herodias  to  have  vaulted  or 
tumbled  before  King  Herod. 

Note  50. 
That  stirring  air  that  peals  on  high. 
O'er  Dermid/s  race  our  victory,  — 
St  rile  it.— V.  174. 
There  are  several  instances,  at   least   in 
tradition,  of   persons  so  much  attached  to 
particular  tunes  as  to  require  to  hear  them 
on   their   deathbed.     Such   an   anecdote   is 
mentioned  by  the  late  Mr.  Riddel  of  Glen- 
riddel,   in   his   collection   of   Border  tunes, 
respecting  an  air  called  the  "  Dandling  of 
the  Bairns,"  for  which  a  certain  Gallovidian 
laird   is  said  to   have  evinced  this  strong 
mark  of  partiality.     It  is  popularly  told  of 


a  famous  freebooter,  that  he  composed  the 
tune  known  by  the  name  of  Macpherson's 
Kant,  while  under  sentence  of  death,  and 
played  it  at, the  gallows-tree.  Some  spirited 
words  have  been  adapted  to  it  by  Burns.  A 
similar  story  is  recorded  of  a  Welsh  bard, 
who  composed  and  played  on  his  deathbed 
the  air  called  Dafyddy  Garregg  Wen. 

Note  51. 
Battle  of  Bear  an  Duinc.—  F.  174. 
\  skirmish  actually  took  place  at  a  pass 
thus  called  in  the  Trosachs,  and  closed  with 
the  remarkable  incident  nientioned  in  the 
text.  It  was  greatly  posterior  in  date  to  the 
reign  of  James  V. 

Note  52. 
And  Snowdoun's  Knight  is  ScotlaneTs  King. 
—  P.  178. 
This  discovery  will  probably  remind  the 
reader  of  the  beautiful  Arabian  tale  of  // 
Bondocani.  Yet  the  incident  is  not  bor- 
rowed from  that  elegant  story,  but  from 
.Scottish  tradition.  James  V.,  of  whom  we 
are  treating,  was  a  monarch  whose  good 
and  benevolent  intentions  often  rendered 
his  romantic  freaks  venial,  if  not  respecta- 
ble, since  from  his  anxious  attention  to  the 
interests  of  the  lower  and  most  oppressed 
class  of  his  subjects  he  was,  as  we  have  seen, 
popularly  termed  the  King  of  the  Commons. 
For  the  purpose  of  seeing  that  justice  was 
regularly  administered,  and  frequently  from 
the  less  justifiable  motive  of  gallantry,  he 
used  to  traverse  the  vicinage  of  his  several 
palaces  in  various  disguises.  The  two  ex- 
cellent comic  songs,  entitled,  "  The  Gaber- 
lunzie  Man,"  and  "  We'll  gae  nae  mair  a 
roving,"  are  said  to  have  been  founded  upnin 
tlie  success  of  his  amorous  adventures  when 
travelling  in  the  disguise  of  a  beggar.  The 
latter  is  perhaps  the  b2st  comic  ballad  in  any 
language. 

Note  53. 

Stirling's  tower 

Of  yore  the  name  of  Snowdoun  claims.  — 
P.  17S. 
William  of   Worcester,  who  wrote  about 
the   middle  of  the  fifteenth   century,  calls 
Stirling    Castle    Snowdoun.      Sir     David 
Lindesay  bestows  the  same  epithet  upon  it 
in  his  complaint  of  the  Papingo  :  — 
"  Adieu,  fair  Snawdoun,  with  thy  towers  high,     • 
Thv  chapel-royal,  park,  and  table  round: 
May,  June,  and  July,  would  I  dwell  in  thee. 
We're  1  a  man,  to  hear  the  birdis  sound, 
Whilk  doth  againe  thy  royal  rock  rebound." 


720 


APPENDIX. 


THE   VISION   OF   DON   RODERICK. 


Note  i. 

And  CattractlCs  glens  ■with  voice  of  tri- 
umph runt;. 
And  mystic  Alcrlin  harp'd,  and  gray-hair' d 
Llyivarch  sung.'  —  P.  iSi. 

This  locality  may  startle  those  readers 
who  do  not  recollect  that  much  of  the  an- 
cient poetry  preserved  in  Wales  refers  less 
to  tiie  history  of  the  Principality  to  which 
that  name  is  now  limited,  than  to  events 
which  happened  in  the  north-west  of  Eng- 
land and  south-west  of  Scotland,  where  the 
Britons  for  a  hjng  time  made  a  stand  against 
the  Saxons.  The  battle  of  Cattraeth,  la- 
mented by  the  celebrated  .Aneurin,  is  sup- 
posed, by  the  learned  Dr.  l.eyden,  to  have 
been  fought  on  the  skirts  of  Ettrick  Forest. 
It  is  known  to  the  English  reader  by  the 
paraphrase  of  Gray,  beginning,  — 

"  Had  I  but  the  torrent's  might, 
With  headlong  rage  and  wild  affright,"  etc. 

But  it  is  not  so  generally  known  that  the 
champions  mourned  in  this  beautiful  dirge 
were  the  British  inhabitants  of  Edinburgh, 
who  were  cut  off  by  the  .^axons  of  Deiria  or 
Northumberland,  about  the  latter  part  of  the 
sixth  century. 

Llywarch.  the  celebrated  bard  and  mon- 
arch, was  prince  of  Argood  in  Cumberland; 
and  his  youthful  exploits  were  jaerformed 
upon  the  Border.  Merlin  Wyllt,  or  the 
Savage,  bore  the  name  of  Caledonia,  and 
hence  is  appropriated  to  Scotland.  The 
spot  in  which  he  was  buried,  near  Drum- 
elzier  on  the  Tweed,  is  still  shown.  .See 
Pennycuick's  "  Description  of  Tweeddale," 
Edinburgh,  171 5,  vol.  iv.,  p.  26. 

,  Note  2. 
Minchmore's  haunted  sfiring.  —  P.  182. 

A  belief  in  the  existence  and  nocturnal 
revels  of  the  fairies  still  lingers  among  the 
vulgar  in  Selkirkshire.  A  copious  fountain 
upon  the  ridge  of  Minchmore,  called  the 
Cheesewell,  is  supposed  to  te  sacred  to 
these  fanciful  spirits,  and  it  was  customary 
to  propitiate  them  by  throwing  in  some- 
thing upon  passing  it.  A  pin  was  the  usual 
oblation ;  and  the  ceremony  is  still  some- 
times practised,  though  rather  in  jest  than 
earnest. 

Note  3. 

the  rude  villager,  his  labor  done. 

In  verse  spontaneous  chants  some  favored 
name.  —  P.  182. 

The  flexibility  of  the  Italian  and  Spanish 


languages,  and  perhaps  the  liveliness  of  their 
genius,  renders  these  countries  distinguished 
for  the  talent  of  improvisation,  which  is 
found  even  among  the  lowest  of  the  peo- 
ple. It  is  mentioned  by  Baretti  and  other 
travellers. 

Note  4. 

kindling  at  the  deeds  of  Grcemc.  — 

P.  182. 

(jver  a  name  sacred  for  ages  to  heroic 
verse,  a  poet  may  be  allowed  to  exercise 
some  power.  I  have  used  the  freedom,  here 
and  elsewhere,  to  alter  the  orthography  of 
the  name  of  my  gallant  countryman,  in  order 
to  apprise  the  Southern  reader  of  its  legiti 
mate  sound;  —  Grahame  being,  on  the  othet 
side  of  the  Tweed,  usually  pronounced  as  a 
dissyllable. 

Note  5. 
What .'  will  Don  Roderick  here  till  morn- 
ing stay, 
To  wear  in  shrift  and  prayer  the  night 
away  ? 
And  are  his  hours  in  such  dull  fenanct 
past, 
For  fair  Florinda's  plundered  charms  to 
payf  —  V.  1 84. 
Almost  all  the  Spanish  historians,  as  well 
as  the  voice  of  tradition,  ascribe  the  inva- 
sion of  the  Moors  to  the  forcible  violation 
committed  by  Roderick  upon  Florinda,  called 
by  the  Moors,  Caba  or  Cava.  .She  was  the 
daughter  of  Count  Julian,  one  of  the  Gothic 
monarch's  principal  lieutenants,  who,  when 
the  crime  was  periietrated,  was  engaged  in 
the  defence  of  Ceuta  against  the  Moors.  In 
his  indignation  at  the  ingratitude  of  his  sov- 
ereign, and  the  dishonor  of  his  daughter, 
Count  Julian  forgot  the  duties  of  a  Chris- 
tian and  a  patriot,  and,  forming  an  alliance 
with  Musa.  then  the  Caliph's  lieutenant  in 
Africa,  he  countenanced  the  invasion  of  -Spain 
by  a  lx)dy  of  Saracens  and  Africans,  com- 
manded by  the  celebrated  Tarik :  the  issue 
of  which  was  the  defeat  and  death  of  Roder- 
ick, and  the  occupation  of  almost  the  whole 
peninsula  by  the  Moors.  Voltaire,  in  his 
General  History,  expresses  his  doubts  of 
this  popular  story,  and  Gibbon  gives  him 
some  countenance:  but  the  universal  tradi- 
tion is  quite  sufficient  for  the  purposes  of 
poetry.  The  Spaniards,  in  detestation  of 
Florinda's  memory,  are  said  by  Cervantes, 
never  to  testow  that  name  on  any  human 
female,  reserving  it  for  their  dogs. 


THE   VISION  OF  DON  RODERICK. 


721 


Note  6. 
Tlie  Tecbir  war-cry  and  the  Lelie's  yell. — 

P.  186. 
The  Tecbir  (derived  from  the  words  Alia 
acbar,  God  is  most  mighty),  was  the  ori- 
ginal war-cry  of  the  Saracens.    It  is  celebrated 
by  Hughes  in  the  Siege  of  Damascus:  — 
"  We  heard  the  Tecbir;  so  these  Arabs  call 
Their  shout  of  onset,  when,  with  loud  ap)>eal. 
They    challenge    Heaven,    as    if    demanding 
conquest." 

The  l^l'tc,  well  known  to  the  Christians 
during  the  crusades,  is  the  shout  of  Alia  ilia 
Alia,  the  Mahometan  confession  of  faith.  It 
is  twice  used  in  poetry  by  my  friend  Mr.  W. 
Stewart  Rose,  in  the  romance  of  Partenopex, 
and  4n  the  Crusade  of  St.  Lewis. 

Note  7. 
By  Heaven,  the  Moors  prevail .'  the  Chris- 
tians yield .'  — 
Their  coward  leader  gives  for  flight  tlte 
sign! 
The  sceptred  craven    mounts   to   quit  the 
field— 
Is  not  yon  steed  Orelia  ?  —  Yes,  'tis  mine .' 

—  P.  1S7. 
Count  Julian,  the  father  of  the  injured 

Florinda,  with  the  connivance  and  assistance 
of  Uppas,  Archbishop  of  Toledo,  invited,  in 
71-;,  the  Saracens  into  .Spain.  A  consider- 
able army  arrived  under  the  conmiand  of 
Tarik,  or  Tarif,  who  liequeathed  the  well- 
known  name  of  Gibraltar  (Gibel  al  Tarik, 
or  the  mountain  of  Tarik)  to  the  place  of  his 
landing.  He  was  joined  by  Count  Julian, 
ravaged  Andalusia,  and  took  .Seville.  In 
714  they  returned  with  a  still  greater  force, 
and  KtKlerick  marched  into  .Andalusia  at 
the  head  of  a  great  army,  to  give  them  battle. 
The  field  was  chosen  near  Xeras.  [Roderick 
was  defeated,  and  fled  from  the  field  of  battle 
on  his  favorite  steed  Orelia.  This  famous 
and  matchless  charger  was  found  riderless 
on  the  hanks  of  the  river  Guadelite,  with  the 
King's  upper  garment,  buskins,  etc.  It  was 
supposed  that  in  trying  to  swim  the  river 
he  was  drowned.  But  wild  legions  as  to  his 
after  fate  long  prevailed  in  Spain.  —  .See 
SoL'THEv's  "Don  Roderick."  —  En.] 

Note  S. 
When  for  the  light  bolero  ready  stand. 
The  mozn  blithe,  with  ^ay  muchacha  met. 

—  P.  1S9. 
The  bolero  is  a  very  light  and  active  dance. 

much  practised  by  the  Spaniards,  in  which 
castanets  are  always  used.  Mozo  and  mucha- 
cha are  equivalent  to  our  phrase  of  lad  and 
lass. 


Note  9. 
While  trumfcts  rang,  and  lieralds  cried, 
"  Castile .'  "  —  P.  191. 
The  heralds,  at  the  coronation  of  a  Spanish 
monarch,  proclaim  his  name  three  times,  and 
repeat  three  times  the  word  Castilla,  Cas- 
tilla,  Castilla;  which,  with  all  other  cere- 
monies, was  carefully  copied  in  the  mock 
inauguration  of  Joseph  Bonaparte. 

Note  10. 

High  blazed  the  war,  and  long,  and  far,  and 
wide.  —  P.  192. 

Those  who  were  disposed  to  believe  that 
mere  virtue  and  energy  are  able  of  themselves 
to  work  forth  the  salvation  of  an  oppressed 
pieople,  surprised  in  a  moment  of  confidence, 
deprived  of  their  officers,  armies,  and  for- 
tresses, who  had  every  means  of  resistance 
to  seek  in  the  very  moment  when  they  were 
to  be  made  use  of,  and  whom  the  numerous 
treasons  among  the  higher  orders  deprived 
of  confidence  in  their  natural  leaders,  —  those 
who  entertained  this  enthusiastic  but  delu- 
sive opinion  may  be  pardoned  for  expressing 
their  disapjx>intnient  at  the  protracted  war- 
fare in  the  Peninsula.  There  are,  however, 
another  class  of  persons,  who,  having  them- 
selves the  highest  dread  or  veneration,  or 
something  allied  to  both,  for  the  power  of 
the  modern  Attila,  will  nevertheless  give  the 
heroical  Spaniards  little  or  no  credit  for  the 
long,  stubl>irn,  and  unsubdued  resistance  of 
three  years  to  a  power  before  whom  their 
former  well-prepared,  well-armed,  and  numer- 
ous adversaries  fell  in  the  course  of  as  many 
months.  While  these  gentlemen  plead  for 
deference  to  Bonaparte,  and  crave 

*'  Respect  for  his  great  place,  and  bid  the  devil 
Ite  duly  honor'd  for  his  burning  throne," 
it  may  not  be  altogether  unre,isonable  to 
claim  some  modification  of  censure  upon 
those  who  have  been  long  and  to  a  great 
e.Ntent  successfully  resisting  this  great  enemy 
of  mankind.  That  the  energy  of  Sp.ain  has 
not  uniformly  been  directed  by  conduct  equal 
to  its  vigor,  has  been  too  obvious ;  that  her 
armies,  under  their  complicated  disadvan- 
tages, have  shared  the  fate  of  such  as  were 
defeated  after  taking  the  field  with  every 
possible  advantage  of  arms  and  discipline, 
is  surely  not  to  be  wondered  at.  But  that  a 
nation,  under  the  circumstances  of  repeated 
discomfiture,  internal  treason,  and  the  mis 
management  incident  to  a  temporary  and 
hastily  adopted  government,  should  have 
wastei,  by  its  stubborn,  uniform,  and  pro- 
longed resistance,  myriads  after  myriads  of 
those  soldiers  who  had  overrun  the  world  — 
and  some  of  its  provinces  should,  like  Galida, 


722 


APPENDIX. 


after  being  abandoned  by  their  allies,  and 
overrun  by  their  enemies,  have  recovered 
their  freedom  by  their  own  unassisted  ex- 
ertions ;  that  others,  like  Catalonia,  undis- 
mayed by  the  treason  which  betrayed  some 
fortresses,  and  the  force  which  subdued 
others,  should  not  only  have  continued  their 
resistance,  but  have  attained  over  their  vic- 
torious enemy  a  superiority,  which  is  even 
now  enabling  them  to  besiege  and  retake  the 
places  of  strengtli  which  had  been  wrested 
from  them,  is  a  tale  hitherto  untold  in  the 
revolutionary  war. 

Note  ii. 
They  won  not  Zaragoza,  but  her  childreii's 
bloody  tomb. —  P.  192. 

The  interesting  account  of  Mr.  Vaughan  * 
has  made  most  readers  acquainted  with  the 
first  siege  of  Zaragoza.  The  last  and  fatal 
siege  of  that  gallant  and  devoted  city  is  de- 
tailed with  great  eloquence  and  precision  in 
the  "  Edinburgh  Annual  Register  "  for  1S09, 
—  a  work  in  which  the  affairs  of  Spain  have 
been  treated  of  with  attention  corresponding 
to  their  deep  interest,  and  to  the  peculiar 
.sources  of  information  open  to  the  his- 
torian. Tlie  following  are  a  few  brief  ex- 
tracts from  this  splendid  historical  narra- 
tive :  — 

"  A  breach  was  soon  made  in  the  mud 
walls,  and  then,  as  in  the  former  siege,  the 
war  was  cairied  on  in  the  streets  and  houses  ; 
but  the  French  had  IxHjn  taught  ijy  experi- 
ence, that  in  this  species  of  warfare  tlie  Zara- 
gozans  derived  a  superiority  from  the  feeling 
and  principle  which  inspired  them  and  the 
cause  for  which  they  fought.  The  only 
means  of  conquering  Zaragoza  was  to  de- 
stroy it  house  by  house,  and  street  by  street ; 
and  upon  this  system  of  destruction  they 
proceeded.  Three  companies  of  miners,  and 
eight  companies  of  sappers,  carried  on  this 
subterraneous  war ;  the  Spaniards,  it  is  said, 
attempted  to  oppose  them  ))y  countermines  ; 
these  were  o^x^rations  to  wliich  they  were 
wholly  unused,  and,  according  to  the  French 
statement,  their  miners  were  every  day  dis- 
covered and  suffocated.  Meantime,  the  bom- 
bardment was  incessantly  kept  up.  '  Within 
the  last  forty-eight  hours,'  said  Palafox  in  a 
letter  to  his  friend  (General  Doyle.  '6,000 
shells  have  been  thrown  in.  Two-thirds  of 
the  town  are  in  ruins  ;  but  we  sliall  j>erish 
under  the  ruins  of  the  remaining  third  rather 
tlian  surrender.'  In  the  course  of  the  siege, 
above  1 7,000  bombs  were  thrown  at  the  town  ; 
the  stock  of  powder  with  which  Zaragoza 

*  "  Narrative  of  the  Siecre  of  Zaracroy.a,"  by 
Richard  Cliarles  Vaiichan,  I'^o  i.  Mr,  Vaughan 
was  afterwards  British  Minister  at  Washington." 


had  been  stored  was  exhausted  ;  they  had 
none  at  last  but  what  they  manufactured 
day  by  day  ;  and  no  other  cannon-balls  than 
those  which  were  shot  into  the  town,  and 
which  they  collected  and  fired  back  upon 
the  enemy." 

In  the  midst  of  these  horrors  and  priva- 
tions, the  pestilence  broke  out  in  Zaragoza. 
To  various  causes,  enumerated  by  the  annal- 
ist, he  adds,  '•  scantiness  of  food,  crowded 
quarters,  unusual  exertion  of  body,  anxiety 
of  mind,  and  the  impossibility  of  recruiting 
their  exhausted  strength  by  needful  rest,  in 
a  city  which  was  almost  incessantly  bom- 
barded, and  where  every  hour  their  sleep 
was  broken  by  the  tremendous  explosion  of 
mines.  There  was  now  no  respite,  either  by 
day  or  night,  for  this  devoted  city ;  even  the 
natural  order  of  light  and  darkness  was  de- 
stroyed in  Zaragoza ;  by  day  it  was  involved 
in  a  red  sulphureous  atmosphere  of  smoke, 
which  hid  the  face  of  heaven  ;  by  night,  the 
fire  of  cannons  and  motars,  and  the  flames 
of  burning  houses,  kept  it  in  a  state  of  ter- 
rific illumination. 

"  When  once  the  pestilence  had  begun,  it 
was  impossible  to  check  its  progress,  or  con- 
fine it  to  one  quarter  of  the  city.  Hospitals 
were  immediately  established, —  there  were 
above  thirty  of  them  ;  as  soon  as  one  was 
destroyed  by  the  Ixmibardment,  the  patients 
were  removed  to  another,  and  thus  the  in- 
fection was  carried  to  every  part  of  Zaragoza. 
Famine  aggravated  the  evil;  the  city  had 
probably  not  been  sufficiently  provided  at 
the  commencement  of  the  siege,  and  of  the 
provisions  which  it  contained,  much  was  de- 
stroyed in  the  daily  ruin  which  the  mines  and 
bombs  had  effected  Had  the  Zaragozans 
and  their  garrison  proceeded  according  to 
military  rules,  they  would  have  surren- 
dered before  the  end  of  January  ;  their  bat 
teries  had  then  been  demolished,  there  were 
op>en  breaches  in  many  parts  of  their  weak 
walls,  and  tlie  enemy  were  already  within 
the  city.  On  the  30th,  above  sixty  houses 
were  blown  up,  and  the  French  obtained 
possession  of  the  monasteries  of  the  .Augus- 
tines  and  Las  Monicas,  which  adjoined  each 
other,  two  of  the  last  defensible  places 
left.  The  enemy  forced  their  way  into  the 
church  ;  every  column,  every  chapel,  every 
altar,  became  a  point  of  defence,  which  was 
repeatedly  attacked,  taken,  and  retaken  ;  the 
pavement  was  covered  with  blood,  the  aisles 
and  Ijody  of  the  church  strewed  with  the 
dead,  who  were  trampled  under  foot  by  the 
coml)atants.  In  the  midst  of  this  conflict, 
the  roof,  shattered  by  repeated  boml)s,  fell 
in ;  the  few  who  were  not  crushed,  after  a 
short  pause,  which  this  tremendous  shock, 


THE    VISTO.V  OF  DON  RODERICK. 


in 


and  their  own  unexpected  escape,  occasioned, 
renewed  the  figlit  with  rekindled  fury ;  fresh 
parties  of  the  enemy  poured  in  ;  monks  and 
citizens,  and  soldiers,  came  to  the  defence, 
and  the  contest  was  continued  upon  the 
ruins,  and  the  bodies  of  the  dead  and  the 
dying." 

Yet,  seventeen  days  after  sustaining  these 
extremities,  did  the  heroic  inhabitants  of 
Zaragoza  continue  their  defence;  nor  did 
they  then  surrender  until  their  despair  had 
extracted  from  the  French  generals  a  capitu- 
lation, more  honorable  than  has  been  granted 
to  fortresses  of  the  first  order. 

Who  shall  venture  to  refuse  the  Zara- 
gozans  the  eulogium  conferred  upon  them 
by  the  eloquence  of  Wordsworth  !  —  "  Most 
gloriously  have  the  citizens  of  Zaragoza 
proved  that  the  true  army  of  Spain,  in  a 
contest  of  this  nature,  is  the  whole  people. 
The  same  city  has  also  exemplified  a  melan- 
choly, yea,  a  dismal  truth,  yet  consolatory 
and  full  of  joy, -—that  when  a  people  are 
called  suddenly  to  fight  for  their  liberty,  and 
are  sorely  pressed  upon,  their  best  field  of 
battle  is  the  floors  upon  which  their  chil- 
dren have  played ;  the  chambers  where  the 
family  of  each  man  has  slept  (his  own  or 
his  neighbors'),  upon  or  under  the  roofs  by 
which  they  have  been  sheltered ;  in  the  gar- 
dens of  their  recreation  ;  in  the  street,  or  in 
the  market-place ;  before  the  altars  of  their 
temples,  and  among  their  congregated  dwell- 
ings, blazing  or  uprooted. 

"  The  government  of  Spain  must  never 
forget  Zaragoza  for  a  moment.  Nothing  is 
wanting  to  produce  the  same  effects  every- 
where, but  a  leading  mind,  such  as  that  city 
was  blessed  with.  In  the  latter  contest  this 
has  been  proved;  for  Zaragoza  contained, 
at  that  time,  bodies  of  men  from  almost  all 
parts  of  Spain.  The  narrative  of  those  two 
sieges  should  be  the  manual  of  every  Span- 
iard. He  may  add  it  to  the  ancient  stories 
of  Numantia  and  -Saguntum  ;  let  him  sleep 
upon  the  book  as  a  pillow,  and.  if  he  be  a 
devout  adherent  to  the  religion  of  his  coun- 
try, let  him  wear  it  in  his  bosom  for  his 
crucifix  to  rest  ujion." — WORDSWORTH  on 
the  Convention  of  Cintra. 

Note  12. 
The  Vault  of  Destiny.—  P.  I95- 
Before  finally  dismissing  the  enchanted 
cavern  of  Don  Roderick,  it  may  be  noticed, 
that  the  legend  occurs  in  one  of  Calderon's 
plays,  entitled  La  Virgin  del  Saorario.  The 
scene  opens  with  the  "noise  of  the  chase,  and 
Recisundo,  a  predecessor  of  Rodeiick  upon 
the  Gothic  throne,  enters  pursuing  a  stag. 


The  animal  assumes  the  form  of  a  man.  and 
defies  the  King  to  enter  the  cave,  which 
forms  the  Ixjttom  of  the  scene,  and  engage 
with  him  in  single  combat.  'I'he  King  ac- 
cepts the  challenge,  and  they  engage  accord- 
ingly, but  without  advantage  on  either  side, 
which  induces  the  Genie  to  inform  Recis- 
undo, that  he  is  not  the  monarch  for  whom 
the  adventure  of  the  enchanted  cavern  is  re- 
served, and  he  proceeds  to  predict  the  down- 
fall of  the  Gothic  monarchy,  and  of  the 
Christian  religion,  which  shall  attend  the 
discovery  of  its  mysteries.  Recisundo.  ap 
palled  by  these  prophecies,  orders  the  cavern 
to  be  secured  by  a  gate  and  bolts  of  iron. 
In  the  second  part  of  the  same  play,  we  are 
informed  that  Don  Roderick  had  removed 
the  barrier,  and  transgressed  the  prohibition 
of  his  ancestor,  and  had  been  apprised  by 
the  prodigies  which  he  discovered  of  the  ap 
proaching  ruin  of  his  kingdom. 

Note  13. 

While  downward  on  the  land  his  legions 
press. 
Before  them  it  was  rich  with  vine  and  flock, 

And   smiled  like  Eden  in  her  summer 
dress  ;  — 
Behind  their  wasteful  march,  a  reeking  wil- 
derness.—  P.  195. 

I  have  ventured  to  apply  to  the  move- 
ments of  the  French  army  that  sublime  pas 
sage  in  the  prophecies  of  Joel,  which  seems 
applicable  to  them  in  more  respects  than  that 
1  have  adopted  in  the  text.  One  would 
think  their  ravages,  their  niilitar)-  appoint- 
ments, the  terror  which  they  spread  among 
invaded  nations,  their  military  discipline, 
their  arts  of  political  intrigue  and  deceit, 
were  distinctly  pointed  out  in  the  following 
verses  of  Scripture  :  — 

"2.  A  day  of  darknesse  and  of  gloomi- 
nesse,  a  day  of  clouds  and  of  thick  darknesse, 
as  the  morning  spread  upon  the  mountains; 
a  great  people  and  a  strong,  there  hath  no« 
been  ever  the  like,  neither  shall  be  any  more 
after  it.  even  to  the  yeares  of  many  genera- 
tions. ■!,.  A  fire  devoureth  before  them,  and 
behind  them  a  flame  burneth ;  the  land  is  as 
the  Garden  of  Eden  before  them,  and  behinde 
them  a  desolate  wilderness,  yea, and  nothing 
shall  escape  them.  4.  The  appearance  of 
them  is  as  the  appearance  of  horses ;  and  as 
horsemen,  so  shall  they  runne.  5.  Like  the 
noise  of  chariots  on  the  tops  of  mountains, 
shall  they  leap,  like  the  noise  of  a  flame  of 
fire  that  devoureth  the  stubble,  as  a  strong 
people  set  in  battel  array.  (^.  Before  their 
face  shall  the  people  be  much  pained:  all 
faces  shall  gather  blacknesse.     7.  They  shall 


724 


APPENDIX. 


run  like  mighty  men,  they  shall  climb  the 
wall  like  men  of  warre,  and  they  shall  march 
every  one  in  his  wayes,  and  they  shall  not 
break  their  ranks.  S.  Neither  shall  one 
thrust  another,  they  shall  walk  every  one  in 
his  path :  and  when  they  fall  upon  the  sword, 
they  shall  not  be  wounded.  9.  They  shall 
run  to  and  fro  in  the  citie  ;  they  shall  run 
upon  the  wall,  they  shall  climbe  up  upon  the 
houses :  they  shall  enter  in  at  the  windows 
like  a  thief.  10.  The  earth  shall  quake  be- 
fore them,  the  heavens  shall  tremble,  the 
sunne  and  the  moon  sliall  be  dark,  and  the 
starres  shall  withdraw  their  shining." 

In  verse  20th,  also,  wiiicli  announces  the 
retreat  of  the  northern  army,  descrited  in 
such  dreadful  colors,  into  "  a  land  barren  and 
desolate,"  and  the  dishonor  with  which  God 
afflicted  them  for  having  "  magnified  tliem- 
selves  to  do  great  things,"  tiiere  are  partic- 
ulars not  inapplicable  to  the  retreat  of 
Massena;  —  Divine  Providence  having,  in 
all  ages,  attached  disgrace  as  the  natural 
punishment  of  cruelty  and  presumption. 

Note  14. 
The  rudest  sentinel,  in  Britain  born. 

With   horror  paused  to  view  the  havoc 
done, 
Gave  his  poor  crust  to  feed  some  wretch  for- 
lorn.—  P.  196. 

Even  the  unexampled  gallantry  of  the 
British  army  in  the  campaign  of  1810-11, 
although  they  never  fought  but  to  conquer, 
will  do  them  less  honor  in  iiistory  than  tlieir 
humanity,  attentive  to  soften  to  the  utmost 
of  their  power  the  horrors  wiiich  war,  in  its 
mildest  aspect,  must  always  inflict  upon  the 
defenceless  inhabitants  of  the  country  in 
which  it  is  waged,  and  which,  on  this  occa- 
sion, were  tenfold  augmented  by  the  barbar- 
ous cruelties  of  the  French.  Soup-kitchens 
were  established  by  subscription  among  the 
officers,  wherever  the  troops  were  quartered 
for  any  length  of  time.  The  commissaries 
contributed  the  heads,  feet,  etc.,  of  the  cattle 
slaughtered  for  the  soldiery  :  rice,  vegetables, 
and  bread,  where  it  could  be  had,  were  pur- 
chased by  the  officers.  Fifty  or  sixty  starv- 
ing peasants  were  daily  fed  at  one  of  these 
regimental  establishments,  and  carried  home 
the  relics  to  their  famished  households. 
The  emaciated  wretches,  who  could  not 
crawl  from  weakness,  were  speedily  employed 
in  pruning  tiieir  vines.  While  pursuing 
Massena,  the  soldiers  evinced  the  same 
spirit  of  humanity,  and  in  many  instances, 
when  reduced  themselves  to  short  allowance, 
from  having  outmarched  their  supplies,  they 
shared  their  pittance  with  the  starving  in- 


habitants, who  had  ventured  back  to  view 
the  ruins  of  their  habitations,  burnt  by  the 
retreating  enemy,  and  to  bury  the  bodies  of 
their  relations  whom  they  had  butchered. 
Is  it  possible  to  know  such  facts  without 
feeling  a  sort  of  confidence,  that  those  who 
so  well  deserve  victory  are  most  likely  to  at- 
tain it.' —  It  is  not  the  least  of  Lord  Wel- 
lington's military  merits,  that  the  slightest 
disposition  towards  marauding  meets  im- 
mediate punisliment.  Independently  of  all 
moral  obligation,  the  army  which  is  most 
orderly  in  a  friendly  country,  has  always 
proved  most  formidable  to  an  armed  enemy. 

NoTF.  15. 
Vain-glorious  fugitive .'  —  P.  196. 
The  French  conducted  this  memorable  re- 
treat with  much  of  the  fanfaronnadepropcT 
to  their  country,  by  which  tiiey  attempt  to 
impose  upon  others,  and  perhaps  on  them- 
.selves,  a  tolief  that  they  are  triumphing  in 
the  very  moment  of  their  discomfiture.  On 
the  30th  March,  iSii,  their  rear-guard  was 
overtaken  near  Pega  by  the  British  cavalry. 
Being  well  posted,  and  conceiving  themselves 
safe  from  infantry  (who  were  indeed  many 
miles  in  the  rear),  and  from  artillery,  they 
indulged  themselves  in  parading  tlieir  bands 
of  music,  and  actually  performed  "  God  save 
the  King."  Their  minstrelsy  was,  however, 
deranged  by  the  undesired  accompaniment 
of  the  British  horse-artillery,  on  whose  part 
in  tlie  concert  they  had  not  calculated.  The 
surprise  was  sudden,  and  the  rout  complete  ; 
for  the  artillery  and  cavalry  did  execution 
upon  them  for  about  four  miles,  pursuing  at 
the  gallop  as  often  as  they  got  beyond  the 
range  of  the  guns. 

Note  16. 
Vainly    thy  sqtiadrous    hide   Ass?iava's 
plain, 
And  front   the  flying   thunders    as    they 
roar, 
With  frantic  charge  and  tenfold  odds,  in 

vain  .'  —  P.  196 
In  the  severe  action  of  Fuentesde  Honoro, 
upon  5th  May,  i8ii,the  grand  mass  of  the 
French  cavalry  attacked  the  right  of  the 
British  position,  covered  by  two  guns  of 
the  horse-artillery,  and  two  squadrons  of 
cavalry.  After  suffering  considerably  from 
the  fire  of  the  guns,  which  annoyed  them 
in  every  attempt  at  formation,  the  enemy 
turned  their  wrath  entirely  towards  them, 
distributed  brandy  among  their  troojiers,  and 
advanced  to  carry  the  field-pieces  with  the 
desperation  of  drunken  fury.     They  were  in 


THE    VISION  OF  DON  RODERICK. 


725 


nowise  checked  by  the  heavy  loss  which  they 
sustained  in  this  daring  attempt,  but  closed, 
and  fairly  mingled  with  the  British  cavalry, 
to  whom  they  bore  the  proportion  of  ten  to 
one.  Captain  Ramsay  (let  me  be  permitted 
to  name  a  gallant  countryman),  who  com- 
manded the  two  guns,  dismissed  them  at 
the  gallop,  and  putting  himself  at  the  head 
of  the  mounted  artillerymen,  ordered  them  to 
fall  upon  the  French,  sabre-in-hand.  This 
very  unexpected  conversion  of  artillerymen 
into  dragoons,  contributed  greatly  to  the 
defeat  of  the  enemy,  already  disconterted  by 
the  reception  they  had  met  from  the  two 
British  squadrons :  and  the  appearance  of 
some  small  re-enforcements,  notwithstanding 
the  immense  disproportion  of  force,  put 
them  to  absolute  rout.  A  colonel  or  major 
of  their  cavalry,  and  many  prisoners  (almost 
all  intoxicated),  remained  in  our  possession. 
Those  who  consider  for  a  moment  the  dif- 
ference of  the  services,  and  how  much  an 
artilleryman  is  necessarily  and  naturally  led 
to  identify  his  own  safety  and  utility  with 
abiding  by  the  tremendous  implement  of 
war,  to  the  exercise  of  which  he  is  chiefly,  if 
not  exclusively,  trained,  will  know  how  to 
estimate  the  presence  of  mind  which  com- 
manded so  bold  a  manctuvre,  and  the  stead- 
iness and  confidence  with  which  it  was 
executed. 

NoTii  17. 
And  -what  avails  thee  that,  for   Cameron 
slain. 

Wild  from  his  flaided  ranks  the  yell  was 
given. 

—  P.  196. 

The  gallant  Colonel  Cameron  was 
wounded  mortally  during  the  desperate 
contest  in  the  streets  of  the  village  called 
Fuentes  de  Honoro.  He  fell  at  the  head  of 
his  native  Highlanders,  the  71st  and  ;^th, 
who  raised  a  dreadful  shriek  of  grief  and 
rage.  They  charged  with  irresistible  fury, 
the  finest  body  of  French  Grenadiers  ever 
seen,  being  a  part  of  Bonaparte's  selected 
guard.  The  officer  who  led  the  French,  a 
man  remarkable  for  stature  and  symmetry, 
was  killed  on  the  spot.  The  Frenchman 
who  stepped  out  of  his  rank  to  take  aim 
at  Colonel  Cameron  was  also  bayoneted, 
pierced  with  a  thousand  wounds,  and  almost 
torn  to  pieces  by  the  furious  Highlanders, 
who,  under  the  command  of  Colonel  Cado- 
gan,  bore  the  enemy  out  of  the  contested 
ground  at  the  point  of  the  bayonet.  Mas- 
sena  pays  my  countr\nien  a  singular  com- 
pliment in  his  account  of  the  attack  and 
defence  of  this  village,  in  which  he  says 
the  British  lost  many  officers,  and  Scotch. 


Note  iS. 
O  who  shall  grudge  him  Albuera's  bays. 

Who  brought  a  race  regenerate  to  the  field 
Roused  them  to  emulate  their  fat/iers'  praise, 

Temfcr'd  their  headlong  rage,  their  cour- 
age steefd, 
And  raised  fair  Lusitania' s  fallen  shield. 
-P.  197. 

Nothing  during  the  war  of  Portugal  seems, 
to  a  distinct  observer,  more  deserving  of 
praise,  than  the  self-devotion  of  Field-Mar- 
shal Beresford,  who  was  content^  to  under- 
take all  the  hazard  of  obloquy  which  might 
have  been  founded  upon  any  miscarriage  in 
the  highly  important  experiment  of  training 
the  Portuguese  troops  to  an  improved  state 
of  discipline.  In  exposing  his  military  rep- 
ution  to  the  censure  of  imprudence  from  the 
most  moderate,  and  all  manner  of  unutter- 
able calumnies  from  the  ignorant  and  malig- 
nant, he  placed  at  stake  the  dearest  pledge 
which  a  military  man  had  to  offer ;  and 
nothing  but  the  deepest  conviction  of  the 
high  and  essential  importance  attached  to 
success  can  be  supposed  an  adequate  mo- 
tive. How  great  the  chance  of  miscarriage 
was  supposed,  may  be  estimated  from  the 
general  opinion  of  officers  of  unquestioned 
talents  and  experience,  possessed  of  every 
opportunity  of  information  ;  how  completely 
the  experiment  has  succeeded,  and  how 
much  the  spirit  and  patriotism  of  our  an- 
cient allies  had  been  underrated,  is  evident, 
not  only  from  those  victories  in  which  they 
have  borne  a  distinguished  share,  but  from 
the  liberal  and  highly  honorable  manner  in 
which  these  opinions  have  been  retracted. 
The  success  of  this  plan,  with  all  its  impor- 
tant consequences,  we  owe  to  the  indefati- 
gable exertions  of  Field-Marshal  Beresford. 

Note  19. 

a  race  renowned  of  old. 

Whose  war-cry  oft  has  waked  the  battle- 
swell. 

the  conqtiering  shout  ofGrtcme. — P.  198. 

This  stanza  alludes  to  the  various  achieve- 
ments of  the  warlike  family  of  Grwrne,  or 
Grahame.  They  are  said,  by  tradition,  to 
have  descended  from  the  .Scottish  chief,  under 
whose  command  his  countrymen  stormed  the 
wall  built  by  the  Emperor  Severus  between 
the  Friths  of  Forth  and  Clyde,  the  fragments 
of  which  are  still  popularly  called  Gra-me's 
Dyke.  Sir  John  tlie  Gra!me,  "the  hardy, 
wight,  and  wise,"  is  well  known  as  the  friend 
of  Sir  William  Wallace.  Alderne,  Kilsythe, 
and  Tibbermuir,  were  scenes  of  the  victories 
of  the  heroic  Marquis  of  Montrose.     The 


726 


APPENDIX. 


pass  of  Killycrankie  is  famous  for  the  action 
between  King  William's  forces  and  the 
Highlanders  in  16S9, 

"  Where  glad  Dundee  in  faint  huzzas  expired." 

It  is  seldom  that  one  line  can  number  so 
many  heroes,  and  yet  more  rare  when  it  can 


appeal  to  the  glory  of  a  living  descendant  in 
support  of  its  ancient  renown. 

The  allusions  to  the  private  history  and 
character  of  General  Grahame  may  be  illus- 
trated by  referring  to  the  eloquent  and  af- 
fecting speech  of  Mr.  .Sheridan,  upon  the 
vote  of  thanks  to  the  Victors  of  Barosa. 


R  O  K  E  B  Y. 


Note  i. 


On  Barnard's  towers,  and  Tees' s  stream,  etc. 

—  P.  203. 

"  Barnard's  Castle,"  saith  old  Leland, 
"  standeth  stately  upon  Tees."  It  is  founded 
upon  a  very  high  bank,  and  its  ruins  impend 
over  the  river,  including  within  the  area  a 
circuit  of  six  acres  and  upwards.  This  once 
magnificent  fortress  derives  its  name  from  its 
founder,  Barnard  Baliol,  the  ancestor  of  the 
short  and  unfortunate  dynasty  of  that  name, 
which  succeeded  to  the  Scottish  throne  under 
the  patronage  of  Edward  Land  Edward  III. 
Baliol's  Tower,  afterwards  mentioned  in  the 
poem,  is  a  round  tower  of  great  size,  situated 
at  the  western  extremity  of  the  building.  It 
bears  marks  of  great  antiquity,  and  was  re- 
markable for  the  curious  construction  of  its 
vaulted  roof,  which  has  been  lately  greatly 
injured  by  the  operations  of  some  persons, 
to  whom  the  tower  has  been  leased  for  the 
purpose  of  making  patent  shot !  The  pros- 
pect from  the  top  of  Baliol's  Tower  com- 
mands a  rich  and  magnificent  view  of  the 
wooded  valley  of  the  Tees. 

Barnard  Castle  often  changed  masters 
during  the  Middle  Ages.  From  John  Ba- 
liol, the  first  King  of  Scotland  of  that 
family,  it  went  by  forfeiture  to  Edward  I. 
It  was  held  by  the  Beauchamps  of  Warwick, 
the  .Staffordsof  Buckingham,  the  Bishops  of 
Durham,  and  by  the  Crown.  Richard  III. 
is  said  to  have  enlarged  and  strengthened  its 
fortifications,  and  to  have  made  it  for  some 
time  his  principal  residence,  for  the  purpose 
of  bridling  and  suppressing  the  Lancastrian 
faction  in  tlie  northern  counties.  The  earls 
of  West  Moreland  received  it  probably 
through  marriage,  and  after  the  suppression 
of  the  rebellion  in  the  twelfth  year  of  Queen 
Elizabeth's  reign,  it  reverted  to  the  Crown, 
and  was  sold  or  leased  to  Car,  Ei;rl  of  Som- 
erset, the  guilty  and  unhappy  favorite  of 
James  I.  It  was  afterwards  granted  to  Sir 
Henry  Vane  the  Elder,  and  came  finally  into 
possession  of  the  Earls  of  Darlington. 


Note  2. 


no  /ill man  ear, 

Unsharpcnd  by  revenge  and  fear, 
Could  e'er  distinguish  horse's  clank.  — 

P.  204. 
I  have  had  occasion  to  remark,  in  real  life, 
the  effect  of  keen  and  fervent  anxiety  in  giv- 
ing acuteness  to  the  organs  of  sense.  My 
gifted  friend.  Miss  Joanna  Baillie,  whose 
dramatic  works  display  such  intimate  ac- 
quaintance with  the  oi^erations  of  human 
passion,  has  not  omitted  this  remarkable 
circumstance :  — 
"/)*   Montfort  {off  liis  guard).     'Tis   Rezen- 

velt :   I  heard  his  well-known  foot. 
From  the  first  staircase  mounting  step  by  step. 
Freb.  How  quick  au  ear  thou  hast  for  distant 
sound ! 
I  heard  him  not. 

(De  Montfort  looks  embarrassed,  and  is 
silent.)  " 

Note  3. 
The  morion's  plutncs  his  visage  hide, 
And  the  buff-coat,  an  ample  fold, 
Alantles  his  form's  gigantic  mould.  —  P.  204. 
The  use  of  complete  suits  of  armor  was 
fallen  into  disuse  during  the  Civil  W^ar, 
though  they  were  still  worn  by  leaders  of 
rank  and  importance.  "In  tiie  reign  of 
King  James  I.,"  says  our  military  antiquary, 
"  no  great  alterations  were  made  in  the 
article  of  defensive  armor,  e.xcept  that  the 
buff-coat,  or  jerkin,  which  was  originally 
worn  under  the  cuirass,  now  became  fre- 
quently a  substitute  for  it,  it  having  been 
found  that  a  good  buff  leather  would  of  itself 
resist  the  stroke  of  a  sword  ;  this,  however, 
only  occasionally  took  place  among  the  light- 
armed  cavalry  and  infantry,  complete  suits 
of  armor  being  still  used  among  tiie  heavy- 
horse.  Buff-coats  continued  to  be  worn  by 
the  city-trained  bands  till  within  the  memory 
of  persons  now  living,  so  that  defensive 
armor  may,  in  some  measure,  be  said  to  have 
terminated  in  the  same  materials  with  which 
it  began ;  tliat  is,  the  skins  of  animals,  or 


ROKEBY. 


727 


leather." — Grose's   Military   Antiquities. 
Lond.,  1801,  4to,  vol.  ii.,  p.  323. 

Of  the  butf-coats,  which  were  worn  over 
the  corslets,  several  are  yet  preserved ;  and 
Captain  Grose  has  given  an  engraving  of  one 
which  was  used  in  the  time  of  Charles  I.  by 
Sir  Francis  Rhodes,  Bart.,  of  Balbrough- 
Hall,  Derbyshire.  They  were  usually  lined 
with  silk  or  linen,  secured  tefore  by  buttons, 
or  by  a  lace,  and  often  richly  decorated  with 
gold  or  silver  embroidery. 

Note  4. 
On  his  dark  face  a  scorching  clime. 
And  toil,  had  done  the  work  of  time. 

Death  had  he  seert  by  sudden  bloiv. 
By  wasting  plague,  by  tortures  slcrw.  — 
P.  204. 
In  this  character,  I  have  attenijited  to 
sketch  one  of  those  West  Indian  adventurers, 
who,  during  the  course  of  the  seventeenth 
century,  were  popularly  known  .by  the  name, 
of  Buccaneers.  The  successes  of  the  English 
in  the  predatory  incursions  upon  .Spanish 
America,  during  the  reign  of  Elizabeth,  had 
never  been  forgotten  ;  and.  from  that  period 
downward,  the  exploits  of  Drake  and  Raleigii 
were  imitated,  upon  a  smaller  scale  indeed, 
but  with  equally  desperate  valor,  by  small 
bands  of  pirates,  gathered  from  all  nations, 
but  chiefly  French  and  English.  The  en- 
grossing policy  of  the  Spaniards  tended 
greatly  to  increase  the  number  of  these  free- 
booters, from  whom  their  commerce  and 
colonies  suffered,  in  the  issue,  dreadful 
calamity. 

The  Windward  Islands,  which  the  .Spanish 
did  not  deem  worthy  their  own  occupation, 
had  Ijeen  gradually  settled  by  adventurers 
of  the  French  and  English  nations,  .'\fter 
P'redericof  Toledo,  acting  under  orders  from 
the  Court  of  Madrid,  had  cruelly  destroyed 
these  colonies,  in  1630,  the  planters,  rendered 
desperate  by  persecution,  began  iinderthe  well- 
known  name  of  Buccaneers,  or  Bucaniers, 
a  retaliation  both  by  piracy  on  sea  and  pred- 
atory descents  on  Spanish  territory.  See 
either  Raynal,  or  "  The  History  of  the 
Bucaniers." 

Note  5. 

On  Marston  heath 

Met,  front  to  front,  the  ranks  of  death. — 

P.  205. 
The  well  known  and  desperate  battle  of 
Long-Marston  Moor,  which  terminated  so 
unfortunately  for  the  cause  of  Charles,  com- 
menced under  very  different  auspices.  Prince 
Rupert    had    marched    with    an    army    of 


20,000  men  for  the  relief  of  York,  then  be- 
sieged by  Sir  Thomas  Fairfax,  at  the  head 
of  the  Parliamentary  army,  and  the  Earl  of 
l.even,  with  the  Scottish  auxiliary  forces. 
In  this  he  is  so  completely  succeeded,  that 
he  compelled  the  besiegers  to  retreat  to  Mars- 
ton  Moor,  a  large  open  plain,  about  eight 
miles  distant  from  the  city.  Thither  they 
were  followed  by  the  Prince,  who  had  now 
united  to  his  army  the  garrison  of  York, 
probably  not  less  than  ten  thousand  men 
strong,  under  the  gallant  Marquis  (then 
Earl)  of  Newcastle.  Whitelocke  has  re- 
corded, with  much  impartiality,  the  follow- 
ing particulars  of  this  eventful  day  :  —  "  The 
right  wing  of  the  Parliament  was  commanded 
by  Sir  Thomas  Fairfax,  and  consisted  of  all 
his  horse,  and  three  regiments  of  the  Scots 
horse  ;  the  left  wing  was  commanded  by  the 
Earl  of  Manchester  and  Colonel  Cromwell. 
!  One  body  of  their  foot  was  commanded  by 
I  Lord  Fairfax,  and  consisted  of  his  foot,  and 
two  brigades  of  the  Scots  foot  for  reserve ; 
and  the  main  body  of  the  rest  of  the  foot  was 
commanded  by  General  I.even. 

"  The  right  wing  of  the  Prince's  army  was 
commanded  by  the  Earl  of  Newcastle  ;  the 
left  wing  by  the  Prince  himself ;  and  the 
main  body  by  General  Goring,  Sir  Charles 
Lucas,  and  Major-General  Porter.  Thus 
were  both  sides  drawn  up  into  battalia. 

"July  3d,  1644.  In  this  posture  both 
armies  faced  each  other,  and  about  seven 
o'clock  in  the  morning  the  fight  began  be- 
tween them.  The  Prince,  with  his  left  wing, 
fell  on  the  Parliament's  right  wing,  routed 
them,  and  pursued  them  a  great  way ;  the 
like  did  General  Goring,  Lucas,  and  Porter. 
n[x>n  the  Parliament's  main  body.  The 
three  generals,  giving  all  for  lost,  hasted 
out  of  the  field,  and  many  of  their  soldiers 
fled,  aird  threw  down  their  arms  ;  the  King's 
forces  too  eagerly  following  them,  the  vic- 
tory, now  almost  achieved  by  them,  was 
again  snatched  out  of  their  hands.  For 
Colonel  Cromwell,  with  the  brave  regiment 
of  his  countrj-men,  and  Sir  Thomas  Fairfax, 
having  rallied  some  of  his  horse,  fell  upon 
the  Prince's  right  wing,  where  the  Earl  of 
Newcastle  was,  and  routed  them :  and  the 
rest  of  their  companions  rallying,  they  fell 
altogether  upon  the  divided  bodies  of  Rupert 
and  Goring,  and  totally  dispersed  them,  and 
obtained  a  complete  victory,  after  three 
hours'  fight. 

"  From  this  battle  and  the  pursuit,  some 
reckon  were  buried  7,000  Englishmen  ;  all 
agree  that  above  3,000  of  the  Prince's  men 
were  slain  in  the  battle,  besides  those  in  the 
chase,  and  3,000  prisoners  taken,  many  of 
their  chief  officers,  twenty-five  pieces  of  ord- 


728 


APPENDIX. 


nance,  forty-seven  colors,  10,000  arms,  two 
wagons  of  carabins  and  pistols,  130  barrels 
of  powder,  and  all  their  bag  and  baggage." 
Whitelocke's  Memoirs,  fol.  p.  89.  Lond., 
1682. 

Note  6. 
Monckton  and  Mitton  told  the  neit's, 
How  troops  of  Roundheads  choked  the  Oitse, 
And  tnany  a  bonny  Scot  aghast. 
Spurring  his  palfrey  tiorthward,  past, 
Cursing  the  day  when  zeal  or  meed 
First  lured  their  Lesley  o'er  the  Tweed.  — 

P.  208. 

Monckton  and  Mitton  are  villages  near  the 
river  Ouse,  and  not  very  distant  from  the 
field  of  battle.  The  particulars  of  the  action 
were  violently  disputed  at  the  time  ;  but  the 
following  extract,  from  the  Manuscript  His- 
tory of  the  Baronial  House  of  .Somerville,  is 
decisive  as  to  the  flight  of  the  Scottish  gen- 
eral, the  Earl  of  Leven.  The  details  are 
given  by  the  author  of  the  history  on  the 
authority  of  his  father,  then  the  representa- 
tive of  the  family.  This  curious  manuscript 
was  published  by  consent  of  Lord  Somer- 
ville. 

"  The  order  of  this  great  battell,  wherin 
both  armies  was  neer  of  ane  equall  numter, 
consisting,  to  the  best  calculatione,  neer  to 
threescore  thousand  men  upon  both  sydes, 
I  shall  not  take  upon  me  to  discryve;  alijeit, 
from  the  draughts  then  taken  upon  the 
place,  and  information  I  receaved  from  this 
gentleman,  who  being  then  a  volunteer,  as 
having  no  command,  had  opportunitie  and 
libertie  to  ryde  from  the  one  wing  of  the 
armie  to  the  other,  to  view  all  ther  several 
squadrons  of  horse  and  battallions  of  foot, 
how  formed,  and  in  what  manner  drawn  up, 
with  every  other  circumstance  relating  to 
the  fight,  and  that  both  as  to  the  King's 
armies  and  that  of  the  I^arliament's,  amongst 
whom,  untill  the  engadgment,  he  went  from 
Stallone  to  statione  to  observe  ther  order 
and  forme  ;  but  that  the  descriptione  of  this 
battell,  with  the  various  success  on  both 
sides  at  the  beginning,  with  the  loss  of  the 
royal  armie,  and  the  sad  effects  that  followed 
that  misfortune  as  to  his  Majestie's  interest, 
hes  been  so  often  done  already  by  English 
authors,  little  to  our  comniendatione,  how 
justly  I  shall  not  dispute,  seing  the  truth  is, 
as  our  principall  generall  fled  that  night 
neer  fourtie  mylles  from  the  place  of  the 
fight,  that  part  of  the  armie  wliere  he  com- 
manded being  totallie  routed  ;  but  it  is  as 
true,  that  much  of  the  victorie  is  attributed 
to  the  good  conduct  of  David  Lesselie, 
lievetennent-generall  of  our  horse.  Crom- 
well himself,  that   miuione  of   fortune,  but 


the  rod  of  God's  wrath,  to  punish  eftirward 
three  rebellious  nations,  disdained  not  to 
take  orders  from  him,  allx;it  then  in  the 
same  qualitie  of  command  for  the  Parlia- 
ment, as  being  lievetennent-generall  to  the 
Earl  of  Manchester's  horse,  whom,  with  the 
assistance  of  the  Scots'  horse,  haveing  routed 
the  Prince's  right  wing,  as  he  had  done  that 
of  the  Parliament's.  These  two  command- 
ers of  the  horse  upon  that  wing  wisely  re- 
strained the  great  bodies  of  their  horse  from 
persuing  these  brocken  troups,  but,  wheelling 
to  the  left-hand,  falls  in  upon  the  naked 
flanks  of  the  Prince's  main  battallion  of  foot, 
c.arying  them  doune  with  great  violence ; 
nether  mett  they  with  any  great  resistance 
untill  they  came  to  the  Marques  of  New- 
castle his  battallione  of  White  Coats,  who, 
first  peppering  them  soundly  with  ther  shott, 
when  they  came  to  charge,  stoutly  boor  them 
up  with  their  picks  that  they  could  not  en- 
ter to  break  them.  Here  the  Parliament's 
horse  of  that  wing  receaved  ther  greatest 
losse,  and  a  stop  for  sometyme  putt  to  ther 
hoped-for  victorie ;  and  that  only  by  the 
stout  resistance  of  this  gallant  battallione, 
which  consisted  neer  of  four  thousand  foot, 
until  at  length  a  Scots  regiment  of  dragouns, 
commanded  by  Collonell  Frizeall,  with  other 
two,  was  brought  to  open  them  upon  some 
hand,  which  at  length  they  did,  when  all  the 
amnuinitione  was  sjxfnt.  Having  refused 
quarters,  every  man  fell  in  the  same  order 
and  ranke  wherein  he  had  foughten. 

'•  Be  this  execution  was  done,  the  Prince 
returned  from  the  ]X!rsuite  of  the  right  wing 
of  the  Parliament's  horse,  which  he  had 
ijeatten  and  followed  too  farre,  to  the  losse 
of  the  battell,  which  certanely.  in  all  men's 
opinions,  he  miglit  have  caryed  if  he  had  not 
been  too  violent  upon  the  pursuite ;  which 
gave  his  enemies  upon  the  left-hand  oppor- 
tunitie to  disperse  and  cut  doune  his  in- 
fantrie,  who,  having  cleared  the  field  of  all 
the  standing  btidies  of  foot,  wer  now,  with 
many  [foot  soldiers]  of  their  oune.  standing 
ready  to  receave  the  charge  of  his  allmost 
spent  horses,  if  he  should  attempt  it ;  which 
the  Prince  observeing,  and  seeing  all  lost,  he 
retreated  to  Vorke  with  two  thousand  horse. 
Notwithstanding  of  this,  ther  was  that  night 
such  a  consternatione  in  the  Parliament  arm- 
ies, that  it's  believed  by  most  of  those  that 
wer  there  present,  that  if  the  Prince,  haveing 
so  great  a  body  of  horse  inteire,  had  made 
ane  onfall  that  night,  or  the  ensueing  morn- 
ing be-tyme,  he  had  carryed  the  victorie  out 
of  ther  hands ;  for  it's  certane,  by  the  morn- 
ing's light,  he  had  rallyed  a  body  of  ten 
thousand  men.  whereof  ther  was  neer  three 
thousand   gallant    horse.     These,  with    the 


ROKEBY. 


729 


assistance  of  the  toune  and  garrisoune  of 
Vorke.  might  have  done  much  to  have  re- 
covered the  victory,  for  the  losse  of  this  bat- 
tell  in  effect  lost  the  King  and  his  interest 
in  the  three  kingdomes  ;  his  Majestic  never 
being  able  eftir  this  to  make  head  in  the 
nortli,  but  lost  his  garrisons  every  day. 

••  As  for  Generall  Lesselie,  in  the  beginning 
of  this  flight  haveing  that  part  of  the  army 
quite  brocken,  whare  he  had  placed  himself, 
by  the  valour  of  the  Prince,  he  imagined, 
and  was  confermedby  the  opinioneof  others 
then  upon  the  place  with  him,  that  the 
battell  was  irrecoverably  lost,  seeing  they 
w^  fleeing  upon  all  hands ;  theirfore  they 
humblie  intreated  his  excellence  to  reteir 
and  wait  his  better  fortune,  which,  without 
farder  advyseing,  he  did  ;  and  never  drew 
bridle  untill  he  came  the  lenth  of  Leads, 
having  ridden  all  that  night  with  a  cloak  of 
drap  de  bcrrit  alxjut  him,  belonging  to  this 
gentleman  of  whom  I  write,  then  in  his 
retinue,  with  many  other  officers  of  good 
qualitie.  It  was  neer  twelve  the  next  day 
befor  they  had  the  certanety  who  was  master 
of  the  field,  when  at  length  ther  arryves  ane 
express,  sent  by  David  Lesselie,  to  acquaint 
the  general  they  had  obtained  a  most  glori- 
ous victory,  and  that  the  Prince,  with  his 
brocken  troupes,  was  fled  from  Yorke.  This 
intelligence  was  somewhat  amazeing  to  these 
gentlemen  that  had  l)een  eye-witnesses  to  the 
disorder  of  the  armie  before  ther  retearing, 
and  had  then  accompanyed  the  General  in 
his  flight ;  who,  being  much  wearj-ed  that 
evening  of  the  battell  with  ordering  of  his 
armie,  and  now  quite  spent  with  his  long 
journey  in  the  night,  had  casten  himselfe 
doune  upon  a  bed  to  rest,  when  this  gentle- 
man comeing  quyetly  into  his  chamber,  he 
awoke,  and  hastily  cryes  out, '  Lievetennent- 
coUonell,  what  newes?'  —  'All  is  safe,  may 
it  please  your  Excellence ;  the  Parliament's 
armie  hes  obtained  a  great  victory;'  and 
then  delyvers  the  letter.  The  Generall, 
upon  the  hearing  of  this,  knocked  upon  his 
breast,  and  sayes,  'I  would  to  God  I  had 
dyed  upon  the  place ! '  and  then  opens  the 
letter,  which,  in  a  few  lines,  gave  ane  account 
of  the  victory,  and  in  the  close  pressed  his 
speedy  returne  to  the  armie,  which  he  did 
the  next  day,  being  accompanyed  some 
mylles  back  by  this  gentleman,  who  then 
takes  his  leave  of  him,  and  receaved  at  part- 
ing many  expressions  of  kyndenesse,  with 
promises  that  he  would  never  be  unmyndful 
of  his  care  and  respect  towards  him  :  and  in 
the  end  he  entreats  him  to  present  his  ser- 
vice to  all  his  friends  and  acquaintances  in 
Scotland.  Thereftir  the  Generall  sets  for- 
ward in  his  journey  for  the  armie,  as  this 


gentleman  did  for  .  .  .  in  order  to  his  trans- 
fwrtatione  for  Scotland,  where  he  arryved 
sex  dayes  eftir  the  fight  of  Mestoune  Muir, 
and  gave  the  first  true  account  and  de- 
scriptione  of  that  great  battell,  wherein  the 
Covenanters  then  gloryed  see  much,  that 
they  impiously  boasted  the  Lord  had  now 
signally  appeared  for  his  cause  and  people  ; 
it  being  ordinary  for  them,  dureing  the 
whole  time  of  this  warre,  to  attribute  the 
greatness  of  their  success  to  the  goodness 
and  justice  of  ther  cause,  untill  Divine 
Justice  trysted  them  with  some  crosse  dis- 
pensatione,  and  then  you  might  have  heard 
this  language  from  them,  '  That  it  pleases 
the  Lord  to  give  his  oune  the  heaviest  end 
of  the  tree  to  bear,  that  the  saints  and  the 
people  of  God  must  still  be  sufferers  while 
they  are  here  away,  that  the  malignant  party 
was  God's  rod  to  punish  them  for  ther  un- 
thankfuUnesse,  which  in  the  end  he  will 
cast  into  the  fire ; '  with  a  thousand  other 
expressions  and  Scripture  citations,  pro- 
phanely  and  blasphemously  uttered  by  them 
to  palliate  ther  villainie  and  rebellion." — 
Afemoires  of  the  Somervilles.  —  Edin.,  181 5. 

Note  7. 
With  his  barVd  horse,  fresh  tidings  say. 
Stout  Cromwell  has  redeem' d  the  day.  — 

P.  208. 
Cromwell,  with  his  regiment  of  cuirassiers, 
had  a  principal  share  in  turning  the  fate 
of  the  day  at  Marston  Moor ;  which  was 
equally  matter  of  triumph  to  the  Independ- 
ents, and  of  grief  and  heart-burning  to  the 
Presbyterians  and  to  the  Scottish, 

Note  8. 
Do  not  my  native  dales  prolong. 
Of  Percy  Rede,  the  tragic  song, 
Trained  forward  to  his  bloody  fall 
By  Gir son  field,  that  treacherous  Hall  ?  — 
^  P.  208. 

In  a  poem  entitled,  "  The  Lay  of  the 
Reedwater  Minstrel,"'  Newcastle,  1809,  this 
tale,  with  many  others  peculiar  to  the  valley 
of  the  Keed,  is  commemorated  :  —  "  The 
particulars  of  the  traditional  story  of  Parcy 
Reed  of  Troughend,  and  the  Halls  of  Girson- 
field,  the  author  had  from  a  descendant  of 
the  family  of  Reed.  From  his  account,  it 
appears  that  Percival  Reed,  Esquire,  a 
keeper  of  Reedsdale,  was  betrayed  by  the 
Halls  (hence  denominated  the  false-hearted 
Halls)  to  a  band  of  moss-troopers  of  the 
name  of  Crosier,  who  slew  him  at  Bating- 
hope,  near  the  source  of  the  Reed. 

"  The  Halls  were,  after  the  murder  of 
Parcy  Reed,  held  in  such  universal  aUior 


7JO 


APPENDIX. 


fence  and  contempt  by  the  inhabitants  of 
Keedsdale,  for  their  cowardly  and  treacbei- 
ous  behaviour,  that  they  were  obliged  to 
leave  the  country.^  In  another  passa^ 
we  are  informed  that  the  ghost  of  the  injured 
Borderer  is  supposed  to  haunt  the  banks  of 
a  brook  called  the  Pringfe.  These  Keeds  of 
Troughend  were  a  very  ancient  family,  as 
may  be  conjectured  from  their  deriving  their 
surname  from  the  river  on  which  they  had 
their  mansion.  An  epitaph  on  one  of  their 
tomfas  affirms  that  the  family  held  their 
lands  of  Troughend,  which  ate  situated  on 
the  Reed,  nearly  opposite  to  Otterbum,  for 
the  incredible  s^aas.  of  nine  hundred  years. 

Note  9. 
And  Kcur  tlu  spat  that  gat^  mu  name. 
The  tmaattd  maumd  0f  Kisingham, 
Where  Reed  u^m.  b£r  tnargim  sees 
Sweet  IVoodAurne's  cottages  and  trees, 
Somu  antient  sculft«r's  art  has  shown 
An  otUlaxs  image  on  lh£  stone  —  P.  20S. 

Kisingham.  upon  the  river  Reed,  near  the 
beautiful  hamlet  of  Woodbum,  is  an  ancient 
Roman  station,  iorroerly  called  Habitancum. 
Camden  says,  that  in  his  time  the  popular 
accoant  bone,  that  it  had  been  the  abode  of  a 
daty,  or  giant,  called  Magon ;  and  appeals, 
in  SDpport  of  this  tradition,  as  well  as  to 
thee^mwlogy  of  Risingham,  or  Reiisenham, 
which  signihes,  in  German,  the  habitation 
of  the  giants,  to  two  Roman  altars  taken 
out  of  the  river,  inscribed,  Deo  Mogunti 
Cauemorum.  About  half  a  mile  distant 
from  Risingham,  upon  an  eminence  covered 
with  scattered  birch-trees,  and  fragments  of 
rock,  there  is  cut  upon  a  large  rock,  in  alio 
reliezv,  a  remarkable  figure,  called  Robin 
of  Risingham,  or  RoUn  of  Rcsedsdale.  It 
presents  a  hunter,  with  bis  bow  raised  in 
one  hand,  and  in  the  other  what  seems  to  be 
a  haie.  There  is  a  quiver  at  the  back  of  the 
figure,  and  he  is  dressed  in  a  long  coat,  or 
kirtle,  comii^  down  U>  the  knees,  and  meet- 
ing dose,  with  a  girdle  bound  round  him. 
Dr.  Hotseley,  who  saw  all  monuments  of 
antiquity  with  Roman  eyes,  inclines  to  think 
this  figure  a  Roman  archer:  and  oert^nly 
the  bow  is  rather  of  the  anoent  size,  than  of 
that  which  was  so  formidaUe  in  the  hand 
of  the  Engfish  archers  of  the  Middle  Ages. 
But  tite  rudeness  of  the  whole  figure  pre- 
vents our  founding  strongly  upon  mere 
inaccuracy  of  proportion.  The  popular 
tradition  is,  that  it  represents  a  giant,  whose 
brother  resided  at  Woodbum,  and  he  him- 
sdf  at  Kisingham.  It  adds,  that  the)'  sub- 
asted  by  hunting,  and  that  one  of  them, 
finding  the  game  become  too  scarce  to  sap- 


port  them,  poisoned  his  companion,  in 
whose  memory  the  monument  was  eng^ved. 
What  strange  and  tragic  circumstance  may- 
be concealed  under  this  legend,  or  whether 
it  is  utterly  apocryphal,  it  is  now  impossible 
to  discover. 

Note  10. 
Z><?  thou  revere 

The  statutes  of  the  Butcancer. —  P.  20S. 

The  '•  statutes  of  the  Buccaneers ''  were, 
in  reality,  more  equitable  than  could  have 
been  expected  from  the  state  of  society  under 
which  they  had  been  formed.  They  diiefly 
related,  as  may  readily  be  conjectured,  to 
the  distribution  and  the  inheritance  of  their 
plunder. 

When  the  expedition  was  completiid,  the 
fund  of  prize-money  acquired  was  thrown 
together,  each  party  taking  his  oath  that  be 
had  retained  or  concealed  no  part  of  the 
common  stock.  If  any  one  transgressed  in 
this  important  particular,  the  punishment 
was,  his  being  set  ashore  on  sr^me  dessert  key 
or  island,  to  shift  for  himself  as  he  could. 
The  owners  of  the  vessel  had  then  their 
share  assigned  for  the  expenses  of  the  out- 
fit. These  were  generally  old  pirates,  settled 
at  Tobago,  Jamaica,  St.  Domingo,  or  some 
other  French  or  English  settlement.  The 
surgeon's  and  carpenter's  salaries,  with  the 
price  of  provisions  and  ammunition,  were 
also  defrayed.  Then  followed  the  compen- 
sation due  to  the  maimed  and  wounded, 
rated  according  to  the  damage  they  had 
sustained;  as  six  hundred  pieces  of  eight, 
or  six  slaves,  for  the  loss  of  an  arm  or  leg, 
and  so  in  proportion. 

"After  this  act  of  justice  and  humanity, 
the  remainder  of  the  booty  was  divided  into 
as  many  shares  as  there  were  Buccaneers. 
The  commander  could  only  lay  claim  to  a 
single  slore,  as  the  rest;  but  they  compli- 
mented him  with  two  or  three  in  proportion 
as  he  had  acquitted  himself  to  their  satisfac- 
tion. Wlien  the  vessel  was  not  the  property 
of  the  whole  company,  the  person  who  had 
fitted  it  out,  and  fumi^ied  it  with  necessary 
arms  and  ammunition,  was  entitksd  to  a  third 
of  all  theorizes.  Favor  had  never  any  influ- 
ence in  the  division  of  the  booty,  for  every 
share  was  detomined  b}*  lot.  Instances  c^ 
such  rigid  justice  as  this  are  not  easily  met 
with,  and  tiiey  extended  even  to  the  dead. 
Their  share  was  given  to  the  man  who  was 
known  to  be  their  companion  when  alive, 
and  therefore  their  heir.  If  the  person  who 
had  been  killed  had  no  intimate,  his  part  was 
sent  to  bis  relations,  when  they  were  known. 
If  there  were  no  friends  nor  relations,  it  was 
distributed  in  charity  to  the   poor   and  to 


ROKEBY. 


73» 


churches,  which  were  to  pray  (or  the  person 
in  whose  name  these  benefactions  were  given, 
the  fruits  of  inhuman,  but  necessary  piratical 
plunder."  —  Ray  n  al"s  History  of  European 
Sittkmenis  in  the  East  and  West  Indies, 
by  Justamond.     Lend.,  1776,  Svo,  iii.  p.  ^l. 

Note  11. 
The  eourse  of  Tees.  —  P.  212. 
The  view  from  Barnard  Castle  commands 
the  rich  and  magnificent  valley  of  Tees.  Im- 
mediately adjacent  to  the  river,  the  banks 
are  very  thickly  wooded ;  at  a  little  distance 
they  are  more  open  and  cultivated ;  but, 
being  interspersed  with  hedge-rows,  and  with 
isolated  trees  of  great  size  and  age,  tliey  still 
retain  the  richness  of  woodland  scenery.  'J'lie 
river  itself  flows  in  a  deep  trench  of  solid 
rock,  chiefly  limestone  and  marble.  The 
finest  view  of  its  romantic  course  is  from  a 
handsome  modern-built  bridge  over  the  Tees, 
by  the  late  Mr.  Morritt  of  Kokeby.  In  Ice- 
land's time,  tlie  marble  quarries  seem  to 
have  Ijeen  of  some  value.  "  Hard  under  the 
cliff  by  Egleston,  is  found  on  eche  side  of 
Tese  very  fair  marble,  wont  to  be  taken  up 
lx>oth  by  marljelers  of  Barnardes  Castelle 
and  of  Egleston,  and  partly  to  have  been 
wrought  by  them,  and  partly  sold  onwrought 
to  others."  —  Itinerary.  Oxford,  1768,  Svo, 
p.  SS. 

Note  12. 
Egliston' s  gray  ruins.  —  P.  212. 
The  ruins  of  this  abbey,  or  priory  (for 
Tanner  calls  it  the  former,  and  Inland  the 
latter),  are  beautifully  situated  upon  the  an- 
gle formed  by  a  little  dell  callcnl  Thorsgill, 
at  its  junction  with  the  Tees.  .\  good  part 
of  the  religious  house  is  still  in  some  degree 
habitable,  "but  the  church  is  in  ruins.  Eglis- 
ton was  dedicated  to  St.  Mary  and  St.  John 
the  Baptist,  and  is  supposed  to  have  been 
founded  by  Ralph  de  Multon  about  the  end 
of  Henry  the  Seconds  reign.  There  were 
formerly  the  tombs  of  Rokeby,  Bowes,  and 
Eitz-llugh. 

Note  13. 

the  mound, 

Raised  by  that  Legion  long  renoun'd. 
Whose  votive  shrine  asserts  their  claim, 
Of  pious,  faithful,  conquering  fame.  — 

P.  212. 

Close  behind  the  George  Inn  at  Greta 
Bridge,  there  is  a  well-preserved  Roman  en- 
campment, surrounded  with  a  triple  ditch, 
lying  between  the  river  Greta  and  a  brook 
called  the  Tutta.  Ihe  four  entrances  are 
easily  to  be  discerned.  Very  many  Roman 
»ltar's  and  monuments  have  U-t;n  found  in 


the  vicinity,  most  of  which  are  preserved  at 
Rokeby  by  my  friend  Mr.  Morritt.  .Among 
others  is  a  small  voti%-e  altar  with  the  in- 
scription LEG.  \T.  VIC.  P.F.F.,  which  has 
been  rendered  Lcgto  sexta.  vietrtx.  pia.  for- 
tis,  Jidelis.  {"  The  victorious  Sixth  legion, 
full  of  reverence,  gallantry,  fidelity.") 

Note  14. 
Rokeby's  turrets  high. —  P.  212. 

This  ancient  manor  long  gave  name  to  a 
family  by  whom  it  is  said  to  have  been  pos- 
sessed from  tlie  Conquest  downward,  and 
who  are  at  different  times  distinguished  in 
history.  It  was  the  Baron  of  Rokeby  who 
finally  defeated  tlie  insurrection  ol  the  Earl 
of  Northumberland,  tempore  Hen.  IV.  See 
Holtnshed^s  Chronicles,  London,  iSoS,  iii., 
p.  45.  The  Rokeby,  or  Kokesby,  family  con- 
tinued to  be  distinguished  until  the  great 
Civil  War,  when,  having  embraced  the  cause 
of  Charles  I.,  they  suflered  severely  by  fines 
and  confiscations  The  estate  then  passed 
from  its  ancient  possessors  to  the  family  of 
the  Robinsons,  from  whom  it  was  purchased 
by  the  father  of  my  valued  friend,  the  present 
proprietor. 

Note  15. 
A  stern  and  lone,  yet  Itnxly  road. 
As  e'er  the  foot  of  Minstrel  trode.—  Y.  213. 

What  follows  is  an  attempt  to  describe 
the  romantic  glen,  or  rather  ravine,  through 
which  the  Greta  finds  a  passage  between 
Rokebv  and  Mortham ;  the  former  situated 
uptm  the  left  bank  of  Greta,  tl>e  latter  on 
tlw  right  bank,  about  half  a  mile  nearer  to 
its  junction  with  the  Tees. 


Note  16. 


-tell 


How  -whistU  rash  bids  tempests  roar.  — 

P.  214. 

That  this  is  a  general  superstition  is  well 
known  to  all  who  have  been  on  ship-board, 
or  who  have  conversed  with  seamen.  The 
most  formidable  whistler  that  I  remember 
to  have  met  with  was  the  apparition  of  a 
certain  Mrs.  Leakey,  who,  about  1636,  re- 
sided, we  are  told,  at  Mynehead,  in  Somer- 
set where  her  only  son  drove  a  considerable 
trade  between  that  port  and  Waterford,  and 
was  owner  of  several  vessels.  This  old  gen- 
tlewoman was  of  a  social  disposition,  and  so 
acceptable  to  her  friends,  that  they  used  to 
say  to  her  and  to  each  other,  it  were  a  pity 
such  an  excellent,  good-natured  oW  lady 
should  die ;  to  which  she  was  wont  to  reply, 
that  whatever  pkasure  they  might  find  in 


732 


APPENDIX. 


her  company  just  now,  they  would  not 
greatly  like  to  see  or  converse  with  her 
after  death,  which  nevertheless  she  was  apt 
to  think  might  happen.  Accordingly,  after 
her  death  and  funeral,  she  began  to  appear 
to  various  persons  by  night  and  by  noon- 
day, in  her  own  house,  in  the  town  and 
fields,  at  sea  and  upon  shore.  So  far  had 
she  departed  from  her  former  urbanity,  that 
she  is  recorded  to  have  kicked  a  doctor  of 
medicine  for  his  impolite  negligence  in  omit- 
ting to  hand  her  over  a  stile.  It  was  also 
her  humor  to  appear  upon  the  quay,  and 
call  for  a  boat.  But  especially  as  soon  as 
any  of  her  son's  ships  approached  the  har- 
bor, '•  this  ghost  would  appear  in  the  same 
garb  and  likeness  as  wlien  she  was  alive, 
and,  standing  at  the  mainmast,  would  blow 
with  a  whistle,  and  though  it  were  never  so 
great  a  calm,  yet  immediately  there  would 
arise  a  most  dreadful  storm,  that  would 
break,  wreck,  and  drown  ship  and  goods." 
When  she  had  thus  proceeded  until  her  son 
had  neither  cash  to  freight  a  vessel,  nor  could 
have  procured  men  to  sail  in  it,  she  began  to 
attack  the  persons  of  his  family,  and  actu- 
ally strangled  their  only  child  in  the  cradle. 
The  rest  of  her  story,  showing  how  the 
spectre  looked  over  the  shoulder  of  her 
daughter  in-law,  while  dressing  her  hair  in 
the  looking-glass,  and  how  Mrs.  Leakey  the 
younger  took  courage  to  address  her,  and 
how  the  beldam  despatched  her  to  an  Irish 
prelate,  famous  for  his  crimes  and  misfor- 
tunes, to  e.vhort  him  to  repentance,  and  to 
apprise  him  that  otherwise  he  would  be 
hanged,  and  how  the  bishop  was  satisfied 
with  replying  that  if  he  was  born  to  be 
hanged,  he  should  not  be  drowned ;  —  all 
these,  with  many  more  particulars,  may  be 
found  at  the  end  of  one  of  John  Dunton's 
publications,  called  .Vthenianism,  London, 
1 710,  where  the  tale  is  engrossed  under  the 
title  of  The  Apparition  Evidence. 

Note  17. 
Of  Erich's  cap  and  Elmo's  light. —  P.  214. 

"This  Ericus,  King  of  Sweden,  in  his 
time  was  held  second  to  none  in  the  magi- 
cal art ;  and  he  was  so  familiar  with  the  evil 
spirits,  which  he  exceedingly  adored,  that 
which  way  soever  he  turned  his  cap,  the 
wind  would  presently  blow  that  way.  From 
this  occasion  he  was  called  Windy  Cap;  and 
many  men  belived  that  Regnerus,  King  of 
Denmark,  by  the  conduct  of  this  Ericus, 
who  was  his  nephew,  did  happily  e.xtend 
his  piracy  into  the  most  remote  parts  of 
the  earth,  and  conquered  many  countries 
and   fenced   cities   by  his  cunning,  and  at 


last  was  his  coadjutor ;  that  by  the  consent 
of  the  nobles,  he  should  be  chosen  King  of 
Sweden,  which  continued  a  long  time  with 
him  very  happily,  until  he  died  of  old  age."' — 
Ol.'^us  M.AGNUS,  History  of  the  Goths, 
S-U'cdes,  and  Vandals,  Lond.,  1658,  foL 
P-  45- 

Note  18. 
The  Demon  frigate. —  P.  214. 
This  is  an  allusion  to  a  well-known  nauti- 
cal superstition  concerning  a  fantastic  vessel, 
called  by  sailors  the  Flying  Dutchman,  and 
supposed  to  be  seen  about  the  latitude  of 
the  Cape  of  Good  Hope.  She  is  distin- 
guished from  earthly  vessels  by  bearing  a 
press  of  sail  when  all  others  are  unable, 
from  stress  of  weather,  to  show  an  inch  of 
canvas.  The  cause  of  her  wandering  is  not 
altogether  certain ;  but  the  general  account 
is,  that  she  was  originally  a  vessel  loaded 
with  great  wealth,  on  board  of  which  some 
horrid  act  of  murder  and  piracy  had  been 
committed ;  that  the  plague  broke  out  among 
the  wicked  crew  who  had  perpetrated  the 
crime,  and  that  they  sailed  in  vain  from 
port  to  port,  offering,  as  the  price  of  shel- 
ter, the  whole  of  their  ill-gotten  wealth; 
that  they  were  excluded  from  every  liarbor, 
for  fear  of  the  contagion  which  was  devour- 
ing them ;  and  that,  as  a  punishment  of 
their  crimes,  the  apparition  of  the  ship  still 
continues  to  haunt  those  seas  in  which  the 
catastrophe  took  place,  and  is  considered  by 
the  mariners  as  the  worst  of  all  possible 
omens. 

Note  19. 

by  some  desert  isle  or  key.  —  P.  214. 

What  contributed  much  to  the  security  of 
the  Buccaneers  about  the  Windward  Islands, 
was  the  great  number  of  little  islets,  called 
in  that  country  keys.  These  are  small  sandy 
patches,  appearing  just  above  the  surface  of 
the  ocean,  covered  only  with  a  few  bushes 
and  weeds,  but  sometimes  affording  springs 
of  water,  and,  in  general,  much  frequented 
by  turtle.  Such  little  uninhabited  spots 
afforded  the  pirates  good  harbors,  either  for 
refitting  or  for  the  purpose  of  ambush ;  they 
were  occasionally  the  hiding-place  of  their 
treasure,  and  often  afforded  a  shelter  to 
themselves.  .As  many  of  the  atrocities 
which  they  practised  on  their  prisoners 
were  committed  in  such  spots,  there  are 
some  of  these  keys  which  even  now  have 
an  indifferent  reputation  among  seamen, 
and  where  they  are  with  difficulty  prevailed 
on  to  remain  ashore  at  night,  on  account 
of  the  visionary  terrors  incident  to  places 
which  have  been  thus  contaminated. 


ROKEBY. 


733 


Note  20. 
Before  the  gate  of  Mori  ham  stood.  —  P.  215. 
The  castle  of  Morthani,  which  Lehnd 
terms  "  Mr.  Rokesby"s  Place,  in  rifa  ciier., 
scant  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  Greta  Bridge, 
and  not  a  quarter  of  a  mile  beneath  into 
Tees,"  is  a  picturesque  tower,  surrounded  by 
buildings  of  different  ages,  now  converted 
into  a  farm-house  and  offices.  The  battle- 
ments of  the  tower  itself  are  singularly  ele- 
gant, the  architect  having  broken  them  at 
regular  intervals  into  different  heights ;  while 
those  at  the  corners  of  the  tower  project  into 
octangular  turrets.  They  are  also  from 
space  to  space  covered  with  stones  laid 
across  them,  as  in  modern  embrasures,  the 
whole  forming  an  uncommon  and  beautiful 
effect.  The  surrounding  buildings  are  of  a 
less  happy  form,  being  pointed  into  high 
and  steep  roofs.  A  wall  with  embrasures 
encloses  the  southern  front,  where  a  low  por- 
tal arch  affords  an  entry  to  what  was  the 
castle  court.  At  some  distance  is  most  hap- 
pily placed  between  the  stems  of  two  niag- 
nilicent  elms  the  monument  alluded  to  in 
the  text.  It  is  said  to  have  been  brought 
from  the  ruins  of  Egastone  Priory,  and, 
from  the  armory  with  which  it  is  richly 
carved,  appears  to  have  Ixien  a  tomb  of  the 
Fitz-Hughs. 

The  situation  of  Mortham  is  eminently 
beautiful,  occupying  a  high  bank,  at  the  lx)t- 
tom  of  which  the  Greta  winds  out  of  the 
dark,  narrow,  and  romantic  dell,  which  the 
text  has  attempted  to  describe,  and  flows 
onward  through  a  more  open  valley  to  meet 
the  Tees  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from 
the  castle.  Mortham  is  surrounded  by  old 
trees,  happily  and  widely  grouped  with  Mr. 
Morritt's  new  plantations. 

Note  21. 
There  dig,  and  tomb  your  frecioiis  heaf, 
And  bid  the  dead  your  treasure  keep.  — 

P.  216. 
If  time  did  not  permit  the  Buccaneers  to 
lavish  away  their  plunder  in  their  usual  de- 
baucheries, they  were  wont  to  hide  it,  with 
many  su|x.'rstitious  solemnities,  in  the  desert 
islands  and  keys  which  they  frequented,  and 
where  much  treasure,  whose  lawless  owners 
perished  without  reclaiming  it,  is  still  sup- 
posed to  Ije  concealed.  The  most  cruel  of 
mankind  are  often  the  most  superstitious ; 
and  these  pirates  are  said  to  liave  had  recourse 
to  a  horrid  ritual,  in  order  to  secure  an  un- 
earthly guardian  to  their  treasures.  They 
killed  a  negro  or  Spaniard,  and  buried  him 
with  the  treasure,  believing  that  his  spirit 
would  haunt  the  spt)t,  and  terrify  away  all 


intruders.  I  cannot  produce  any  other  au- 
thority on  which  this  custom  is  ascribed  to 
them  than  that  of  maritime  tradition,  which 
is.  however,  amply  sufficient  for  the  purposes 
of  poetry. 

Note  22. 
The  power        •  »  » 

«  «  *  «  • 

That  unsubdued  and  lurking  lies 
To  take  the  feloti  by  surprise. 
And  force  him,  as  by  magic  spell, 
In  his  despite  his  guilt  to  tell.  —  P.  216. 
All  who  are  conversant  with  the  adminis- 
tration of  criminal  justice,  must  remember 
many  occasions  in  which  malefactors  appear 
to  have  conducted  themselves  with  a  species 
of  infatuation,  either  by  making  unnecessary 
confidences  respecting  their  guilt,  or  by  sud- 
den and  involuntary  allusions  to  circum- 
stances by  which  it  could  not  fail  to  be  ex- 
posed. A  remarkable  instance  occurred  in 
the  celebrated  case  of  Eugene  Aram.  A 
skeleton  being  found  near  Knaresborough, 
was  supposed,  by  the  persons  who  gathered 
around  the  spot,  to  be  the  remains  of  one 
Clarke,  who  had  disappeared  some  years  be- 
before,  under  circumstances  leading  to  a  sus- 
picion of  his  having  been  murdered.  One 
Houseman,  who  had  mingled  in  the  crowd, 
suddenly  said,  while  looking  at  the  skeleton, 
and  hearing  the  opinion  which  was  buzzed 
around,  "  That  is  no  more  Dan  Clarke's 
bone  than  it  is  mine!"  —  a  sentiment  e.\- 
pressed  so  jxjsitively,  and  with  such  jx^u- 
iiarity  of  manner,  as  to  lead  all  who  heard 
him  to  infer  that  he  must  necessarily  know 
where  the  real  body  had  been  interred.  Ac- 
cordingly, Ijeing  apprehended,  he  confessed 
having  assisted  Eugene  Aram  to  murder 
Clarke,  and  to  hide  his  lx>dy  in  Saint  Rob- 
ert's Cave.  It  happened  to  the  author  him- 
self, while  conversing  with  a  person  accused 
of  an  atrocious  crime,  for  the  purjiose  of 
rendering  him  professional  assistance  upon 
his  trial,  to  hear  the  prisoner,  after  the  most 
solemn  and  reiterated  protestations  that  he 
was  guiltless,  suddenly,  and,  as  it  were,  in- 
voluntarily, in  the  course  of  communications, 
make  such  an  admission  as  was  akogetlier 
incompatible  with  innocence. 

Note  23. 

Brackcnbury's  dismal  tower. —  P.  218. 

This  tower  has  been  already  nientioned. 
It  is  situated  near  the  north-eastern  extrem- 
ity of  the  wall  which  encloses  Barnard  Castle, 
and  is  traditionally  said  to  have  been  the 
prison.  By  an  odd  coincidence,  it  bears  a 
name  which  we  naturally  connect  with  im- 


734 


APPENDIX. 


prisonment,  from  its  being  that  of  Sir  Rob- 
ert Brackenbury,  lieutenant  of  the  Tower  of 
London  under  Edward  IV.  and  Richard  III. 

Note  24. 
Nobles  and  knights^  so  frotid  of  late. 
Must  fine  for  freedom  and  estate. 

*  *  «  «  » 

Right  heavy  shall  his  ransom  be, 
Unless  that  maid  compound  with  thee.  — 

P.  219. 
After  the  battle  of  Marston  Moor,  the 
Earl  of  Newcastle  retired  beyond  sea  in  dis- 
gust, and  many  of  his  followers  laid  down 
their  arms,  and  made  the  best  composition 
they  could  with  tl»e  Committees  of  Parlia 
ment.  Fines  were  imposed  upon  them  in 
proportion  to  their  estates  and  degrees  of 
delinquency,  and  these  fines  were  often  be- 
stowed upon  such  persons  as  had  deserved 
well  of  the  Commons.  In  some  circum- 
stances it  happened,  that  the  oppressed  cav- 
aliers were  fain  to  form  family  alliances  with 
some  powerful  person  among  the  triumphant 
party. 

Note  25. 
The  Indian,  prowling  for  his  prey. 
Who  hears  the  settlers  track  his  way.  — 

P.  219. 
The  patience,  abstinence,  and  ingenuity  ex- 
erted by  the  North-American  Indians,  when 
in  pursuit  of  plunder  or  vengeance,  is  the 
most  distinguished  feature  in  tlieir  charac- 
ter ;  and  the  activity  and  address  wliich  they 
display  in  their  retreat  is  equally  surprising. 

Note  26. 
In  Redcsdale  his  youth  had  heard, 
Each  art  her  wily  dalesmen  dared. 
When  Rooken-edge,  and  Redswair  high. 
To  bugle  rung  and  bloodhound's  cry.  — 

P.  219. 

"  What  manner  of  cattle-stealers  they  are 
that  inhabit  these  valleys  in  the  marches  of 
both  kingdoms,  John  Lesley,  a  Scotche  man 
himself,  and  Pishop  of  Ross,  will  inform 
you.  They  sally  out  of  their  own  Ijorders 
in  the  night,  in  troops,  tlirough  unfrequented 
by-ways  and  many  intricate  windings.  AH 
the  day-time  tliey  refresh  themselves  and 
their  horses  in  lurking  holes  they  had  pitched 
upon  before,  till  they  arrive  in  the  dark  in  • 
those  places  they  have  a  design  upon.  As 
soon  as  they  have  seized  upon  tlie  lx)oty, 
they,  in  like  manner,  return  home  in  the 
night,  through  blind  ways,  and  fetching 
many  a  compass.  The  more  skilful  any  cap- 
tain is  to  pass  through  those  wild  deserts, 
crooked  turnings,  and  deep  precipices,  in  the 


thickest  mists,  his  reputation  is  the  greater, 
and  he  is  looked  upon  as  a  man  of  an  excel- 
lent head.  And  they  are  so  very  cunning, 
that  they  seldom  have  their  booty  taken  from 
them,  unless  sometimes  when,  by  the  help  of 
blood-hounds  following  them  exactly  upon 
the  track,  they  may  chance  to  fall  into  the 
hands  of  their  adversaries.  \Vlien  being 
taken,  they  have  so  much  persuasive  elo- 
quence, and  so  many  smooth,  insinuating 
words  at  command,  that  if  they  do  not 
move  their  judges,  nay,  and  even  their  ad- 
versaries (notwithstanding  the  severity  of 
their  natures),  to  have  mercy,  yet  they  incite 
them  to  admiration  and  compassion."  — 
Camden's  Britannia. 

The  inhabitants  of  the  valleys  of  Tyne 
and  Reed  were,  in  ancient  times,  so  inordi- 
nately addicted  to  tliese  depredations,  that 
in  1564,  the  Incorporated  Klerchant-adven- 
turers  of  Newcastle  made  a  law  that  none 
born  in  these  districts  should  be  admitted 
apprentice.  The  inhabitants  are  stated  to 
be  so  generally  addicted  to  rapine,  that  no 
faith  should  be  reposed  in  those  proceeding 
from  "such  lewde  and  wicked  progenitors." 
This  regulation  continued  to  stand  unre- 
pealed until  1 771.  A  Ixjggar.  in  an  old  play, 
descrilx'S  himself  as  "  lx)rn  in  Kedesdale,  in 
Northumlx'rland,  and  come  of  a  wight-rid- 
ing surname,  called  the  Robsons.  good  lionest 
men  and  true,  saving  a  little  shifting  for 
their  livings  (jod  help  them  .'  "  —  a  descrip- 
tion which  would  have  applied  to  most  Bor 
derers  on  Ixith  sides. 

Reidswair,  famed  for  a  skirmish  to  whicl 
it  gives  name,  [see  Border  Minstrelsy,  vol. 
ii.,  p.  15,]  is  on  the  very  edge  of  the  Cartel 
Fell,  which  divides  England  from  ."^cotlanci 
The  Rooken  is  a  place  upon  Reedwater 
Bertram,  being  descrited  as  a  native  of  theee 
dales,  where  the  habits  of  hostile  depreda- 
tion long  survived  the  union  of  the  crowns, 
may  have  Iseen,  in  some  degree,  prepared  by 
education  for  the  exercise  of  a  similar  trade 
in  the  wars  of  the  Buccaneers. 

Note  27. 
Hiding  his  face,  lest  foemcn  spy 
The  sparkle  of  his  swarthy  eye.  —  P.  220. 
After  one  of  the  recent  battles,  in  which 
the  Irish  relDels  were  defeated,  one  of  their 
most  active  leaders  was  found  in  a  bog,  in 
which  he  was  immersed  up  to  the  shoulders, 
while  his  head  was  concealed  by  an  impend- 
ing   ledge   of    turf.      Being    detected .  and 
seized,  notwithstanding   his   precaution,  he 
tecame  solicitous  to  know  how  his  retreat 
had  Ijeen  discovered.     "  1   caught,"  answered 
the  Sutherland  Highlander,  by  whom  he  was 


ROKEBY. 


735 


taken.  "  the  sparkle  of  your  eye."  Those 
who  are  accustomed  to  mark  hares  upon 
their  form  usually  discover  them  by  the  same 
circumstance.  Sir  Walter  Scott  continued 
to  be  fond  of  coursing  hares  long  after  he 
had  laid  aside  all  other  field  sports,  and  he 
used  to  say  jocularly,  that  he  had  more 
pleasure  in  being  considered  an  excellent 
finder,  than  in  all  his  reputation  as  a  trou- 
veur. 

Note  28. 
Here  stood  a  wretch,  prepared  to  change 
His  soul's  rcdevtption  for  revenge.  —  P.  221. 
It  is  agreed  by  all  the  writers  upon  magic 
and  witchcraft,  that  revenge  was  the  most 
common  motive  for  the  pretented  compact 
between  Satan  and  his  vassals. 

Note  29. 
Of  my  marauding  on  the  clowns 
Of  Calverlcy  and  Bradford  downs.  — 

P.  222. 
The  troops  of  the  King,  when  they  first 
took  the  field,  were  as  well  disciplined  as 
could  be  expected  from  circumstances.  But 
as  the  circumstances  of  Charles  became  less 
favorable,  and  his  funds  for  regularly  paying 
his  forces  decreased,  habits  of  military  li- 
cense prevailed  among  them  in  greater  ex- 
cess. Lacy  the  player,  who  served  his 
master  during  the  Civil  War,  brought  out, 
after  the  Restoration,  a  piece  called  The  Old 
Troop,  in  which  he  seems  to  have  commem- 
orated some  real  incidents  which  occurred  in 
his  military  career.  The  names  of  the  offi- 
cers of  the  Troop  sufficiently  express  their 
habits.  We  have  Fleaflint  Plundermaster- 
Gt^neral,  Captain  Ferret-farm,  and  Quarter- 
master BurnKlrop.  'i'he  officers  of  the 
Troop  are  in  league  with  these  worthies,  and 
connive  at  their  plundering  the  country  for 
a  suitable  share  in  the  booty.  All  this  was 
undoubtedly  drawn  from  the  life,  which  Lacy 
had  an  opportunity  to  study.  The  moral  of 
the  whole  is  comprehended  in  a  rebuke  given 
to  the  lieutenant,  whose  disorders  in  the 
country  are  said  to  prejudice  the  King's 
cause  more  than  his  courage  in  the  field 
could  recompense.  The  piece  is  by  no 
means  void  of  farcical  humor. 

Note  30. 

BrignaWs  woods,  and  ScargilPs  wave. 

E'en  no^u,  o'er  many  a  sister  cave. —  P.  222. 
The  banks  of  the  Greta,  below  Rutherford 
Bridge,  abound  in  seams  of  grayish  slate, 
which  are  wrought  in  some  places  to  a  very 
great  depth,  under  ground,  thus  forming 
artificial  caverns,  which,  when  the  seam  has 


been  exhausted,  are  gradually  hidden  by  the 
underwood  which  grows  in  profusion  upon 
the  romantic  banks  of  the  river.  In  times 
of  public  confusion,  they  might  be  well 
adapted  to  the  purposes  of  banditti. 

Note  31. 
When  Spain  waged  warfare  with  our  land. 
—  P.  224. 
There  was  a  short  war  with  Spain  in 
1625-26,  which  will  be  found  to  agree  pretty 
well  with  the  chronology  of  the  jjoeni.  But 
probably  Bertram  held  an  opinion  very  com- 
mon among  the  maritime  heroes  of  the  age, 
that,  "  there  was  no  peace  beyond  the  Line." 
The  Spanish  guarda-costas  were  constantly 
employed  in  aggressions  upon  the  trade  and 
settlements  of  the  English  and  French  ;  and, 
by  their  own  severities,  gave  room  for  the 
system  of  buccaneering,  at  first  adopted  in* 
self-defence  and  retaliation,  and  afterwards 
persevered  in  from  habit  and  thirst  of 
plunder. 

Note  32. 
our  comrades'  strife. —  P.  225. 

The  laws  of  the  Buccaneers,  and  their  suc- 
cessors the  Pirates,  however  severe  and  equi- 
table, were,  like  other  laws,  often  set  aside 
by  the  stronger  party.  Their  quarrels  about 
the  division  of  the  spoil  fill  their  history, 
and  they  as  frequently  arose  out  of  mere 
frolic,  or  the  tyrannical  humor  of  their  chiefs. 
An  anecdote  of  Teach  (calfed  Blackbeard), 
shows  that  their  habitual  indifference  for 
human  life  extended  to  their  companions,  as 
well  as  their  enemies  and  captives. 

"  One  night,  drinking  in  his  cabin  with 
Hands,  the  pilot,  and  another  man.  Black- 
beard,  without  any  provocation,  privately 
draws  out  a  small  pair  of  pistols,  and  cocks 
them  under  the  table,  which  being  jierceived 
by  the  man,  he  withdrew  upon  deck,  leaving 
Hands,  the  pilot,  and  the  captain  together. 
When  the  pistols  were  ready,  he  blew  out  the 
candles,  and,  crossing  his  hands,  discharged 
them  at  his  company.  Hands,  the  master, 
was  shot  through  the  knee,  and  lamed  for 
life;  the  other  pistol  did  no  execution."  — 
Johnson's  History  of  Pirates.  Lend.,  1733, 
Svo,  vol.  i.,  p.  38. 

Note  33. 

Song.  — Adieu  for  evermore,— V.  225. 

The  last  verse  of  this  song  is  taken  from 
the  fragment  of  an  old  Scottish  ballad,  of 
which  1  only  recollected  two  verses  when  tl>e 
first  edition  of  Kokeby  was  pubhshcd.  Mr. 
Thomas  Sheridan  kindly  pointed  out  to  me 
an  entire  copy  of  this  beautiful  song,  which 


736 


APPENDIX. 


seems  to  express  the  fortunes  of  some  fol- 
lowers of  the  Stuart  family  :  — 

"  It  was  a'  for  our  rightful  king 

That  we  left  fair  Scotland's  strand. 
It  was  a'  for  our  rightful  king 
That  we  e'er  saw  Irish  land, 
My  dear, 
That  we  e'er  saw  Irish  land. 

"  Now  all  is  done  that  man  can  do, 
And  all  is  done  in  vain  ! 
My  love !  my  native  land,  adieu  ! 
For  I  must  cross  the  main, 

My  dear, 
For  I  must  cross  the  main. 

"  He  turned  lum  round  and  right  about. 
All  on  the  Irish  shore, 
He  gave  his  bridle-reins  a  shake. 
With,  Adieu  for  evermore. 

My  dear ! 
Adieu  for  evermore ! 

"  The  soldier  frae  the  war  returns. 
And  the  merchant  frae  the  main, 
But  I  hae  parted  wi'  my  love, 
And  ne'er  to  meet  again, 

My  dear, 
And  ne'er  to  meet  again. 

"  When  day  is  gone  and  night  is  come, 
And  a'  are  boun'  to  sleep, 
I  think  on  them  that's  far  awa' 
The  lee-lang  night,  and  weep. 
My  dear. 
The  lee-lang  night,  and  weep." 

Note  34. 
Rere-cross  on  Stanmore.  —  P.  227. 
Rere-cross,   Ree-cross,  or   Roi-cross  ;  that 
is,  the  cross  of  the  King,  is  the  border  mark 
between  England  and  Scotland. 

This  is  a  fragment  of  an  i)ld  cross,  with 
its  pediment,  surrounded  by  an  intrencli- 
ment,  upon  tiie  very  sunmiit  of  the  waste 
ridge  of  Stanmore,  near  a  small  house  of 
entertainment.  The  situation  of  the  cross, 
and  the  pains  taken  to  defend  it,  seem  to 
indicate  tiiat  it  was  intended  for  a  landmark 
of  importance. 

Note  35. 
Hast  thou  lodged  our  deer  f  —  P.  227. 
The  duty  of  the  ranger,  or  pricker,  was 
first  to  lodge  or  harbor  the  deer,  i.e.,  to  dis- 
cover his  retreat,  and  then  to  make  his  report 
to  his  prince  or  master. 

Note  36. 
When  Denmark's  raven  soar\l  on  high, 
Triumphant  thro'  Northumbrian  sky, 
Till,  hoi'ering  near,  her  fatal  croak 
Bade  Reged's  Britons  dread  the  yoke.  — 

P.  228. 
About  the  year  of  God  866,  the  Danes, 


under  their  celebrated  leaders  Inguar  (more 
properly  .Agnar)  and  Ilubba,  sons,  it  is  said, 
of  the  still  more  celebrated  Regnar  I.odbrog, 
invaded  Northumberland,  bringing  with  them 
the  magical  standard,  so  often  mentioned  in 
poetry,  called  Reaken,  or  Rumfan,  from  its 
bearing  the  figure  of  a  raven  :  — 

"  Wrought  by  the  sisters  of  the  Danish  king. 
Of  furious  Ivar  in  a  midnight  hour: 
While  the  sick  moon  at  their  enchanted  song 
Wrapt  in  pale  tempest,  labor'd  thro'  the  clouds. 
The  demons  of  destruction  then,  tliey  say, 
Were  all  abroad,  and  mixing  with  the  woof 
Their  Ijaleful  power:  The  sisters  ever  sung, 
'  Shake,   standard,    shake    this    ruin    on   our 
foes.'" 

Thomson  and  Mallet's  Alfred. 

The  Danes  renewed  and  extended  their  in- 
cursions, and  began  to  colonize,  establishing 
a  kind  of  capital  at  Vork,  from  whicii  they 
spread  their  conquests  and  incursions  in 
every  direction.  Stanmore,  which  divides 
the  mountains  of  Westmoreland  and  Cum- 
berland, was  probably  the  boundary  of  tlie 
Danish  kingdom  in  that  direction.  The  dis- 
trict to  the  west,  known  in  ancient  British 
history  by  the  name  of  Reged,  had  never 
been  conquered  by  the  Saxons,  and  continued 
to  maintain  a  precarious  independence  until 
it  was  ceded  to  Malcolm,  King  of  Scots,  by 
William  the  Conqueror,  probably  on  account 
of  its  similarity  in  language  and  manners  to 
the  neighboring  British  kingdom  of  Strath- 
Clyde. 

Upon  the  extent  and  duration  of  the  Dan- 
ish sovereignty  in  Northumberland,  the  cu- 
rious may  consult  the  various  authorities 
quoted  in  the  Gcsta  et  Vestigia  Danortitn 
extra  Daniam,  tom.  ii.  p.  40.  The  most 
powerful  of  their  Northumbrian  leaders 
seems  to  have  been  Ivar,  called,  from  the  ex- 
tent of  his  conquests,  Widfam  ;  that  is,  The 
Str'ider. 

Note  37. 
Beneath  the  shade  the  Northmen  came, 
Fix'd  on  each  vale  a  Runic  name.  —  P.  228. 

The  heathen  Danes  have  left  several  traces 
of  their  religion  in  the  upper  part  of  Tees- 
dale.  Balder-garth,  which  derives  its  name 
from  the  unfortunate  son  of  Odin,  is  a  tract 
of  waste  land,  on  the  very  ridge  of  -Stanmore ; 
and  a  brook,  which  falls  into  the  Tees  near 
Barnard  Castle,  is  named  after  the  same 
deity.  A  field  upon  the  banks  of  the  Tecs 
is  also  termed  Woden-Croft,  from  the  su- 
preme deity  of  the  Edda. 

Note  38. 
Who  has  not  lieard  how  brave  ONeale 
In  English  blood  imbrued  his  steel? — P.  229, 
The  O'Neale  here  meant,  for  more  than 


ROKEBY. 


737 


one  succeeded  to  the  chieftainship  during  the 
reign  of  Elizabeth,  was  Hugh,  the  grandson 
of  Con  O'Neale,  called  Con  Bacco,  or  the 
Lame.  His  father,  Matthew  0"Kelly,  was 
illegitimate,  and,  being  the  son  of  a  black- 
smith's wife,  was  usually  called  Matthew  the 
blacksmith.  His  father,  nevertheless,  des- 
tined his  succession  to  him ;  and  he  was 
created,  by  Elizabeth,  Baron  of  Dungannon. 
I'pon  the  death  of  Con  Bacco,  this  Matthew 
was  slain  by  his  brother.  Hugh  narrowly 
escaped  the  same  fate,  and  was  protected  by 
the  English.  Shane  O'Neale,  his  uncle, 
called  Shane  Dymas,  was  succeeded  by  'Fur- 
lough Lynogh  O'Neale ;  after  whose  death 
Hugh,  having  assumed  the  chieftainship,  be- 
came nearly  as  formidable  to  the  English  as 
any  by  whom  it  had  been  possessed.  He  re- 
telled  repeatedly,  and  as  often  made  submis- 
sions, of  which  it  was  usually  a  condition 
that  he  should  not  any  longer  assume  the 
title  of  O'Neale  ;  in  lieu  of  which  he  was 
created  Earl  of  Tyrone.  But  this  condition 
he  never  observed  longer  than  until  the  pres- 
sure of  superior  force  was  withdrawn.  His 
baffling  the  gallant  Earl  of  Essex  in  the 
field,  and  over-reaching  him  in  a  treaty,  was 
tiie  induction  to  that  nobleman's  tragedy. 
I.ord  Mount  joy  succeeded  in  finally  subju- 
gating O'Neale  ;  but  it  was  not  till  the  suc- 
cession of  James,  to  whom  he  made  personal 
submission,  and  was  received  with  civility  at 
court. 

Note  39. 

But  chief  arose  his  victor  fride. 
When    that    brave    Marshal  fought   and 
died. 

— P.  229. 

The  chief  victory  which  Tyrone  obtained 
over  the  English  was  in  a  battle  fought  near 
Blackwater,  while  he  besieged  a  fort  garri- 
soned by  the  English,  which  commanded  the 
passes  into  his  country. 

Tyrone  is  said  to  have  entertained  a  per- 
sonal animosity  against  the  knight-marshal, 
Sir  Henry  Bagnal,  whom  he  accused  of  de- 
taining the  letters  which  he  sent  to  Queen 
Elizabeth,  explanatory  of  his  conduct,  and 
offering  terms  of  submission.  The  river, 
called  by  the  English,  Blackwater,  is  termed 
in  Irish,  Avon-Duff,  which  has  the  same  sig- 
nification. Both  names  are  mentioned  by 
Spenser  in  his  "  Marriage  of  the  Thames  and 
the  Medway.''  But  I  understand  that  his 
verses  relate  not  to  the  Blackwater  of  Ulster, 
but  to  a  river  of  the  same  name  in  the  south 
of  Ireland:  — 
"  Swift  Avon-Duff,  which  of  the  Englishmen 
Is  called  Blackwater." 


Note  40. 
The  Tanist  he  to  great  O'Neale.  —  P.  229. 

"  Eudox.  What  is  that  which  you  call 
Tanist  and  Tanistry  ?  These  be  names  and 
terms  never  heard  of  nor  known  to  us. 

"  Ircn.  It  is  a  custom  amongst  all  the 
Irish,  that  presently  after  the  death  of  one 
of  their  chiefe  lords  or  captaines,  they  doe 
presently  assemble  themselves  to  a  place 
generally  appointed  and  knowne  unto  them, 
to  choose  another  in  his  stead,  where  they  do 
nominate  and  elect,  for  the  mo^t  part  not 
the  eldest  sonne,  nor  any  of  the  children  of 
the  lord  deceased,  but  the  next  to  him  in 
blood,  that  is,  the  eldest  and  worthiest,  as 
commonly  the  next  brother  unto  him,  if  he 
have  any,  or  the  next  cousin,  or  so  forth,  as 
any  is  elder  in  that  kindred  or  sept ;  and 
then  next  to  them  doe  they  chose  the  next  of 
the  blood  to  be  Tanist,  who  shall  next  suc- 
ceed him  in  the  said  captainry,  if  be  live 
thereunto. 

"  Eudox.  Do  they  not  use  any  ceremony 
in  the  election,  for  all  barbarous  nations  are 
commonly  great  observers  of  ceremonies  and 
suf>erstitious  rites  1 

"  Iren.  They  use  to  place  him  that  shall 
be  their  captaine  upon  a  stone,  always  re- 
served to  that  purpose,  and  placed  commonly 
upon  a  hill.  In  some  of  which  I  have  seen 
formed  and  engraven  a  foot,  which  they  say 
was  the  measure  of  their  first  captaine's  foot ; 
whereon  hee  standing,  receives  an  oath  t<> 
preserve  all  the  ancient  former  customes  of 
the  countrey  inviolable,  and  to  deliver  up  the 
succession  peaceably  to  his  Tanist,  and  then 
hath  a  wand  delivered  unto  him  by  some 
whose  proper  office  that  is  ;  after  which,  de- 
scending from  the  stone,  he  turneth  himself 
round,  thrice  forwards  and  thrice  backwards. 

"  Eudox.    But  how  is  the  Tanist  chosen  ? 

"  Ircn  They  say  he  setteth  but  one  foot 
upon  the  stone,  and  receiveth  the  like  oath 
that  the  captaine  did."  —  Spenser's  Virm 
of  the  State  of  Ireland,  apud  Works,  Lond., 
1S05,  Svo,  vol.  viii.  p.  306. 

The  Tanist,  tlierefore,  of  O'Neale,  was 
the  heir-apparent  of  his  power.  This  kind 
of  succession  appears  also  to  have  regulated, 
in  very  remote  times,  the  succession  to  the 
crown  of  Scotland.  It  would  have  been  im- 
prudent, if  not  impossible,  to  have  asserted  a 
minor's  right  of  succession  in  those  stormy 
days,  when  the  principles  of  policy  were 
summed  up  in  my  friend  Mr.  Wordsworth's 
lines :  — 

" the  good  old  rule 

Sufficeth  them  ;  the  simple  plan. 

That  they  should  take  who  have  the  power. 
And  they  should  keep  who  can." 


738 


APPENDIX. 


Note  41. 
With  wild  majestic  port  and  tone. 
Like  envoy  of  some  barbarous  throne.  — 

P.  230. 
The  Irish  chiefs,  in  their  intercourse  with 
the  EngUsh,  and  with  each  other,  were  wont 
to  assume  the  language  and  style  of  indepen- 
dent royalty. 

Note  42. 
His  foster-father  -was  his  guide. —  P.  230. 
There  was  no  tie  more  sacred  among  the 
Irish  than  that  which  connected  the  foster- 
father,  as  well  as  the  nurse  herself,  with  the 
child  they  brought  up. 

Note  43. 
Great  Nial  of  the  Pledges  Nine.  —  P.  231. 
Neal  Naighvallach,  or  Of  the  Nine  Hos- 
tages, is  said  to  have  been  Monarch  of  all 
Ireland  during  the  end  of  the  fourth  or  be- 
ginning of  the  fifth  century.  He  exercised 
a  predatory  warfare  on  the  coast  of  England 
and  of  Bretagne,  or  Armorica ;  and  from 
the  latter  country  brought  off  the  celebrated 
Saint  Patrick,  a  youth  of  sixteen,  among 
other  captives,  whom  he  transported  to  Ire- 
land. Neal  derived  his  epitliet  from  nine 
nations,  or  tribes,  whom  he  held  under  his 
subjection,  and  from  whom  he  took  hostages. 

Note  44. 
Shane-Dymas  zcild.  —  P.  231. 

This  Shane-Dymas,  or  John  the  Wanton, 
held  the  title  and  power  of  O'Neale  in  the 
earlier  part  of  Elizabeth's  reign,  against 
whom  he  rebelled  repeatedly. 

"  This  chieftain  is  handed  down  to  us  as 
the  most  proud  and  profligate  man  on  earth. 
He  was  immoderately  addicted  to  women 
and  wine.  He  is  said  to  have  had  200  tuns 
of  wine  at  once  in  his  cellar  at  Dandram, 
but  usquebaugh  was  his  favorite  liquor.  He 
spared  neither  age  nor  condition  of  the  fair 
sex.  Altho'  so  illiterate  that  he  could  not 
write,  he  was  not  destitute  of  address,  his 
understanding  was  strong,  and  his  courage 
daring.  He  had  600  men  for  his  guard  ; 
4,000  foot,  1,000  horse  for  the  field.  He 
claimed  superiority  over  all  the  lords  of 
Ulster,  and  called  himself  king  thereof."  — 
Camden. 

When  reduced  to  extremity  by  the  English, 
and  forsaken  by  his  allies,  this  Shane-Dymas 
fled  to  Clandeboy,  then  occupied  by  a  colony 
of  Scottish  Highlanders  of  the  family  of 
MacDonell.  He  was  at  first  courteously  re- 
ceived, but  by  degrees  they  began  to  quarrel 
about  the  slaughter  of  some  of  their  friends 
whom  Shane-Dymas  had  put  to  death,  and 


advancing  from  words  to  deeds,  fell  upon 
him  with  their  broadswords,  and  cut  him  to 
pieces.  .After  his  death  a  law  was  made 
that  none  should  presume  to  take  the  name 
and  title  of  O'Neale. 

Note  45. 

Gcraldinc.  —  P.  231. 

The  O'Neales  were  closely  allied  with  this 
powerful  and  warlike  family ;  for  Henry 
C)wen  O'Neale  married  the  daughter  of 
Thomas  Earl  of  Kildare,  and  their  son  Con- 
More  married  his  cousin-german,  a  daughter 
of  Gerald  Earl  of  Kildare.  This  Con-More 
cursed  any  of  his  posterity  who  should  learn 
the  English  language,  .sow  corn,  or  build 
houses,  so  as  to  invite  the  English  to  settle 
in  tiieir  country.  Others  ascribe  this  an- 
athema to  his  son  Con-Bacco.  Fearflatha 
O'Gnive.  bard  to  the  O'Neales  of  Clannaboy, 
complains  in  the  same  spirit  of  the  towers 
and  ramparts  with  which  the  strangers  had 
disjigured  the  fair  sporting  fields  of  Erin.  — 
See  Walker's  Irish  Bards,  p.  140. 

Note  46. 

his  page,  the  next  degree 

In  that  old  time  to  chivalry. —  P.  231. 

Originally,  the  order  of  chivalry  embraced 
three  ranks  : —  i.  The  Page ;  2.  The  Squire; 
3.  The  Knight;  —  a  gradation  which  seems 
to  have  been  imitated  in  the  mystery  of  free- 
masonry. But,  before  the  reign  of  Charles 
1.,  the  custom  of  serving  as  a  scjuire  had 
fallen  into  disuse,  though  the  order  of  the 
page  was  still,  to  a  certain  degree,  in  observ- 
ance. This  state  of  servitude  was  so  far 
from  inferring  anything  degrading,  that  it 
was  considered  as  the  regular  school  for  ac- 
quiring every  quality  necessary  for  future 
distinction. 

Note  47. 
Seetn'd  half  ahandon'd  to  decay.  —  P.  236. 

The  ancient  castle  of  Kokcby  stood  exactly 
upon  the  site  of  the  present  mansion,  by 
wliich  a  part  of  its  walls  is  enclosed.  It  is 
surrounded  by  a  profusion  of  fine  wood,  and 
the  park  in  which  it  stands  is  adojned  by 
the  junction  of  the  Greta  and  of  the  Tees. 
The  title  of  Baron  Rokeby  of  Armagh  was, 
in  1777,  conferred  on  the  Kight  Reverend 
Richard  Robinson,  Primate  of  Ireland,  de- 
scended of  the  Robinsons,  formerly  of 
Rokeby,  in  Yorkshire. 

Note  4S. 

The  Felon  So7v.  —  P.  23S. 

The  ancient  minstrels  had  a  comic  as  well 
as  a  serious  strain  of  romance  ;  and  although 


ROKEBY. 


739 


the  examples  of  the  latter  are  by  far  the  most 
numerous,  they  are,  perhaps,  the  less  valu- 
able. The  comic  romance  was  a  sort  of 
parody  upon  the  usual  subjects  of  minstrel 
poetry.  If  the  latter  described  deeds  of  heroic 
achievement,  and  the  events  of  the  battle, 
the  tourney,  and  the  chase,  the  former,  as  in 
the  Tournament  of  Tottenliam,  introduced  a 
set  of  clowns  debating  in  the  field,  with  all 
the  assumed  circumstances  of  chivalry.  One 
of  the  very  best  of  these  mock  romances,  and 
which  has  no  small  portion  of  comic  humor, 
is  the  Hunting  of  the  Felon  Sow  of  Kokeby 
by  the  Friars  of  Richmond. 

Note  49. 

The  Filea  of  O' Ncale  was  he.  —  P.  239. 

Tlie  Filea,  or  Ollamh  Re  Dan,  was  the 
proper  bard,  or,  as  the  name  literally  implies, 
poet.  Each  chieftain  of  distinction  had  one 
or  more  in  his  service,  whose  office  was  usually 
hereditary.  The  late  ingenious  Mr.  Cooper 
Walker,  has  assembled  a  curious  collection 
of  particulars  concerning  this  order  of  men, 
in  his  Historical  Memoirs  of  the  Irish  Bards. 
Tiiere  were  itinerant  bards  of  less  elevated 
rank,  but  all  were  held  in  the  highest  venera- 
tion. 

Note  50. 
Ah,  Clandehoy  !  thy  friendly  floor 
Slieve-Donard  's  oak  shall  light  no  more.  — 

P.  239. 

Clandeboy  is  a  district  of  Ulster,  formerly 
possessed  by  the  sept  of  the  O'Neales,  and 
Slieve-Donard  a  romantic  mountain  in  the 
same  province.  The  clan  was  ruined  after 
Tyrone's  great  rebellion,  and  their  places  of 
abode  laid  desolate.  The  ancient  Irish,  wild 
and  uncultivated  in  other  respects,  did  not 
yield  even  to  their  descendants  in  practising 
t!ie  most  free  and  extended  hospitality. 

Note  51. 
On  Marwood  Chase  and  Toller  Hill.  — 

P.  239. 

Marwood  Chase  is  the  old  park  extending 
along  the  Durham  side  of  the  Tees,  attached 
to  Barnard  Castle.  Toller  Hill  is  an  emi- 
nence on  the  Yorkshire  side  of  the  river, 
commanding  a  superb  view  of  the  ruins. 

Note  52. 

"And  Scotland'' s  vaunted  Hawthornden, 

And,  silenced  on  Icrnian  shore, 

M^Curtin's  harp  should  charm  no  more." 

—  P.  240. 

Drummond  of    Hawthornden  was  in  the 

zenith  of  his   reputation  as  a  poet   during 

the  Civil    War.     He   died   in    1649,  at   the 


age  of  sixty-four.  M'Curtin  was  hereditary 
Ollamh  or  bard  of  North  Munster,  and  Fil^ 
to  Donough,  Earl  of  Thomond  and  Presi- 
dent of  Munster.  When  Lord  Thomond 
joined  Elizabeth's  forces,  M'Curtin  satirized 
him  in  a  poem  in  which  he  said,  "  How  am 
I  afflicted  that  the  descendant  of  the  great 
Brion  Boiromh  cannot  furnisJi  me  with  a 
theme  worthy  the  honor  and  glory  of  his 
exalted  race."  The  Earl  vowed  vengeance, 
and  the  bard  fled  to  County  Cork.  But, 
once  coming  in  Thomond's  way,  he  pre- 
tended to  be  suddenly  seized  with  the  pangs 
of  death.  His  wife,  entering  into  the  spirit 
of  the  comedy,  bewailed  him,  and  told  the 
Earl  that  it  was  her  husband's  dying  request 
to  be  pardoned.  "  That  nobleman,"  says 
Walker,  in  his  "  Memoirs  of  the  Irish  Bards," 
"  was  moved  to  compassion,  and  not  only 
declared  that  he  most  heartily  forgave  him, 
but  opening  his  purse,  presented  the  fair 
mourner  with  some  pieces  to  inter  him. 
This  instance  of  his  lordship's  pity  and 
generosity  gave  courage  to  the  trembling 
bard  ;  who  suddenly  springing  up,  recited  an 
extemporaneous  ode  in  praise  of  Donough, 
and  re-entering  into  his  service,  became  once 
more  his  favorite." 

Note  53. 
Littlecotlcl  Hall.  —  P.  244. 
This  ballad  is  founded  on  a  fact ;  —  the 
horrible  murder  of  an  infant  by  Wild  Day- 
rell,  as  he  was  called.  He  gave  the  house 
and  lands  as  a  bribe  to  the  judge  (Popham) 
in  order  to  save  his  life.  A  few  months 
after  Dayrell  broke  his  neck  by  a  fall  from 
his  horse. 

Note  54. 
As  thick  a  smoke  these  hearts  have  given 
At  Hallorw-tide  or  Christmas-even. — P.  245. 
Such  an  exhortation  was,  in  similar  cir- 
cumstances, actually  given  to  his  followers 
by  a  Welsh  chieftain. 

Note  55. 

Cer  Hexham's  altar  hung  my  glove.  — 

P-  253- 

This  custom  among  the  Redesdale  and 
Tynedale  Borderers  of  duelling,  which  often 
resulted  in  petty  warfare,  the  contending 
parties  mustering  their  adherents,  was  found 
and  is  mentioned  in  the  interesting  life  of 
Barnard  Gilpin. 

"  It  happened  that  a  quarrel  of  this  kind 
was  on  foot  when  Mr.  Gilpin  was  at  Koth- 
burv.  in  those  parts.  During  the  two  or 
three  first  days  of  his  preaching,  the  contend- 


740 


APPENDIX. 


ing  parties  observed  some  decorum,  and  never 
appeared  at  church  together.  At  length, 
however,  they  met.  One  party  had  been 
early  at  church,  and  just  as  Mr.  Gilpin  be- 
gan his  sermon,  the  other  entered.  They 
stood  not  long  silent.  InHamed  at  the  sight 
of  each  other,  they  began  to  clash  their  wea- 
pons, for  they  were  all  armed  with  jave- 
lins and  swords,  and  mutually  apjiroached. 
Awed,  however,  by  the  sacredness  of  the 
place,  the  tumult  in  some  degree  ceased. 
Mr.  Clilpin  proceeded;  when  again  the  com- 
batants began  to  brandish  their  weapons, 
and  draw  towards  eacii  other.  As  a  fray 
seemed  near,  Mr.  fiilpin  stopped  from  tlie 
pulpit,  went  iK-tween  them,  and  addressed 
the  leaders,  put  an  end  to  the  quarrel,  for 
the  present,  but  could  not  effect  an  entire 
reconciliation.  They  promised  him,  how- 
ever, that  till  tlie  sermon  was  over  they 
would  make  no  more  disturbance.  He  tlien 
went  again  into  the  pulpit,  and  spent  the 
rest  of  the  time  in  endeavoring  to  make  them 
ashamed  of  what  they  had  done.  His  lx> 
havior  and  discourse  affected  them  so 
much,  that,  at  his  further  entreaty,  they 
promised  to  fortx^ar  all  acts  of  hostility  while 
he  continued  in  the  country.  And  so  much 
respected  was  he  among  them,  that  whoever 
was  in  fear  of  his  enemy  used  to  resort  wliere 
Mr.  Gilpin  was,  esteeming  his  presence  the 
best  protection. 


"  One  Sunday  morning,  coming  to  a  church 
in  those  parts,  before  the  jaeople  were  assem- 
bled, he  observed  a  glove  hanging  up,  and 
was  informed  by  the  sexton  that  it  was  meant 
as  a  challenge  to  any  one  who  should  take 
it  down.  Mr.  Gilpin  ordered  the  sexton  to 
reach  it  to  \\\w\ ;  but  upon  his  utterly  re- 
fusing to  touch  it,  he  took  it  down  himself, 
and  put  it  into  his  breast.  When  the  people 
were  assembled,  he  went  into  the  pulpit,  and, 
Ixifore  he  concluded  his  sermon,  took  occa- 
sion to  rebuke  them  severely  for  tiiese  inhu- 
man challenges.  '  I  hear,'  saith  he,  *  that  one 
among  you  hath  hanged  up  a  glf)ve,  even  in 
this  sacred  place,  threatening  to  light  any 
one  who  taketh  it  down  :  see,  i  have  taken  it 
down  : '  and,  pulling  out  the  glove,  he  held 
it  up  to  the  congregation,  and  tlien  showed 
them  how  unsuitable  such  savage  practices 
were  to  the  profession  of  Christianity,  using 
such  persuasives  to  mutual  love  as  he 
tlKJught  would  most  aflCct  them."  —  Life 
of  Barnard  Gilpin,  Loud.,  1753,  Svo,  p. 
177- 

Note  56. 
A  horseman  arm\I,  at  Jicadlons;  sfrrd.  — 

P.  256. 

'J'liis,  and  what  follows,  is  taken  from  a 
real  achievement  of  Major  Rotert  I'hilipson, 
called  from  his  desperate  and  adventurous 
courage,  Robin  the  Devil. 


THE   r.RTD.\L   OF   TRTERMATN. 


Note  1. 
The  Baron  of  Triermain. — r..2f)-;. 
Trikkmain  was  a  fief  of  the  Barony  of 
Gilsland  in  Cumterland;  it  was  possessed 
by  a  Saxon  family  at  the  time  of  the  Con- 
quest, but,  ''  after  the  deatii  of  Gilmore,  Lord 
of  Tryermaine  and  Torcrossock,  Hutert 
Vaux  gave  Tryermaine  and  Torcrossock  to 
his  second  son,  Ranulph  Vaux;  which  Ran- 
ulj)h  afterwards  became  heir  to  his  elder 
brother  Robert,  the  founder  of  I-anercost, 
who  died,  without  issue.  Ranulph,  being 
Lord  of  all  Gilsland,  gave  Gilmore's  lands 
to  his  younger  son,  named  Roland,  and  let 
the  Barony  descend  to  his  eldest  son  l^otert, 
son  of  Ranulph.  Ronald  had  issue  Alexan- 
der, and  he  Ranulph,  after  whom  succeeded 
Robert,  and  they  were  named  Rolands  suc- 
cessively, that  were  lords  tliereof,  until  tlie 
reign  of  Edward  the  Fourth.     That  house 


gave  for  arms.  Vert  [Argent,  not  vert],  a 
bend  dexter,  chequy,  or,  and  gules." — ■ 
Burn's  Antiquities  of  Westtnoreland  and 
Cumberland,  vol.  ii.,  p.  4S2. 

Note  2. 
He  passed  red  PenritlC s  Table  Round.  — 

P.  264. 
A  circular  intrenchment,  about  half  a  mile 
from  I'enrinth,  is  thus  popularly  termed. 
'J'he  circle  within  the  ditch  is  about  one  htm- 
drcd  and  sixty  paces  in  circumference,  with 
openings,  or  approaches,  directly  opposite 
to  each  other.  As  this  ditch  is  on  the  inner 
side,  it  could  not  te  intended  for  the  purpose 
of  defence,  and  it  has  reasonably  been  con- 
jectured that  tlie  enclosure  was  designed  for 
tlie  solemn  exercise  of  feats  of  chivalry,  and 
tlie  embankment  around  for  the  convenience 
of  tlve  spectators. 


THE  BRIDAL    OF   TRIERMAIN. 


74« 


Note  3. 
Mayburgli's  mound.  —  P.  264. 
Higher  up  the  river  Eaniont  than  Arthur's 
Round  Table,  is  a  prodigious  enclosure  of 
great  antiquity,  formed  by  a  collection  of 
stones  upon  the  top  of  a  gently  sloping  hill, 
called  Mayburgh.  In  the  plain  which  it 
encloses  there  stands  erect  an  unhewn  stone 
of  twelve  feet  in  height.  Two  similar 
masses  are  said  to  have  been  destroyed 
during  the  memory  of  man.  Tiie  whole 
appears  to  be  a  monument  of  Druidical 
times. 

Note  4. 
77/1//  sable  tarn.  —.  P.  265. 
The  small  lake  called  Scales-tarn  lies  so 
deeply  embossed  in  the  recesses  of  the  huge 
mountain  called  Saddleback,  more  poetically 
Glaramara,  is  of  such  great  depth,  and  so 
completely  hidden  from  the  sun,  that  it  is 
said  its  beams  never  reach  it,  and  that  the 
reflection  of  the  stars  may  be  seen  at  mid- 
day. 

Note  5. 
TIu  terrors  of  TintadgeP s  spear.  —  P.  266. 
Tintadgel  Castle,  in  Cornwall,  is  reported 
to  have  been  the  birthplace  of  King  Arthur. 

Note  6. 
Scattering  a  shower  offiery  dew.  —  P.  269. 
The  author  has  an  indistinct  recollection 
of  an  adventure,  somewhat  similar  to  that 
which  is  here  ascribed  to  King  Arthur,  hav- 
ing tefallen  one  of  the  ancient  Kings  of 
Denmark.  The  lu»rn  in  which  the  burning 
liquor  was  presented  to  that  Monarch,  is 
said  still  to  Ixj  preserved  in  the  Koyal 
Museum  at  Cojxjnhagen. 

Note  7. 
The  monarch,  breathless  and  amazed. 
Back  on  the  fatal  castle  gazed — 
Nor  tower  nor  donjon  could  he  spy. 
Darkening  against  the  morning  sky.  — 

P.  209. 

—  "  We  now  gained  a  view  of  the  Vale  of 
St.  John's,  a  very  narrow  dell,  hemmed  in 
by  mountains,  through  which  a  small  brook 
makes  many  meanderings,  washing  little  en- 
closures of  grass-ground,  which  stretch  up 
the  rising  of  the  hills.  In  the  widest  part  of 
the  dale  you  are  struck  with  the  appearance 
of  an  ancient  ruined  castle,  which  seems  to 
stand  upon  the  summit  of  a  little  mount,  the 
mountains  around  forming  an  amphitheatre. 
The  massive  bulwark  shows  a  front  of  vari- 
ous towers,  and  makes  an  awful,  rude,  and 


Gothic  appearance,  with  its  lofty  turrets 
and  rugged  battlenjents ;  we  traced  the  gal 
leries,  the  bending  arches,  the  buttresses. 
The  greatest  antiquity  stands  characterized 
in  its  architecture :  the  inhabitants  near  it 
assert  it  is  an  antediluvian  structure. 

"  The  traveller's  curiosity  is  roused,  and 
he  prepares  to  make  a  nearer  approach,  when 
that  curiosity  is  put  upon  the  rack  by  his 
being  assured  that,  if  he  advances,  certain 
genii  who  govern  the  place,  by  virtue  of  their 
supernatural  art  and  necromacy,,will  strip  it 
of  all  its  beauties,  and  by  enchantment  trans- 
form the  magic  walls.  The  vale  seems 
adapted  for  the  habitation  of  such  beings; 
its  gloomy  recesses  and  retirements  look  like 
the  haunts  of  evil  spirits.  There  was  no 
delusion  in  the  report ;  we  were  soon  con- 
vinced of  its  truth;  for  this  piece  of  an- 
tiquity, so  venerable  and  noble  in  its  aspect, 
as  we  drew  near,  changed  its  figure,  and 
proved  no  other  than  a  shaken  massive  pile 
of  rocks,  which  stand  in  the  midst  of  this 
little  vale,  disunited  from  the  adjoining 
mountains,  and  have  so  nmch  the  real  form 
and  resemblance  of  a  castle,  that  they  bear 
the  name  of  the  Castle  Kocks  of  St.  John." 
—  Hutchinson's  Excursion  to  the  Lakes, 

p.   121. 

Note  8. 
Twelve  bloody  fields,  with  glory  fought. — 

P.  270. 

Arthur  is  said  to  have  defeated  the  Saxons 

in    twelve    pitched    battks,    and    to    have 

aciiieved  the  other  feats  alluded  to  in  the 

text. 

Note  9. 
Theflirwer  of  chivalry. 
There  Galaad  sat  with  manly  grace, 
Yet  maiden  meekness  in  his  face  ; 
There  Morolt  of  the  iron  tnace, 

And  love-lorn  Tristrem  thetv.  — 
P.  270. 
The  characters  named  in  the  stanza  are 
all  of  them  more  or  less  distinguished  in  the 
romances  which  treat  of  King  Artiiur  and 
his  Round  Table,  and  their  nanws  are  strung 
together,  according  to  the  established  cus- 
toms of  minstrels  u|K)n  such  occasions,  for 
example,  in  the  ballad  of  the  Marriage  of 
Sir  Gawaine :  — 

"  Sir  Ijancelot,  Sir  Stephen  boldc, 
They  rode  with  him  tluit  tLiye, 
And  fiiremost  of  the  comixinye, 
There  rode  the  slewarde  Kayt;. 

"  Soe  did  Sir  Banier,  and  Sir  Bore, 
And  eke  .Sir  (jarmtte  keen, 
Sir  Tristrem,  ton,  that  gentle  kniirht, 
To  the  forest,  fresh  and  greene." 


742 


APPENDIX. 


Note  io. 

Lancelot^  that  evermore 

Looked  stolen-wise  on  the  Queen.  —  P.  270. 
Upon  this  delicate  subject  liear  Richard 
Robinson,  citizen  of  London,  in  his  Asser- 
tion of  King  Arthur :  "  But  as  it  is  a  thing 
sufficiently  apparent  that  she  (Guenever, 
wife  of  King  Arthur)  was  beautiful,  so  it  is 
a  thing  doubted  whether  she  was  chaste,  yea 
or  no.  Truly,  so  far  as  I  can  with  honestic, 
I  would  spare  the  impayred  honour  of  noble 
women.  But  yet  the  truth  of  the  historic 
pluckes  me  by  the  eare,  and  willeth  not 
onely,  but  commandeth  me  to  declare  what 
the  ancients  have  deemed  of  her.  To  wrestle 
or  contend  witli  so  great  authoritie  were 
indeed  unto  niei  a  controversie,  and  that 
greate."  —  >4jj<?r//fl«  of  King  Arthttre.  Im- 
printed by  John  Wolfe,  London,  1582. 

Note  11. 
There  were  two  who  loved  their  neighbor^ 

wives. 
And  one  who  loved  his  own. —  P.  271. 

"  In  our  forefathers'  tyme,  wh  n  Papistrie, 
as  a  standyng  poole,  covered  and  overflowed 
all  England,  fewe  books  were  read  in  our 
tongue,  savyingcertaine  bookes  of  chevalrie, 
as  they  said,  for  pastime  and  pleasure  :  which, 
as  some  say,  were  made  in  the  monasteries, 
by  idle  monks  or  wanton  chanons.  As  one, 
for  example.  La  Morte  d'Arthure  ;  the  whole 
pleasure  of  whicli  book  standeth  in  two 
speciall  poyntes,  in  open  manslaughter  and 
bold  bawdrye;  in  which  booke  they  be 
counted  the  noblest  knightes  that   do   kill 


most  men  without  any  quarrell,  and  commit 
foulest  adoulteries  by  subtlest  shiftes  ;  as  Sir 
Lancelot  with  the  wife  of  King  Arthur,  his 
master  ;  Sir  Tristram,  with  the  wife  of  King 
Marke,  his  uncle  ;  Sir  Lamerocke,  with  the 
wife  of  King  Lote,  that  was  his  own  aunt. 
This  is  good  stuffe  for  wise  men  to  laugh  at ; 
or  honest  men  to  take  pleasure  at ;  yet  1 
know  when  God's  Bible  was  banistied  the 
Court,  and  La  Morte  d'Arthure  received 
into  the  Prince's  chamber."  —  Ascham's 
Schoolmaster. 

Note  12. 
IVho  won  the  cup  of  gold.  —  P.  271. 

See  the  comic  tale  of  the  Boy  and  the 
Mantle,  in  tiie  third  volume  of  Percy's  Kel- 
iques  of  Ancient  Poetry,  from  the  Breton  or 
Norman  original  of  which  Ariosto  is  sup- 
posed to  have  taken  his  tale  of  the  Enchanted 
Cup. 

Note  13. 
Whose  logic  is  from  Single-speech. —  P.  275. 

See  "  Parliamentary  Logic,  etc.,"  by  the 
Hon.  W.  G.  Hamilton  (1808),  commonly 
called  "  Single-Speech  Hamilton." 

Note  to  the  Poem. 
Scott  composed  this  poem  with  the  inten- 
tion that  the  public  should  attribute  it  to 
his  friend  Mr.  Erskine  (Lord  Kinedder). 
The  joke  succeeded  :  but  on  the  third  edition 
being  published,  Lord  Kinedder  avowed  the 
true  author,  the  deception  having  gone 
further  than  either  he  or  Scott  intended. 
We  mention  this  fact  in  order  to  explain  the 
preface.  —  Ed. 


THE   LORD   OF   THE   ISLES. 


Note  i. 

Thy  rugged  halls,  Artornish .'  rung  — 

P.  291. 

The  ruins  of  the  Castle  of  Artornish  are 
situated  upon  a  promotory,  on  the  Morven, 
or  mainland  side  of  the  Sound  of  Mull,  a 
name  given  to  the  deep  arm  of  tiie  sea  which 
divides  that  island  from  the  continent.  The 
situation  is  wild  and  romantic  in  the  highest 
degree,  having  on  the  one  hand  a  high  and 
precipitouschain  of  rocks overhangingthe sea, 
and  on  the  other  the  narrow  entrance  to  the 
beautiful  salt-water  lake,  called  [,och  Alline, 
which  is  in  many  places  finely  fringed  with 
copsewood.  The  ruins  of  .Artornish  are  not 
now  very  considerable,  and  consist  chiefly  of 


the  remains  of  an  old  keep,  or  tower,  witli 
fragments  of  outward  defences.  But.  in 
former  days,  it  was  a  place  of  great  conse- 
quence, teing  one  of  the  princijial  strong- 
holds, whicli  the  Lords  of  the  Isles,  during 
the  period  of  their  stormy  independence, 
possessed  upon  the  mainland  of  .Vrgyleshire. 
It  is  almost  opposite  to  the  Bay  of  Aros,  in 
the  Island  of  Mull,  where  there  was  another 
castle,  the  occasional  residence  of  the  Lords 
of  the  Isles. 

Note  2. 
Rude  Heiskar's  seal  through  surges  dark 
Will  long  pursue  the  miiistrcPs  bark.  — 

P.  2gi. 
The  seal  displays  a  taste  for  music,  which 


THE  LORD   OF  THE  ISLES. 


743 


could  scarcely  be  expected  from  his  habits 
and  local  predilections.  Th6y  will  long  fol- 
low a  boat  in  which  any  musical  instrument 
is  played,  and  even  a  tune  simply  whistled 
has  attractions  for  them.  The  Dean  of  the 
Isles  says  of  Heiskar,  a  small,  uninhabited 
rock,  about  twelve  (Scottish)  miles  from  the 
lsl(,'  of  Uist,  that  an  infinite  slaughter  of 
st'als  takes  place  there. 

Note  3. 

a  turrets  airy  head, 

:^!  nder  and  steep,  and  battled  round, 
I  >  .-rlook'd,  dark  Mull!  thy  rnii^ltty  Sound. 
—  P.  292. 
'I'he  Sound  of  Mull,  which  divides  that 
islind  from  the  continent  of  Scotland,  is  one 
ol  the  most  striking  scenes  which  the  Heb- 
rides aftord  to  the  traveller.  .Sailing  from 
01).in  to  Aros,  or  Tombermory,  through  a 
narrow  channel,  yet  deep  enough  to  bear 
vessels  of  the  largest  burden,  he  has  on  his 
left  the  bold  and  mountainous  shores  of 
Mull  ;  on  the  ri'^ht  those  of  that  district  of 
Argyleshire  called  Morven,  or  Morvern, 
successively  indented  by  deep  saltwater 
lochs,  running  up  many  miles  inland.  To 
the  southeastward  arise  a  prodigious  range 
of  mountains,  among  which  Cruachan-Ben  is 
pre-eminent.  And  to  the  northeast  is  the 
no  less  huge  and  picturesque  range  of  the 
Ardnamurciian  hills.  Many  ruinous  castles, 
situated  generally  upon  cliffs  overhanging 
the  ocean,  add  interest  to  the  scene. 

Note  4. 

Tlie  heir  of  mighty  Somerkd.  —  P.  292. 

.Somerled  was  thane  of  .-Vrgyle  and  Lord 
of  the  Isles,  about  the  middle  of  the  twelfth 
century.  He  seems  to  have  exercised  his 
authority  in  both  capacities,  independent  of 
the  crown  of  Scotland,  against  which  he 
often  stood  in  hostility.  He  made  various 
incursions  upon  the  western  lowlands  during 
the  reign  of  Malcolm  IV'.,  and  seems  to 
Imve  made  peace  with  him  upon  the  terms 
of  an  independent  prince,  about  the  year 
11^7.  In  1 164  he  resumed  the  war  against 
M.ilcolm,  and  invaded  Scotland  with  a  large, 
but  probably  a  tumultuary  army,  collected 
in  the  isles,  in  the  mainland  of  Argyleshire, 
and  in  the  neighljoring  provinces  of  Ireland. 
He  was  defeated  and  slain,  in  an  engagement 
with  a  very  inferior  force,  near  Renfrew. 
This  chieftain  married  a  daughter  of  Olaus. 
King  of  Man.  The  Lords  of  the  Isles  de- 
scended from  his  eldest  son,  Ronald,  and  the 
Lords  of  Lorn  from  his  second  son,  Dougal, 
whence  they  took  their  surname  of  Mac- 
Dougal. 


Note  5. 
Lord  of  the  Isles.  —  P.  292. 
The  representative  of  this  independent 
principality,  for  such  it  seems  to  have  been, 
though  acknowledging  occasionally  the  pre- 
eminence of  the  Scottish  crown,  was,  at  the 
period  of  the  poent,  Angus,  called  Angus 
Og  :  but  the  name  has  been  eufhoniir  qratia, 
e.\changed  for  that  of  Ronald,  which  fre- 
quently occurs  in  the  genealogy.  Angus 
was  a  protector  of  Robert  Hruce,  whom  he 
received  in  his  Castle  of  Dunnaverty,  during 
the  time  of  his  greatest  distress. 

Note  6. 
The  House  of  Lorn.  —  P.  293. 
The  House  of  Lorn,  as  we  observed  in  a 
former  note,  was,  like  the  Lord  of  the  Isles, 
descended  from  a  son  of  Somerled,  slain  at 
Renfrew,  in  1164.  This  son  obtained  the 
succession  of  his  mainland  territories,  com- 
prehending the  greater  part  of  the  three  dis- 
tricts of  Lorn,  in  Argyleshire,  and  of  course 
might  rather  be  considered  as  petty  princes 
than  feudal  barons.  They  assumed  the 
patronymic  appellation  of  MacDougal,  by 
which  they  are  distinguished  in  the  history 
of  the  Middle  Ages. 

Note  7. 
Ait'alxd  before  the  rushing  proiv. 
The  mimic  fires  of  ocean  glarw, 
Those  lightnings  of  the  wave. 

—  ^-  295- 
The  phenomenon  called  by  sailors  Sea-fire, 
is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  and  interesting 
which  is  witnessed  in  the  Hebrides.  At 
times  the  ocean  appears  entirely  illuminated 
around  the  vessel,  and  a  long  train  of  lam- 
bent coruscations  are  perpetually  bursting 
ufxin  the  sides  of  the  vessel,  or  pursuing  her 
wake  through  the  darkness. 

Note  8. 
That  keen  knight,  De  Argentine.  —  P.  29S. 
Sir  Egidius,  or  Giles  de  Argentine,  was 
one  of  the  most  accomplished  knights  of  the 
jjeriod.  He  had  served  in  the  wars  of  Henry 
of  Luxemburg  with  such  high  reputation 
that  he  was,  in  popular  estimation,  the  third 
worthy  of  the  age.  Those  to  whom  fame 
assigned  precedence  over  him  were,  Henry 
of  Luxemburg  himself,  and  Robert  Uruce. 
Argentine  had  warred  in  Palestine,  encoun- 
tered thrice  with  the  Saracens,  and  had  slain 
two  antagonists  in  each  engagement  :  —  an 
easy  matter,  he  said,  for  one  Christian 
knight  to  slay  two  Pagan  dogs. 


744 


APPENDIX. 


Note  9. 
"  Fill  me  the  mighty  cup  .'  "  he  said, 
"  Erst  own'd  by  royal  SomcrledT  — 

P.  29S. 

A  Hebridean  drinking  cup  of  ti\e  most 
ancient  and  curious  workmanslii]),  lias  huxn 
long  preserved  in  the  Castle  of  Dunvegan.  in 
Skye,  the  romantic  seat  of  Mac-Leod  of  Mac- 
Leod, the  chief  of  that  ancient  and  powerful 
clan.  The  horn  of  Rorie  More,  preserved  in 
the  same  family,  and  recorded  by  Dr.  John- 
son, is  not  to  be  compared  with  this  piece  of 
antiquity,  which  is  one  of  the  greatest  curi- 
osities in  .Scotland. 

Note  to. 

"  the  rebellious  Scottish  crew, 

Who  to  Kath-Kriii''s  shelter  drciv. 
With  Carrick's  outlaw  d  chiefs  — 

P.  299. 
It  must  be  rememtered  by  all  who  have 
read  the  .Scottish  liistory,  that  after  he  had 
slain  Comyn  at  Dumfries,  and  asserted  his 
right  to  the  .Scottish  crown,  Koljert  Hruce 
was  reduced  to  the  greatest  extremity  by 
the  English  and  their  adherents.  He  was 
crowned  at  Scone  by  the  general  consent  of 
the  Scottish  barons,  but  his  authority  en- 
dured but  a  short  time.  According  to  the 
phrase  said  to  have  been  used  by  his  wife, 
he  was  for  that  year  "  a  summer  king,  but 
not  a  winter  one." 

Note  ii. 
The  Broach  of  Lome.  —  P.  299. 
Robert  Bruce,  after  his  defeat  at  Methven, 
Ixiing  hard  pressed  by  the  English,  endeav- 
ored, with  the  dispirited  remnant  of  his 
followers,  to  escape  from  Hreadalbane  and 
the  mountains  of  Perthshire  into  the  Argyle- 
shire  Iligiilands.  But  he  was  encountered 
and  repulsed,  after  a  very  severe  engage- 
ment, by  the  Lord  of  Lorn.  Bruce's  jx-r- 
sonal  strength  and  courage  were  never 
displayed  to  greater  advantage  than  in  this 
conflict.  There  is  a  tradition  in  the  family 
of  the  Mac-Dongals  of  Lorn,  that  their 
chieftain  engaged  in  jx-rsonal  battle  with 
Bruce  himself,  while  the  latter  was  employed 
in  protecting  the  retreat  of  his  men;  that 
Mac-Dougal  was  struck  down  by  the  king, 
whose  strength  of  lx)dy  was  equal  to  his 
vigor  of  mind,  and  would  have  lj«!cn  slain  on 
the  spot,  had  not  two  of  Lorn's  vassals,  a 
father  and  son,  whom  tradition  terms  Mac- 
Keoch,  rescued  him  by  seizing  tlie  mantle  of 
the  monarch,  and  dragging  liim  from  above 
his  adversary.  Brure  rid  iiimself  of  these 
ices  by  two  blows  of    his  redoubted  battle- 


axe,  but  was  so  closely  pressed  by  the  other 
followers  of  L(trn  that  he  was  forced  to 
abandon  the  mantle,  and  broach  which 
fastened  it,  clasped  in  the  dying  grasp  of  the 
Mac-Keochs.  A  studded  broach,  said  to 
have  been  that  which  King  Robert  lost  upon 
this  occasion,  was  long  preserved  in  the 
family  of  Mac-Dougal,  and  was  lost  in  a 
fire  which  consumed  their  temporary  resi- 
dence. 

f  ireat  art  and  expense  were  Ix'stowed  upon 
the  broach  wiiich  secured  the  plaid,  .'^ome 
were  as  broad  as  a  platter,  engraved  with 
curious  designs  and  decorated  with  crystals 
or  more  valuable  stones. 


Note  12. 
When  Comyn  fell  beneath  the  knife 
Of  that  fell  homieidethe  Bruce.— V.  296. 

Vain  Kirkpntrick^s  bloody  dirk. 
Making  sure  of  murders  work.  —  P.  300. 

Every  reader  must  recollect  that  the  prox- 
imate cause  of  Bruce's  asserting  his  right  to 
the  crown  of  .Scotland,  was  the  death  of 
John,  called  the  Red  Comyn.  The  causes  of 
tliis  act  of  violence,  equally  extraordinary 
from  the  high  rank,  Ijoth  of  the  perj)etrator 
and  sufferer,  and  from  the  place  where  the 
slaughter  was  connnitted,  are  variously  re- 
lated by  the  ."Scottish  and  Fluglish  historians, 
and  cannot  now  Ix'  ascertained.  The  fact 
that  they  met  at  the  high  altar  of  the  Minor- 
ites, or  (ireyfriar"s  Church  in  Dumfries,  that 
their  difference  broke  out  into  high  and  in- 
sulting language,  and  that  Bruce  drew  his 
dagger  and  stablx;d  Comyn,  is  certain. 
Rushing  to  the  door  of  the  church,  Bruce 
met  two  powerful  barons,  Kirkpatrick  of 
Closcburn,  and  James  de  Lindsay,  who  ea- 
gerly asked  him  what  tidings?  '"Bad  tid- 
ings," answered  Bruce;  *•  I  doubt  I  have 
slain  Comyn."  "  I^oubtest  thou  ? "  said 
Kirkpatrick;  "I  make  sicker"  (i.e.  sure). 
With  these  words,  he  and  Lindsay  rushed 
into  the  church,  and  despatched  the  wounded 
Comyn.  The  Kirkjiatricks  of  Closehurn 
assumed  in  memory  of  this  deed,  a  hand 
holding  a  dagger,  with  the  memorable  words, 
"  I  make  sicker." 

Note  13. 
Barendo7vn  fled  fast  away, 
Fled  the  fiery  De  la  J  la  ye.  —  P.  300. 

These  knights  are  enumerated  by  Barbour 
among  the  small  number  of  Bruce's  adhe- 
rents, who  remained  in  arms  with  him  after 
the  battle  of   Methven. 


THE  LORD   OF   THE  ISLES. 


745 


Note  14. 
WiJs'l  not  enough  to  Ronald's  bower 
I  brought  thee  like  a  paramour.  —  P.  303. 
It  was  anciently  customary  in  the  High- 
lands to  bring  the  bride  to  the  house  of  the 
husband.  Nay,  in  some  cases,  the  complais- 
ance was  stretched  so  far  that  she  remained 
there  ujwn  trial  for  a  twelvemonth  ;  and  the 
bridegroom,  even  after  this  period  of  co- 
habitation, retained  an  option  of  refusing  to 
fulfil  his  engagement.  It  is  said  that  a 
desperate  feud  ensued  Ixitween  the  clans  of 
Mac-Donald  of  Sleate  and  Mac-Leod,  owing 
to  the  former  chief  having  availed  himself 
of  this  license  to  send  back  to  Dunvegan  a 
sister  or  daughter  of  the  latter.  MacLeod, 
resenting  the  indignity,  observed,  that  since 
there  was  no  wedding  bonfire,  there  should 
be  one  to  solemnize  the  divorce.  Accord- 
ingly, he  burned  and  laid  waste  the  terri- 
tories of  Mac-Donald,  who  retaliated,  and  a 
deadly  feud,  with  all  its  accompaniments, 
took  place  in  form. 

Note  15. 
Since  matchless  Wallace  first  had  been 
In  mock'ry  crowned  with  wreaths  of  green.  — 

P.  303- 
Stow  gives  the  following  curious  account 
of  the  trial  and  execution  of  this  celebrated 
patriot :  "  William  Wallace,  who  had  oft- 
times  set  Scotland  in  great  trouble,  was 
taken  and  brought  to  London,  with  great 
numbers  of  men  and  women  wondering  upon 
him.  He  was  lodged  in  the  house  of  Wil- 
liam Delect,  a  citizen  of  London,  in  Fen- 
church  -Street.  On  the  morrow,  being  the 
eve  of  St.  Bartholomew,  he  was  brought  on 
horseback  to  Westminster.  Jolm  Legrave 
and  Jeffrey,  knights,  the  mayor,  sheriffs,  and 
aldermen  of  London,  and  many  others,  both 
on  horseback  and  on  foot,  accompanying 
him,  and  in  the  great  hall  at  Wesminster,  he 
being  placed  on  the  south  Ijench,  crowned 
with  laurel,  for  that  he  had  said  in  times 
past  that  he  ought  to  tear  a  crown  in  that 
hall,  as  it  was  commonly  reported,  and  being 
impeached  for  a  traitor  by  .Sir  Peter  Mal- 
orie,  the  king's  justice,  he  answered,  that  he 
was  never  traitor  to  the  King  of  England, 
but  for  other  things  whereof  he  was  accused, 
he  confessed  them  ;  and  was  after  headetl  and 
quartered."  —  Stow,  67/ r.  p.  209.  There  is 
something  singularly  doubtful  about  the 
mode  in  which  Wallace  was  taken.  That  he 
was  betrayed  to  the  English  is  indubitable ; 
and  popular  fame  charges  Sir  John  Menteith 
with  the  indelible  infamy.  "  Accursed."  says 
Arnold  Blair,  "  be  the  day  of  nativity  of 
John   de   Menteith,  and  may  his  r.ame  be 


struck  out  of  the  book  of  life."  But  John 
de  Menteith  w.os  all  along  a  zealous  favorer 
of  the  English  interest,  and  was  governor  of 
Dumbarton  Castle  by  commission  from 
Edward  the  First;  and  therefore,  as  the 
accurate  Lord  Ilailes  has  oteerved,  could 
not  be  the  friend  and  confidant  of  Wallace, 
as  tradition  states  him  to  be.  Tlie  truth 
seems  to  be,  that  Menteith,  thoroughly  en- 
gaged in  the  English  interest,  pursued 
Wallace  closely,  and  made  him  prisoner 
through  the  treachery  of  an  attendant,  whom 
Peter  Langtoft  calls  Jack  Short.  The  in- 
famy of  seizing  Wallace  must  rest,  therefore, 
between  a  degenerate  Scottish  nobleman,  the 
vassal  of  England,  and  a  domestic,  the  ob- 
scure agent  of  his  treachery;  between  Sir 
John  Menteith,  son  of  Walter,  Earl  of  Men- 
teith, and  the  traitor  Jack  Short. 

Note  16. 
Was  not  the  life  of  Athole  shed. 
To  soothe  the  tyranfs  sickened  bed  ?  — 

P-  303- 
John  de  Strathbogie,  Earl  of  Athole,  had 
attempted  to  escape  out  of  the  kingdom,  but 
a  storm  cast  him  upon  the  coast,  when  he  was 
taken,  sent  to  London,  and  e.xecuted  with 
circumstances  of  great  barbarity,  being  first 
half  strangled,  then  let  down  from  the  gal- 
lows while  yet  alive,  barbarously  dismem- 
bered, and  his  body  burnt.  It  may  surprise 
the  reader  to  learn  that  this  was  a  mitigated 
punishment ;  for  in  respect  that  his  mother 
was  a  granddaughter  of  King  John,  by  his 
natural  son,  Richard,  he  was  not  drawn  on 
a  sledge  to  execution,  "  that  point  was  for- 
given," and  he  made  the  passage  on  horse- 
back. Matthew  of  Westminster  tells  us  that 
King  Edward,  then  extremely  ill,  received 
great  ease  from  the  news  that  his  relative 
was  apprehended.  "Quo  audito,  Rex  An- 
glice,  etsi  gravissimo  morbo  tunc  langueret, 
Icrius  tainen  tulit  dolorem:'  To  this  sin- 
gular expression  the  text  alludes. 

Note  17. 
While  I  the  blessed  cross  advance. 
And  expiate  this  unhappy  chance, 
In  Palestine  with  sword  and  lance.  — 

P.  304. 
Bruce  uniformly  professed,  and  probably 
felt,  compunction  for  having  violated  the 
sanctuary  of  the  church  by  the  slaughter  of 
Comyn;  and  finally,  in  his  last  hours,  in 
testimony  of  his  faith,  penitence,  and  zeal, 
he  requested  James  Lord  Douglas  to  carry 
his  heart  to  Jerusalem,  to  be  there  desposited 
in  the  Holy  Sepulchre. 


746 


APPENDIX. 


Note  iS. 
De  Bruce  .'  I  rose  ivith  pur /rose  dread 
To  speak  my  curse  upon  thy  head. —  P.  304. 
So  soon  as  the  notice  of  Comyn's  slaughter 
reached  Rome,  Bruce  and  his  adherents  were 
excommunicated.  It  was  pubhshed  first  by 
the  Archbishop  of  York,  and  renewed  at 
different  times,  particularly  by  Lambyrton, 
Bishop  of  St.  Andrews,  in  130S,  but  it  does 
not  appear  to  have  answered  the  purpose 
which  the  English  monarch  expected.  In- 
deed, for  reasons  which  it  may  be  difficult  to 
trace,  the  thunders  of  Rome  descended  upon 
the  Scottish  mountains  with  less  effect  than 
in  more  fertile  countries.  I'robably  the 
comparative  poverty  of  the  benefices  occa- 
sioned that  fewer  foreign  clergy  settled  in 
Scotland,  and  the  interests  of  the  native 
churchmen  were  linked  with  that  of  their 
country.  Many  of  the  Scottish  prelates, 
Lambyrton  the  primate  particularly,  de- 
clared for  Bruce,  while  he  was  yet  under  the 
ban  of  the  church,  though  he  afterwards 
again  changed  sides. 

Note  19. 
A  hunted  wanderer  on  the  ivild, 
On  foreign  shores  a  man  exiled.  —  P.  304. 
This  is  not  metaphorical.     The  echoes  of 
Scotland  did  actually 

" ring 

With  the   bloodliounds  that  bay'd  for  lier  fugi- 
tive king." 
\  very  curious  and  romantic  tale  is  told  by 
Barbour  upon    this   subject,  which    may  be 
abridged  as  follows  :  — 

When  Bruce  had  again  got  footing  in 
Scotland,  in  the  spring  of  1306,  he  continued 
to  be  in  a  very  weak  and  precarious  condi- 
tion, gaining,  indeed,  occasional  advantages, 
but  obliged  to  fly  before  his  enemies  when- 
ever they  assembled  in  force.  Upon  one 
occasion,  while  he  was  lying  with  a  small 
party  in  the  wilds  of  Cumnock,  in  Ayrshire, 
Aymer  de  Valence,  Earl  of  Pembroke,  with 
his  inveterate  foe,  John  of  Lorn,  came 
against  him  suddenly  with  eight  hundred 
Highlanders,  besides  a  large  body  of  men- 
at-arms.  They  brought  with  them  a  slough- 
dog,  or  blood-hound,  which,  some  say,  had 
been  once  a  favorite  with  the  Bruce  himself, 
and  therefore  was  least  likely  to  lose  the 
trace. 

Bruce,  whose  force  was  under  four  hundred 
men,  continued  to  make  head  against  the 
cavalry,  till  the  men  of  Lorn  had  nearly  cut 
off  his  retreat.  Perceiving  the  danger  of  his 
situation,  he  acted  as  the  celebrated  and  ill- 
requited  Mina  is  said  to  have  done  in  similar 


circumstances.  He  divided  his  force  into 
three  parts,  appointed  a  place  of  rendezvous 
and  commanded  them  to  retreat  by  different 
routes.  But  when  John  of  Lorn  arrived  at 
the  spot  where  they  divided,  he  caused  the 
hound  to  be  put  upon  the  trace,  which  im- 
mediately directed  him  to  the  pursuit  of  that 
party  which  Bruce  headed.  This,  therefore, 
Lorn  pursued  with  his  whole  force,  paying 
no  attention  to  the  others.  The  king  again, 
suMivided  his  small  Ixjdy  into  three  parts, 
and  with  the  same  result,  for  the  pursuers 
attached  themselves  exclusively  to  that  which 
he  led  in  person.  He  then  caused  his  fol- 
lowers to  disperse,  and  retained  only  his 
foster-ljrother  in  his  company.  The  slough- 
dog  followed  the  trace,  and,  neglecting  the 
others,  attached  himself  and  his  attendants 
to  the  pursuit  of  the  king.  Lorn  became 
convinced  that  his  enemy  was  nearly  in  his 
power,  and  detached  five  of  his  most  active 
attendants  to  follow  him  and  interrupt  his 
flight.  They  did  so  with  all  tiie  agility  of 
mountaineers.  "  What  aid  wilt  thou  make?" 
said  Bruce  to  his  single  attendant,  when 
he  saw  the  five  men  gain  ground  on  him. 
"  The  best  I  can,"  replied  his  foster-brother. 
"  Then,"  said  Bruce,  "  here  I  make  my  stand." 
The  five  pursuers  came  up  fast.  The  king 
took  three  to  himself,  leaving  the  other  two 
to  his  foster-brother.  He  slew  the  first  who 
encountered  him;  but  observing  his  foster- 
brother  hard  pressed,  he  sprung  to  his  assist- 
ance, and  despatched  one  of  his  assailants. 
Leaving  him  to  deal  with  the  survivor,  he 
returned  upon  the  other  two,  both  of  whom 
he  slew  before  his  foster-brother  had  de- 
spatched his  single  antagonist.  When  this 
hard  encounter  was  over,  with  a  courtesy, 
which  in  the  whole, work  marks  Bruce's 
character,  he  thanked  his  foster-brother  for 
his  aid.  "  It  likes  you  to  say  so,"  answered 
his  follower;  "  but  you  yourself  slew  four  of 
the  five."  —  •'  True,"  said  the  king,  "  but  only 
because  I  had  better  opportunity  than  you. 
They  were  not  apprehensive  of  me  when 
they  saw  me  encounter  three,  so  I  had  a  mo- 
ment's time  to  spring  to  thy  aid,  and  to  re- 
turn equally  unexpectedly  upon  my  own  oj> 
poncnts." 

In  the  meanwhile  I^orn's  party  approached 
rapidly,  and  the  king  and  his  foster-brother 
Ijetook  themselves  to  a  neighboring  wood. 
Here  they  sat  down,  for  Bruce  was  exhausted 
by  fatigue,  until  the  cry  of  the  slough-hound 
came  so  near  that  his  foster-brother  entreated 
Bruce  to  provide  for  his  safety  by  retreating 
further.  "  I  liave  heard."  answered  the  king, 
"  that  whosoever  will  wade  a  bow-shot  length 
down  a  running  stream,  shall  make  the 
slough-liound  lose  scent.      Let   us   try   the 


THE   LORD    OF   THE   ISLES. 


747 


experiment,   for  were  yon   devilish    hound 
silenced  1  should  care  little  for  the  rest." 

Lorn  in  the  meanwhile  advanced, and  found 
the  ixidies  of  his  slain  vassals,  over  whom  he 
made  his  moan,  and  threatened  the  most 
deadly  vengeance.  Then  he  followed  the 
hound  to  the  side  of  the  brook  down  which 
the  king  had  waded  a  great  way.  Here  the 
hound  was  at  fault,  and  John  of  Lorn,  after 
long  attempting  in  vain  to  recover  Bruce's 
trace,  relinquished  the  pursuit. 

•'  Others,"  says  Darbour,  "  afiirm  that  upon 
this  occasion  the  king's  life  was  saved  by  an 
excellent  archer  who  accompanied  him,  and 
who  perceiving  that  they  would  be  finally 
taken  by  means  of  the  blood-hound  hid  him- 
self in  a  thicket,  and  shot  him  with  an  arrow. 
In  which  way,"  adds  the  metrical  biog- 
rapher, •'  this  escape  hapi:)ened  I  am  uncer- 
tain, Init  at  that  brook  the  king  escaped  from 
his  pursuers." 

Ni>TE  20. 
"  Alas !  dear  youth,  the  unlia/'py  time" 

Answer  d  the  Bruce,  '•  tnust  hear  the  crime. 
Since  guiltier  far  than  you, 

Even  /"  —  he  paused:  for  Falkirk'' s  woes 

Upon  his  conscious  soul  arose.  —  P.  306. 

I  have  followed  the  vulgar  and  inaccurate 
tradition,  that  Bruce  fought  against  Wal- 
lace, and  the  array  of  Scotland,  at  the  fatal 
battle  of  Falkirk.  The  story  which  seems  to 
Imve  no  better  authority  than  that  of  Blind 
Harry,  bears,  that  having  made  much  slaugh- 
ter during  the  engagement,  he  sat  down  to 
dine  with  the  conquerors  without  washing 
the  filthy  witness  from  his  hands. 

"  Fasting  he  was,  and  had  been  in  great  need, 
Blooded  were  all  his  weapons,  and  his  weed ; 
Southeron  lords  scorn'd  him  in  terms  rude. 
And  said.  Behold  yon  Scot  eats  his  own  blued. 

"  Then  rued  he  sore,  Utr  reason  bad  be  known, 
That  blood  and  land  alike  should  be  his  own ; 
With  them  he  long  was,  ere  he  got  away, 
But  contrair   Scots  he   fought    not   from  that 
day." 

The  account  given  by  most  of  our  histo- 
rians, of  the  conversation  between  Bruce  and 
Wallace  over  the  Garron  River,  is  equally 
apocryphal.  There  is  full  evidence  that 
Bruce  was  not  at  that  time  on  the  English 
side,  nor  present  at  the  battle  of  Falkirk  ; 
nay,  that  he  acted  as  a  guardian  of  Scotland, 
along  with  John  Comyn,  in  the  name  of 
Baliol,  and  in  opposition  to  the  English. 

Note  21. 
These  are  the  sai'age  wilds  that  lie 
North  of  Strathncirdill  and  Dunskye.  — 
P.  307. 
The  extraordinary  piece  of  scenery  which 


I  have  here  attempted  to  describe  is.  I  think, 
unparalleled  in  any  part  of  Scotland,  at  least 
in  any  which  1  have  happened  to  visit.  It 
lies  just  upon  the  frontier  of  the  Laird  of 
Mac-I^eod's  country,  which  is  therealxiuts 
divided  from  the  estate  of  Mr.  Mac-.Allister 
of  Strath-Aird.  caUed  Strathnardill  by  the 
Dean  of  the  Isfes. 

Note  22. 
And  mermaid^ s  alabaster  grot. 
Who  bathes  her  limbs  in  sunless  well. 
Deep  in  Strathaird's  enchanted  cell.  — 

P. 31 1. 
Imagination  can  hardly  conceive  anything 
more  beautiful  than  the  extraordinary  grotto 
discovered  not  many  years  since  upon  the 
estate  of  Ale.xander  Mac-Allister,  Esq.,  of 
Strathaird.  It  has  since  been  much  and  de- 
servedly celebrated,  and  a  full  account  of  its 
beauties  has  Ix-en  published  by  Dr.  Mac-Leay 
of  Oban.  The  general  impression  may  per- 
haps be  gathered  from  the  following  extract 
from  a  journal,  which,  written  under  the 
feelings  of  the  moment,  is  likely  to  be  more 
accurate  than  any  attempt  to  recollect  the 
impressions  then  received  :  —  '■  The  first  en- 
trance to  this  celebrated  cave  is  rude  and  un- 
promising ;  but  the  light  of  the  torches,  with 
which  we  were  provided,  was  soon  reflected 
from  the  roof,  Hoor,  and  walls,  which  seem 
as  if  they  were  sheeted  with  marble,  partly 
smooth,  partly  rough  with  frost-work  and 
rustic  ornaments,  and  partly  seeming  to  be 
wrought  into  statuary.  The  floor  forms  a 
steep  and  difficult  ascent,  and  might  be  fan- 
cifully compared  to  a  sheet  of  water,  which, 
while  it  rushed  whitening  and  foaming  down 
a  declivity,  had  been  suddenly  arrested  and 
consolidated  by  the  spell  of  an  enchanter.  I'p- 
on  attaining  the  sunmiit  of  this  ascent,  tlie 
cave  opens  into  a  splendid  gallery,  adorned 
with  the  most  dazzling  crystallizations,  and 
finally  descends  with  rapidity  to  the  brink  of  a 
pool  of  the  most  limpid  water,  about  four  or 
five  yards  broad.  There  opens  beyond  this 
pool  a  portal  arch,  formed  by  two  colunms  of 
white  spar,  with  beautiful  chasing  upon  the 
sides,  which  promises  a  continuation  of  tlie 
cave.  One  of  our  sailors  swam  across,  for 
there  is  no  other  mode  of  passing,  and  in- 
formed us  (as  indeed  we  partly  saw  by  the 
light  he  carried)  that  the  enchantment  of 
Mac-.AUisters  cave  terminates  with  this  por- 
tal, a  little  beyond  which  there  was  only  a 
rude  cavern,  speedily  choked  with  stones  and 
earth.  But  the  pool,  on  the  brink  of  which 
we  stood,  surrounded  by  the  most  fanciful 
mouldings,  in  a  substance  resembling  white 
marble,  and  distinguished  by  the  depth  and 


748 


APPENDIX. 


purity  of  its  waters,  might  have  been  the 
bathing  grotto  of  a  naiad.  The  groups  of 
combined  figures  projecting,  or  embossed,  by 
which  the  pool  is  surrounded,  are  exquisitely 
elegant  and  fanciful.  A  statuary  miglit  catch 
beautiful  hints  from  the  singular  and  roman- 
tic disposition  of  those  stalactites.  There  is 
scarce  a  form  or  group  on  which  active  fancy 
may  not  trace  figures  or  grotesque  orna- 
ments, which  have  been  gradually  moulded 
in  this  cavern  by  the  dropping  of  the  calca- 
reous water  hardening  into  petrifactions. 
Many  of  those  fine  groups  have  been  injured 
by  the  senseless  rage  of  appropriation  of 
recent  tourists ;  and  the  grotto  had  lost  (1 
am  informed),  through  the  smoke  of  torches, 
something  of  that  vivid  silver  tint  which  was 
originally  one  of  its  chief  distinctions.  But 
enough  of  beauty  remains  to  compensate  for 
all  that  may  be  lost." — Dr.  Mac-Allister  of 
Strathaird  has,  with  great  propriety,  built  up 
the  exterior  entrance  to  this  cave,  in  order 
that  strangers  may  enter  properly  attended 
by  a  guide,  to  prevent  any  repetition  of  the 
wanton  and  selfish  injury  which  this  singular 
scene  has  already  sustained. 

Note  23. 
Yet  to  no  sense  of  selfish  wrongs. 
Bear  witness  with  me,  Heaven,  belongs 
My  Joy  o'er  Edward's  bier. —  P.  314. 
The  generosity  which  does  justice  to  the 
character  of  an  enemy,  often  marks  Bruce's 
sentiments,  as  recorded  by  the  faithful  Bar- 
bour. He  seldom  mentions  a  fallen  enemy 
without  praising  such  good  qualities  as  he 
might  possess.  I  shall  only  take  one  in- 
stance. Shortly  after  Bruce  landed  in  Car- 
rick,  in  1306,  Sir  Ingram  Bell,  the  English 
governor  of  Ayr,  engaged  a  wealthy  yeoman, 
who  had  hitherto  been  a  follower  of  Bruce, 
to  undertake  the  task  of  assassinating  him. 
The  king  learned  this  treachery,  as  he  is  said 
to  have  done  other  secrets  of  the  enemy,  by 
means  of  a  female  with  whom  he  had  an  in- 
trigue. Shortly  after  he  was  possessed  of 
this  information,  Bruce,  resorting  to  a  small 
thicket  at  a  distance  from  his  men,  with 
only  a  single  page  to  attend  him,  met  tlie 
traitor,  accompanied  by  two  of  his  sons. 
They  approached  him  with  their  wonted 
familiarity,  but  Bruce,  taking  his  page's  lx)w 
and  arrow,  commanded  them  to  keep  at  a 
distance.  As  they  still  pressed  forward  with 
professions  of  zeal  for  his  person  and  ser- 
vice, he,  after  a  second  warning,  shot  the 
father  with  the  arrow ;  and  being  assaulted 
successively  by  the  two  sons,  despatched  first 
one,  who  was  armed  with  an  axe,  then  as  the 
other  charged  him  with  a  sjxiar,  avoided  the 
thrust,  struck  the  head  from  the  sjoear,  and 


cleft  the  skull  of  the  assassin  with  a  blow  of 
his  two-handed  sword. 

Note  24. 

And  Ronin''s  mountains  dark  have  sent 
Their  hunters  to  the  shore.  —  P.  315. 

Ronin  (popularly  called  Kum,  a  name 
which  a  poet  may  be  pardoned  for  avoiding 
if  possible)  is  a  very  rough  and  mountainous 
island,  adjacent  to  those  of  Eigg  and  Canna 
or  Cannay.  There  is  almost  no  arable  ground 
upon  it,  so  that,  except  in  the  plenty  of  the 
deer,  which  of  course  are  now  nearly  extir- 
pated, it  still  deserves  the  description  be- 
stowed by  the  arch-dean  of  the  isles  ;  "  Konin, 
si.xteen  myle  north-wast  from  the  ile  of  Coll, 
lyes  ane  ile  callit  Ronin  lie,  of  sixteen  myle 
long,  and  six  in  bredthe  in  the  narrowest,  ane 
forest  of  heigh  mountains,  an  abundance  of 
little  deir  in  it,  quliilk  deir  will  never  be  slane 
dounewith,  but  the  principal  saittis  man  Ije 
in  the  height  of  the  hill,  because  the  deir  will 
be  callit  upwart  ay  be  the  tainchell  or  with- 
out tynchel  they  will  pass  upwart  jxjrforce. 
In  this  ile  will  be  gotten  about  Britane  als 
many  wild  nests  upon  the  plane  mure  as 
men  pleasis  to  gadder,  and  yet  by  reason  the 
fowls  has  few  to  start  them  except  deir.  This 
ile  lyes  from  the  west  to  the  eist  in  lenth, 
and  pertains  to  M'Kenabrey  of  Colla.  Many 
solan  geese  are  in  this  ile."  —  Monro's  De- 
scription  of  the  Western  Isles,  ip.  i8. 

Note  25. 
On  Seooreigg  next  a  warning  light 
Summon' d  her  warriors  to  the  fight ; 
A  numerous  race,  ere  stern  Alacleod 
O'er  their  bleak  shores  in  vengeance  strode. 
-P.  315 

These,  and  the  folio  vying  lines  of  the  stanza, 
refer  to  a  dreadful  tale  of  feudal  vengeance, 
of  which  unfortunately  there  are  relics  that 
still  attest  the  truth.  Scoor-Eigg  is  a  high 
peak  in  the  centre  of  the  small  Isle  of  Eigg, 
or  Egg.  It  is  well  known  to  mineralogists, 
as  affording  many  interesting  specimens, 
and  to  others  whom  chance  or  curiosity  may 
lead  to  the  island,  for  the  astonishing  view 
of  the  mainland  and  neighlx)ring  isles,  which 
it  commands.  The  following  account  is  ex- 
tracted from  the  poet's  own  journal  kept 
during  his  tour  through  the  Scottish  Islands. 

26M  August,  1S14  . —  At  seven  this  morn- 
ing we  were  in  the  sound  which  divides  the 
Isle  of  Rum  from  that  of  Egg.  The  latter, 
although  hilly  and  rocky,  and  traversed  by  a 
remarkably  high  and  barren  ridge,  called 
.Scoor-Rigg,  has,  in  point  of  soil,  a  much 
more  promising  ajjpcarance.  Southward  of 
both  lies  the  Isle  of  Muich,  or  Muck,  a  low 


THE   LORD    OF   THE  ISLES. 


749 


and  fertile  island,  and  though  the  least,  yet 
probably  the  most  valuable  of  the  three. 
We  manned  the  boat  and  rowed  along  the 
shore  of  Egg  in  quest  of  a  cavern,  which  had 
been  the  memorable  scene  of  a  horrid  feudal 
vengeance.  We  had  rounded  more  than  half 
the  island,  admiring  the  entrance  of  many  a 
bold  natural  cave,  which  its  rocks  e.xhibited, 
without  finding  that  which  we  sought,  until 
we  procured  a  guide.  Nor,  indeed,  was  it 
surprising  that  it  should  have  escaped  the 
search  of  strangers,  as  there  are  no  outward 
indications  more  than  might  distinguish  the 
entrance  of  a  fox-earth.  This  noted  cave 
has  a  very  narrow  opening,  through  which 
one  can  hardly  creep  on  his  knees  and  hands. 
It  rises  steep  and  lofty  within,  and  runs  into 
the  bowels  of  the  rock  to  the  depth  of  two 
hundred  and  fifty-five  measured  feet ;  the 
height  at  the  entrance  may  be  about  three 
feet,  but  rises  within  to  eighteen  or  twenty, 
and  the  breadth  may  vary  in  the  same  pro- 
portion. The  rude  and  stony  bottom  of 
this  cave  is  strewed  with  the  Ix)nes  of  men, 
women,  and  children,  the  sad  relics  of  the 
ancient  inhabitants  of  the  island,  two  hun- 
ilred  in  numter,  who  were  slain  on  the  fol- 
lowing occasion  : —  The  Mac-Donalds  of  the 
Isle  of  Egg,  a  people  dependent  on  Clan- 
Kanald,  had  done  some  injury  to  the  I.aird 
of  Mac-Ix'od.  The  tradition  of  the  isle  says, 
that  it  was  by  a  personal  attack  on  the  chief- 
tain, in  which  his  back  was  broken.  But 
that  of  the  other  isles  tears  more  probably, 
that  the  injury  was  offered  to  two  or  three 
of  the  Mac-Leods,  who,  landing  upon  Eigg, 
and  using  some  freedom  with  the  young 
women,  were  seized  by  the  islanders,  bound 
hand  and  foot,  and  turned  adrift  in  a  boat 
which  the  wind  and  waves  safely  conducted 
to  Skye.  'I'o  avenge  the  offence  given,  Mac- 
Leod sailed  with  such  a  body  of  men  as 
rendered  resistance  hopeless.  The  native-s, 
fearing  his  vengeance,  concealed  themselves 
in  this  cavern,  and,  after  a  strict  search,  the 
Mac-I.eods  went  on  lx)ard  their  galleys,  after 
doing  what  mischief  they  could,  concluding 
the  inhabitants  had  left  the  isle,  and  betaken 
themselves  to  the  Long  Island,  or  some  of 
Clan-Kanald's  other  possessions.  But  next 
morning  they  espied  from  the  vessels  a  man 
upon  the  island,  and  immediately  landing 
again,  they  traced  his  retreat  by  the  marks 
of  his  footsteps,  a  light  snow  teing  un- 
happily on  the  ground.  Mac-I.eod  then 
surrounded  tiie  cavern,  summoned  the  sub- 
terranean garrison,  and  demanded  that  the 
individuals  who  had  offended  him  should  be 
delivered  up  to  him.  This  was  [leremptorily 
refused.  The  chieftain  then  caused  his  peo- 
ple to  divert  the  course  of  a  rill  of  water. 


which,  falling  over  the  entrance  of  the  cave, 
would  have  prevented  his  purposed  ven- 
geance. He  then  kindled  at  the  entrance  of 
the  cavern  a  huge  fire,  composed  of  turf  and 
fern,  and  maintained  it  with  unrelenting 
assiduity,  until  all  within  were  destroyed  by 
suffocation.  The  date  of  this  dreadful  deed 
must  have  been  recent,  if  one  may  judge 
from  the  fresh  appearance  of  those  relics.  I 
brought  off,  in  spite  of  the  prejudice  of  our 
sailors,  a  skull  from  among  the  numerous 
specimens  of  mortality  which  the  cavern 
afforded.  Before  re-embarking  we  visited 
another  cave,  opening  to  the  sea,  but  of  a 
character  entirely  different,  being  a  large 
open  vault,  as  high  as  that  of  a  cathedral, 
and  running  back  a  great  way  into  the  rock 
at  the  same  height.  'I'he  height  and  width 
of  the  opening  gives  ample  light  to  the 
whole.  Here,  after  1745,  ^*'hcn  the  Catholic 
priests  were  scarcely  tolerated,  the  priest  of 
Eigg  used  to  perform  the  Roman  Catholic 
service,  most  of  the  islanders  being  of  that 
persuasion.  A  huge  ledge  of  rocks  rising 
about  half-way  up  one  side  of  the  vault, 
served  for  altar  and  pulpit ;  and  the  ap|)ear- 
ance  of  a  priest  and  Highland  congregation 
in  such  an  extraordinary  place  of  worship, 
might  have  engaged  the  pencil  of  SaWator-'' 

Note  26. 
Scenes  sung  by  him  who  sings  no  more. — 

P.  316. 
The  ballad  entitled,  "  Macphail  of  Colon- 
say,  and  the  Mermaid  of  Corrievrekin  "  [see 
Border  Minstrelsy,  vol.  iv.,  p.  285],  was  com- 
posed by  John  Leyden,  from  a  tradition 
which  he  found  while  making  a  tour  through 
the  Hebrides  about  iSoi,  soon  before  his 
fatal  departure  for  India,  where,  after  having 
made  further  progress  in  t)riental  literature 
than  any  man  of  letters  who  had  embraced 
those  studies,  he  died  a  martyr  to  his  zeal 
for  knowledge,  in  the  island  of  Java,  im- 
mediately after  the  landing  of  our  forces 
ne.ar  Batavia,  in  August,  iSii. 

Note  27. 
f//  Tarbafs  western  lake  they  bore. 
Then  drai^c^d  their  bark  the  isthmus  o'er.  — 

r.  316. 

The  peninsula  of  Cantire  is  joined  to 
South  Kn.-ipdale  by  a  very  narrow  isthmus  ; 
formed  by  the  western  and  eastern  I.och  of 
Tarbat.  These  two  salt  water  lakes,  or  bays, 
encroach  so  far  upon  the  land,  and  the  ex- 
t.oniities  come  so  near  to  each  other,  that 
there  is  not  alxtve  a  mile  of  land  to  divide 
them. 


750 


APPENDIX. 


Note  28. 
The  sun,  ere  yet  he  sunk  behind 
Bcn-Ghoil,  '■^  the  Mountain  of  the  Wind," 
Gai'e  his  grim  peaks  a  greeting  kind, 

And  bade  Loch  Kanza  smile.  — ■  P.  316. 
Loch  Kanza  is  a  beautiful  ba)',  on  the 
northern  extremity  of  Arran,  opening  towards 
East  Tarbat  Loch.  It  is  well  described  by 
Pennant :  "  The  approach  was  magnificent  ; 
a  fine  bay  in  front  about  a  mile  deep,  having 
a  ruined  castle  near  the  lower  end,  on  a  low 
far-projecting  neck  of  land,  tiiat  forms  an- 
other harbor,  witii  a  narrow  passage ;  but 
within  has  three  fathom  of  water,  even  at 
the  lowest  ebb.  Beyond  is  a  little  plain 
watered  by  a  stream,  and  inhabited  by  the 
p2uple  of  a  small  village.  The  whole  is  en- 
vironed with  a  theatre  of  mountains  ;  and 
in  the  background  the  serrated  crags  of 
Grianan-Athol  soar  above." — I'enn.\nt's 
Tour tothe  Western  Isles,  pp.  191,  192.  Ben- 
Ghaoil,  "  the  mountain  of  the  winds,"  is 
generally  known  by  its  English,  and  less 
poetical,  name  of  Goatfield. 

Note  29. 
Each  to  Loch  Ranza's  margin  spring  ; 
That  blast  was  winded  by  the  king .'  — 

P.  318. 

The  passage  in  Barbour,  describing  the 
landing  of  Bruce,  and  his  being  recognized 
bv  Douglas  and  those  of  his  followers  wiio 
had  preceded  him,  by  the  sound  of  his  liorii, 
is  in  the  original  singularly  simple  and  af- 
fecting. The  king  arrived  in  .Arran  with 
thirty-three  small  row-boats.  lie  interro- 
gated a  female  if  there  had  arrived  any  war- 
like men  of  late  in  that  country.  "  Surely, 
sir,"  she  replied,  '•  I  can  tell  you  of  many 
who  lately  came  hither,  discomfited  the 
English  governor,  and  bk>ckaded  his  castle 
of  Brodick.  They  maintain  themselves  in 
a  wood  at  no  great  distance."  The  king, 
truly  conceiving  tliat  this  must  be  Douglas 
and  iiis  followers,  who  had  lately  set  forth  to 
try  their  fortune  in  Arran,  desired  the  woman 
to  conduct  him  to  the  wood.     She  obeyed. 

"  The  king  then  blew  his  horn  on  liiRh; 
A'ld  gert  *  his  men  that  were  him  by, 
Hold  them  still,  and  all  privy  ; 
And  syne  aeain  his  horn  blew  he. 
James  of  Dowglas  heard  him  blow, 
And  at  the  last  alone  gan  know. 
And  said,  '  Soothly  yon  is  the  king; 
I  know  long  while  since  his  blowing.' 
The  third  time  therewithal  he  blew, 
And  then  Sir  Robert  P.oid  it  knew  ; 
And  said,  '  Yon  is  the  king,  but  dread. 
Go  we  forth  till  him,  better  speed. 

*  Caused. 


Then  went  they  till  the  king  in  hye, 
And  him  inclined  courteously. 
And  blithely  welcomed  them  the  king, 
And  was  joyful  of  their  meeting, 
And  kissed  them  ;  and  speared  t  syne 
How  they  h:id  fared  in  hunting  ? 
And  they  him  told  all,  hut  lesing.  t 
.Syne  laud  they  God  of  their  meeting, 
.Syne  with  the  king  till  his  harbourye 
Went  both  joyfu'  and  jolly." 

Barbour's  Bruce,  Book  v.,  pp.  115,  116. 

Note  30. 
— —  his  brother  blamed. 
But  shared  the  iveakness,  while  ashamed. 
With  haughty  laugh  his  head  he  turn'd. 
And  dasVd  away  the  tear  he  scorn\l  — 

P.  319. 
The  kind  and  yet  fiery  character  of  Edward 
Bruce  is  well  painted  by  Barbour,  in  tlie  ac- 
count of  his  behavior  after  tlie  battle  of 
Bannockburn.  Sir  Walter  Ross,  one  of  tlie 
very  few  Scottish  nobles  who  fell  in  that 
battle,  was  so  dearly  beloved  by  Edward, 
that  he  wished  the  victory  had  been  lost,  so 
Ross  had  lived. 

Note  31. 
Thou  heard\'!t  a  wretched  female  plain 
In  agony  of  travail-pain. 
And  thou  didst  bid  thy  little  band 
Upon  the  instant  turn  and  stand. 
Ami  dare  the  itunst  that  foe  might  do. 
Rather  than,  like  a  knight  untrue. 
Leave  to  pursuers  merciless 
A  woman  in  her  last  distress. —  P.  320. 
'I'his  incident,  which  illustrates  so  h.appily 
the  chivalrous  generosity  of  Bruce"s  charac- 
ter, is  one  of  the  many  simple  and  natural 
traits   recorded    by    Barbour.      It    occurred 
during   the  expedition    which    Bruce   made 
to    Ireland,  to    support   the    pretensions    of 
his  brother  Edward   to  the  throne  of   that 
kingdom. 

Note  32. 
O'er  chasms  he  pass'' d  where  fractures  ii'idc 
Craved  wary  eye  and  ample  stride.  — 

The  interior  of  the  island  of  Arran  abounds 
with  Ix-antiful  Highland  scenery.  The  hills, 
being  very  rocky  and  precipitous,  afford  some 
cataracts  of  great  height,  though  of  incon- 
siderable breadth.  There  is  one  pass  over 
the  river  Machrai,  renowed  for  the  dilemma 
of  a  poor  woman,  who,  being  tempted  by  the 
narrowness  of  the  ravine  to  step  across,  suc- 
ceeded in  making  the  first  movement,  but 
took  fright  when  it  Ixicame  necessary  to 
move  the  other  foot,  and  remained  in  a  pos- 


t  Asked. 


Without  falsehood. 


THE   LORD    OF   THE   ISLES. 


751 


ture  equally  ludicrous  and  dangerous,  until 
some  chance  passenger  assisted  her  to  extri- 
cate herself.  It  is  said  she  remained  there 
some  hours. 

Note  33. 
Old  Brodick^ s  gothic  towers  were  seen. 
From  Hastings,  late  their  English  Lord, 
Douglas  had  won  them  by  the  sword.  — 

Brodick  or  Brathwick  Castle,  in  the  Isle 
of  Arran,  is  an  ancient  fortress,  near  an  open 
roadstead  called  Brodick-Bay,  and  not  far 
distant  from  a  tolerable  harbor,  closed  in 
by  the  Island  of  Lamlash.  This  important 
place  had  lx«n  assailed  a  short  time  before 
Bruces  arrival  in  the  island.  James  Lord 
Douglas,  who  accompanied  Bruce  to  his  re- 
treat in  kachrine,  seems,  in  the  spring  of 
1306,  to  have  tired  of  his  abode  there,  and 
set  out  accordingly,  in  the  phrase  of  the 
times,  to  see  what  adventure  God  would  send 
him.  Sir  Robert  Boyd  accompanied  him  ; 
and  his  knowledge  of  the  localities  of  Arran 
appears  to  have  directed  his  course  thither. 
They  landed  in  the  island  privately,  and  ap- 
pear to  have  laid  an  ambush  for  Sir  John 
Hastings,  the  English  governor  of  Brodwick, 
and  surprised  a  considerable  supply  of  arms 
and  provisions,  and  nearly  took  the  castle  it- 
self. Indeed,  that  they  actually  did  so,  has 
been  generally  averred  by  historians,  although 
it  does  not  appear  from  tlie  narrative  of  Bar- 
bour. On  the  contrary,  it  would  seem  that 
they  took  shelter  within  a  fortification  of 
the  ancient  inhabitants,  a  rampart  called 
Tor  an  Schian.  When  they  were  joined  by 
Bruce,  it  seems  probable  that  they  gained 
Brodick  Castle.  At  least  tradition  says  that 
from  the  battlements  of  the  tower  he  saw 
the  supposed  signal-fire  on  Turnberry-nook. 
.  .  .  The  castle  is  now  much  modernized, 
but  has  a  dignified  appearance,  being  sur- 
rounded by  flourishing  plantations. 

Note  34. 
Oft,  too,  -with  unaccitstomed  ears, 
A  languai;e  much  mimeet  he  hears.  — 

P.  323. 
Barbour,  with  great  simplicity,  gives  an 
anecdote,  from  which  it  would  seem  that 
the  vice  of  profane  swearing,  afterwards  too 
general  among  the  Scottish  nation,  was,  at 
this  time,  confined  to  military  men.  As 
Douglas,  after  Bruce's  return  to  Scotland, 
was  roving  about  the  mountainous  country 
of  Tweeddale,  near  the  water  of  Line,  he 
chanced  to  hear  some  persons  in  a  farm- 
house says,  "///«?  deviir  Concluding,  from 
this  hardy  expression,  that  the  house  con- 
tained warlike  guests,  he    immediately  as- 


sailed it,  and  had  the  good  fortune  to  make 
prisoners  Thomas  Randolph,  afterwards 
the  famous  Earl  of  Murray,  and  Alexan- 
der Stuart,  Lord  Bonkte.  Both  were  then 
in  the  English  interest,  and  had  come  into 
that  country  with  the  purpose  of  driving  out 
Douglas.  They  afterwards  ranked  among 
Bruce's  most  zealous  adherents. 

Note  35. 

Now  ask  you  whence  that  wondrous  light. 

Whose  fairy  glow  beguiled  their  .sight ! 

It  ne'er  was  known^ —  P.  326. 

The  following  are  the  words  of  an  ingen- 
ious correspondent,  to  whom  I  am  obliged 
for  much  information  respecting  Turnberry 
and  its  neighborhood.  '•  The  only  tradition 
now  remembered  of  the  landing  of  Robert 
the  Bruce  in  Carrick.  relates  to  the  fire  seen 
by  him  from  the  Isle  of  Arran.  It  is  still 
generally  reported,  and  religiously  believed 
by  many,  that  this  fire  was  really  the  work 
of  supernatural  power,  unassisted  by  the 
hand  of  any  mortal  being :  and  it  is  said, 
that,  for  several  centuries,  the  flame  rose 
yearly,  on  the  same  hour  of  the  same  night 
of  the  year,  on  which  the  king  first  saw  it 
from  the  turrets  of  Brodick  Castle ;  and 
some  go  so  far  as  to  say,  that  if  the  exact 
time  were  known,  it  would  be  still  seen. 
That  this  superstitious  notion  is  very  an- 
cient, is  evident  from  the  place  where  the  lire 
is  said  to  have  apjaeared  being  called  the 
Bogles'  Brae,  beyond  the  remembrance  of 
man.  In  support  of  this  curious  belief,  it  is 
said  that  the  practice  of  burning  heath  for 
the  improvement  of  land  was  then  unknown  ; 
that  a  spunkie  (Jack  o'lanthorn)  could  not 
have  Ijeen  seen  across  the  breadth  of  the 
Forth  of  Clyde,  between  Ayrshire  and  Arran  ; 
and  that  the  courier  of  Bruce  was  his  kins- 
man, and  never  suspected  of  treachery."  — 
Letter  from  Mr.  Joseph  Train,  of  Newton 
Stewart. 

Note  36. 
The  Bruce  hath  won  his  father's  hall !  — 

P-  lio. 

I  have  followed  tlie  flattering  and  pleasing 
tradition,  that  the  Bruce,  after  his  descent 
upon  the  coast  of  Ayrshire,  actually  gained 
possession  of  his  maternal  castle.  But  the 
tradition  is  not  accurate.  The  fact  is,  that 
he  was  only  strong  enough  to  alarm  and 
drive  in  the  outposts  of  the  English  garri- 
son, then  commanded,  not  by  Clifford,  as 
assumed  in  the  text,  but  by  Percy.  Neither 
was  Clifford  slain  upon  this  occasion,  though 
he  had  several  skirmishes  with  Bruce.  He 
fell  afterwards  in  the  battle  of  Bannock- 
burn.      Bruce,  after  alarming  the  castle  of 


752 


APPENDIX. 


Turnberry,  and  surprising  some  part  of  the 
garrison,  who  were  quartered  without  the 
walls  of  the  fortress,  retreated  into  the  moun- 
tainous part  of  Carrick,  and  there  made  him- 
self so  strong,  that  the  English  were  obliged 
to  evacuate  Turnberry,  and  at  length  tiie 
Castle  of  Ayr.  Many  of  his  benefactions 
and  royal  gifts  attest  his  attachment  to  the 
hereditary  followers  of  his  house,  in  this 
part  of  the  country. 

Note  37. 
When  Bruce' s  banner  had  victorious  flow'  d, 
O'er   Loudoun^ s   mountain,  and  in    Ury's 

vale.  — ¥.2,2,1. 

The  first  important  advantage  gained  by 
Bruce,  after  landing  at  Turnberry,  was  over 
Aymer  de  Valence,  Earl  of  Pembroke,  the 
same  by  whom  he  had  been  defeated  near 
Methven.  They  met,  as  has  teen  said,  by 
appointment,  at  Loudonhill,  in  the  west  of 
Scotland.  Pembroke  sustained  a  defeat ;  and 
from  that  time  Bruce  was  at  the  head  of  a 
considerable  flying  army.  Yet  he  was  subse- 
quently obliged  to  retreat  into  Aberdeen- 
shire, and  was  there  assailed  by  Comyn,  Earl 
of  Buchan,  desirous  to  avenge  the  death  of 
his  relative,  the  Red  Comyn,  and  supported 
by  a  body  of  English  troops  under  Philip 
de  Mowbray.  Bruce  was  ill  at  the  time  of  a 
scrofulous  disorder,  but  took  horse  to  meet 
his  enemies,  although  obliged  to  be  sup- 
ported on  either  side.  He  was  victorious, 
and  it  is  said  that  the  agitation  of  his  spirits 
restored  his  health. 

Note  38. 
When  English  blood  oft  deluged  Douglas- 
dale. —  P.  331. 

The  "  good  Lord  James  of  Douglas,"  dur- 
ing these  commotions,  often  took  from  the 
English  his  own  castle  of  Douglas  ;  but  being 
unable  to  garrison  it,  contented  himself  with 
destroying  the  fortifications,  and  retiring 
into  the  mountains.  As  a  reward  to  his 
patriotism,  it  is  said  to  have  been  prophesied, 
that  how  often  soever  Douglas  Castle  should 
be  destroyed,  it  should  always  again  rise 
more  magnificent  from  its  ruins.  Upon  one 
of  these  occasions  he  used  fearful  cruelty, 
causing  all  the  store  of  provisions,  which  the 
English  had  laid  up  in  his  castle,  to  be 
heaped  together,  bursting  the  wine  and  Ijeer 
casks  among  the  wheat  and  flour,  slaughter- 
ing the  cattle  upon  the  same  spot,  and  upon 
the  top  of  the  whole  cutting  the  throats 
of  the  English  prisoners.  This  pleasantry 
of  the  "  good  Lord  James  "  is  commemorated 
under  the  name  of  the  Douglas's  Larder. 


Note  39. 
And  fiery  Edward  routed  stout  St.  fohn.—^ 

P-  331- 

"John  de  .St  John,  with  15,000  horsemen, 
had  advanced  to  oppose  the  inroad  of  the 
Scots.  By  a  forced  march  he  endeavored  to 
surprise  them,  but  intelligence  of  his  motions 
was  timeously  received.  The  courage  of 
Edward  Bruce,  approaching  to  temerity, 
frequently  enabled  him  to  achieve  what  men 
of  more  judicious  valor  would  never  have  at- 
tempted. He  ordered  the  infantry,  and  the 
meaner  sort  of  his  army,  to  entrench  them- 
selves in  strong  narrow  ground.  He  him- 
self, with  fifty  horsemen  well  harnessed, 
issued  forth  under  cover  of  a  thick  mist,  sur- 
prised the  English  on  their  march,  attacked 
and  disix-rsed  them."  —  Dalkympli'.'s  r:/«- 
nals  of  Scotland,  quarto,  Edinburgh,  1779, 
p.  25. 

Note  40. 
When  Randolph's  war-cry  swell' d  the  south- 

erngalc.  —  \\22\. 

Thomas  Randolph,  Bruce's  sister's  son, 
a  renowned  Scottish  chief,  was  in  the  early 
part  of  his  life  not  more  remarkable  for  con- 
sistency than  Bruce  himself.  He  espoused 
his  uncle's  party  when  liruce  first  assumed 
the  crown,  and  was  made  prisoner  at  the 
fatal  battle  of  Methven,  in  which  his  rela- 
tive's hoiKJS  apjxiared  to  be  ruinetl.  Ran- 
dolph accordingly  not  only  submitted  to  the 
English,  but  took  an  active  part  against 
Bruce  ;  appeared  in  arms  against  him  :  and 
in  the  skirmish  where  he  was  so  closely  pur- 
sued by  the  bloodhound,  it  is  .said  his  nephew 
took  his  standard  with  his  own  hand.  But 
Randolph  was  afterwards  made  prisoner  by 
Douglas  in  Tweeddale,  and  brought  before 
King  Rolxjrt.  Some  harsh  language  was 
exchanged  between  the  uncle  and  nephew, 
and  the  latter  was  committed  for  a  time 
to  close  custody.  Afterwards,  however, 
they  were  reconciled,  and  Randolph  was 
created  Earl  of  Moray  about  1312.  After 
tliis  jjeriod  he  eminently  distinguished  him- 
self, first  by  the  surprise  of  Edinburgh 
Castle,  and  afterwards  by  many  similar  en- 
terprises, conducted  with  equal  courage  and 
ability. 

Note  41. 
Stirling's  towers, 

Beleaguered  by  King  Robertas  powers  ; 
And  they  took  term  of  truce.  —  P.  331. 

When  a  long  train  of  success,  actively  im- 
l>roved  by  Robert  Bruce,  had  made  him  mas- 
ter of  almost  all  Scotland,  .Stirling  Castle 
continued  to  liold  out.  The  care  of  the 
blockade  was  committed  by  the  king  to  his 


THE  LORD    OF  THE  ISLES. 


753 


brother  Edward,  who  concluded  a  treaty 
with  Sir  Philip  Mowbray,  the  governor,  that 
he  should  surrender  the  fortress,  if  it  were 
not  succored  by  the  King  of  England  before 
St.  John  the  Baptist's  day.  The  King  se- 
verely blamed  his  brother  for  the  impolicy  of 
a  treaty,  wliich  gave  time  to  the  king  of  Eng- 
land to  advance  to  the  relief  of  the  castle, 
with  all  his  asseml)led  forces,  and  obliged' 
himself  cither  to  meet  them  in  battle  with 
an  inferior  force,  or  to  retreat  with  dishonor. 
"  I,et  all  England  come,"  answered  the  reck- 
less Edward  ;  "  we  will  fight  them  were  they 
more."  The  consequence  was,  of  course 
that  each  kingdom  mustered  its  strength  for 
the  exjxicted  battle  ;  and  as  the  space  agreed 
upon  reached  from  Eent  to  Midsummer,  full 
time  was  allowed  for  that  purpose. 

Note  42. 
And  Cambria,  but  of  laic  subdued. 
Sent  forth  her  mountain  multitude.  — 

I'-  332. 
Edward  the  First,  with  tlie  usual  policy  of 
a  conqueror,  employed  the  V\  clsli.  whom  he 
had  subdued,  to  assist  him  in  his  Scottish 
wars,  for  which  their  habits,  as  mountaineers, 
particularly  fitted  them.  Hut  this  policy 
was  not  without  its  risks.  Previous  to  the 
battle  of  Falkirk,  the  Welsh  quarrelled  with 
the  English  men-at-arms,  and  after  bloodshed 
on  both  parts,  separated  themselves  from  his 
army,  and  the  feud  tetween  them,  at  so  dan- 
gerous and  critical  a  juncture,  was  reconciled 
with  difficulty.  Edward  H.  followed  his 
father's  example  in  this  particular,  and  with 
no  tetter  success.  They  could  not  te  brought 
to  exert  themselves  in  tlie  cause  of  their 
conquerors.  But  they  had  an  indifferent  re- 
ward for  their  forbearance.  Without  arms, 
and  clad  only  in  scanty  dresses  of  linen  cloth, 
they  appeared  naked  in  the  eyes  even  of  the 
Scottish  peasantry ;  and  after  the  rout  of 
Bannockburn,  were  massacred  by  them  in 
great  numlx?rs,  as  they  retired  in  confusion 
towards  their  own  country.  They  were 
under  command  of  Sir  Maurice  de  Berkeley. 

Note  43. 
And  Connoght  four^d  from  waste  and  wood 
Her  hundred  tribes,  whose  scef'tre  rude 

Dark  F.lh  O'Connor  sivay'd.  —  P.  332. 

There  is  in  the  F<cdera  an  invitation  to 
Eth  O'Connor,  chief  of  tlie  Irish  of  Con- 
naught,  setting  forth  that  the  king  was  about 
to  move  against  his  Scottish  rebels,  and 
therefore  requesting  the  attendance  of  all  the 
force  he  could  muster,  either  commanded  by 
himself  in  person,  or  by  some  nobleni.-in  of 
his  race.     These  auxiliaries  were  to  be  com- 


manded   by    Richard    de    Burgh,    Earl    of 
Ulster. 

Note  44. 

The  monarch  rode  along  the  van. P.  334. 

The  English  vanguard,  commanded  by  the 
Earls  of  Gloucester  and  Hereford,  came  in 
sight  of  the  Scottish  army  upon  the  evening 
of  the  23d  of  June.  Bruce  was  then  riding 
upon  a  httle  palfrey  in  front  of  his  foremost 
line,  putting  his  host  in  order.  It  was  then 
that  the  personal  encounter  took  place  be- 
twixt him  and  Sir  Henry  de  Bohun,  a  gal- 
lant English  knight,  the  issue  of  which  had 
a  great  effect  upon  the  spirits  of  both 
armies. 

Note  45. 
Responsive  from  the  Scottish  host, 
Pipe-clang  and  bugle-sound  were  ioss'd 

There  is  an  old  tradition,  that  the  well- 
known  Scottish  tune  of  "  Hey,  tutti,  taitti," 
was  Bruce's  march  at  the  battle  of  Bannock- 
burn.    The  late  Mr.  Kitson,  no  granter  of 
propositions,  doubts  whether  the  Scots  had 
any  martial  music,  quotes  Froissart's  account 
of  each  soldier  in  the  host  bearing  a  little 
horn,  on  which,  at   the  onset,  they  would 
make  such  a   horrible   noise,  as   if  all   the 
devils  of  hell  had  been  among  them.     He 
observes,  that  these  horns  are  the  only  music 
mentioned  by  Barbour,  and  concludes,  that 
it  must  remain  a  moot  point  whether  Bruce's 
army  were  cheered  by  the  sound  even  of  a 
solitary    hagitXpe:.  —  Historical  Essay  pre 
fixed  to  Rit son's  Scottish  Songs.  —  It  may  be 
olwerved  in  passing,  that  the  Scottish  of  this 
period  certainly  observed  some  musical  ca- 
dence, even   in  winding  their   horns,  since 
Bruce  was  at  once   recognized  by  his  fol- 
lowers from  his  mode  of  blowing.     See  Note 
29,  p.  750.     But  the  tradition,  true  or  false, 
has  been  the  me.ins  of  securing  to  Scotland 
one  of  the  finest  lyrics  in  the  language,  the 
celebrated  war-song  of  Burns,  —  '•  Scots,  wha 
hae  wi'  Wallace  bled." 

Note  46. 
See  where  yon  bare-foot  Abbott  stands, 
And  blesses  them  with  lifted  hands.  — 

"  Maurice,  abbot  of  Inchaffray,  placing 
himself  on  an  eminence,  celebrated  mass  in 
sight  of  the  Scottish  army.  He  then  p,issed 
along  the  front  bare-footed,  and  bearing  a 
crucifix  in  his  hands,  and  exhorting  the 
.Scots,  in  few  and  forcible  words,  to  combat 
for  their  rights  and  their  liberty.  The  .'^cots 
kneeled  down.  '  'I'hey  yield,'  cried  Edward  ; 
'  see,  they  implore  mercy.'  — '  They  do,'  an- 


754 


APPEND  IX. 


swered  Ingelram  de  Umfraville,  '  but  not 
ours.  On  that  field  they  will  be  victori- 
ous, or  die." ''  —  Annals  of  Scotland,  vol.  ii. 
p.  47. 

Note  47. 
Forth,  Marshal,  on  the  peasant  foe  ! 
We'll  tame  the  terrors  of  their  how. 
And  cnl  the  bow-string  loose  !  — 

P-  337- 
The  English  archers  commenced  the  attack 
with  their  usual  bravery  and  dexterity.  Hut 
against  a  force,  whose  importance  he  had 
learned  by  fatal  experience,  Hruce  was  pro- 
vided. A  small  but  select  body  of  cavalry 
were  detached  from  the  right,  under  com- 
mand of  Sir  Roix;rt  Reith.  'J'hey  rounded, 
as  I  conceive,  the  marsh  called  Milton  tog, 
and,  keeping  the  firm  ground,  charged  the 
left  flank  and  rear  of  the  English  archers. 
As  the  bowmen  had  no  spears  nor  long  wea- 
pons fit  to  defend  tliemselves  against  horse, 
they  were  instantly  thrown  into  disorder, 
and  spread  through  the  whole  English  army 
a  confusion  from  which  they  never  fairly 
recovered. 

Although  the  success  of  this  manoeuvre 
was  evident,  it  is  very  remarkable  that  the 
Scottish  generals  do  not  appear  to  have 
profited  by  the  lesson.  Almost  every  subse- 
quent battle  which  they  lost  against  Eng- 
land, was  decided  by  the  archers,  to  whom 
the  close  and  compact  array  of  tlie  Scottish 
phalanx  afforded  an  exposed  and  unresisting 
mark.  The  bloody  battle  of  Halidoun-hill, 
fought  scarcely  tv/enty  years  afterwards,  was 
so  completely  gained  by  the  archers,  that  the 
English  are  said  to  have  lost  only  one 
knight,  one  esquire,  and  a  few  foot-soldiers. 
At  the  battle  of  Neville's  Cross,  in  1346, 
where  David  II.  was  defeated  and  made 
prisoner,  John  de  Graham,  oteerving  the 
loss  which  the  Scots  sustained  from  the 
English  bowmen,  offered  to  charge  and  dis- 
perse them,  if  a  hundred  men-at-arms  were 
put  under  his  command.  "  But,  to  confess 
the  truth,"  says  Fordun,  "  he  could  not  pro- 
cure a  single  horseman  for  the  service  pro- 
posed." Of  such  little  use  is  experience  in 
war,  where  its  results  are  opposed  by  habit 
or  prejudice. 

Note  4S. 
Each  braggart  churl  could  boast  before, 
Twelve  Scottish  lives  his  baldric  bore  !  — 

P-  337- 
Roger  Ascham  quotes  a  similar  Scottish 
proverb,  "  whereby  they  give  the  whole  praise 
of  shooting  honestly  to  Englishmen,  saying 
thus,  '  that  every  English  archer  beareth 
under  his  girdle   twenty-four   Scottes.'     In- 


deed Toxophilus  says  before,  and  truly,  of 
the  Scottish  nation,  '  The  Scottes  surely  be 
good  men  of  warre  in  theyre  owne  feates  as 
can  be ;  but  as  for  shootinge,  they  can  neither 
use  it  to  any  profile,  nor  yet  challenge  it  for 
any  praise.'  "  —  Works  of  Ascham,  edited  by 
Bennct,  4to,  p.  110. 

It  is  said,  1  trust  incorrectly,  by  an  ancient 
English  historian,  that  the  "  good  Lord 
James  of  Douglas,"  dreaded  the  superiority 
of  the  English  archers  so  much,  that  when 
he  made  any  of  them  prisoner,  he  gave  him 
the  option  of  losing  the  forefinger  of  his 
right  hand,  or  his  right  eye,  either  six.'cies  of 
n)utilation  rendering  him  incapable  to  use 
the  bow.  I  have  mislaid  the  reference  to 
this  singular  passage. 

Note  49. 

Doum  .'  down .'  in  he  ad  Ion  1;  fffcrthroriv. 
Horseman  and  horse,  the  foremost  t;o.  — 

'P-337- 
It  is  generally  alleged  by  historians,  that 
the  English  men-at-arms  fell  into  the  hidden 
snare  which  Hruce  had  prepared  for  them, 
Barbour  does  not  mention  the  circumstance. 
According  to  his  account,  Randolph,  seeing 
the  slaughter  made  by  the  cavalry  on  the 
right  wing  among  the  archers,  advanced 
courageously  against  the  main  body  of  the 
English,  and  entered  into  close  combat  with 
them.  Douglas  and  Stuart,  who  commanded 
the  Scottish  centre,  led  their  division  also  to 
the  charge,  and  the  battle,  becoming  general 
along  the  whole  line,  was  obstinately  main- 
tained on  both  sides  for  a  long  space  of 
time ;  the  .Scottish  archers  doing  great  exe- 
cution among  the  iLnglish  men-at-arms,  after 
the  lx)wmen  of  England  were  dispersed. 

Note  50. 
And  steeds  that  shriek  in  agony. — 

P-  337- 
I  have  been  told  that  this  line  requires  an 
explanatory  note  ;  and,  indeed,  those  who 
witness  the  silent  patience  with  which  horses 
submit  to  the  most  cruel  usage,  may  te  }->er- 
mitted  to  doubt,  that  in  moments  of  sudden 
and  intolerable  anguish,  they  utter  a  most 
melancholy  cry.  Lord  Erskine.  in  a  speech 
made  in  the  House  of  Lords,  upon  a  bill  for 
enforcing  humanity  towards  animals,  noticed 
this  remarkable  fact,  in  language  whicli  I 
will  not  mutilate  by  attempting  to  repeat  it. 
It  was  my  fortune,  upon  one  occasion,  to 
hear  a  horse,  in  a  moment  of  agony,  utter  a 
thrilling  scream,  which  I  still  consider  the 
most  melancholy  sound  I  ever  heard. 


THE   FIELD    OF  WATERLOO. 


755 


Note  51. 
Lord  of  the  Isles,  my  trust  in  thee 

Isfirin  as  Ailsa  Rock  : 
Rusk  on  with  Highland  sword  and  targe, 
I  with  my  Carrick  spearmen  charge.  — 

P.  338- 
When  the  engagement  between  the  main 
bodies  had  lasted  some  time,  Bruce  made  a 
decisive  movement  by  bringing  up  tlie  Scot- 
tish reserve.  It  is  traditionally  said,  that  at 
this  crisis,  he  addressed  the  Lord  of  the  Isles 
in  a  phrase  used  as  a  motto  by  some  of  his 
descendants,  "  My  trust  is  constant  in  thee." 
Barbour  intimates  that  the  reserve  " assem- 
bled on  one  field,"  that  is.  on  the  same  line 
with  the  i^cottish  forces  already  engaged, 
which  leads  Lord  Hailes  to  conjecture  that 
the  Scottish  ranks  must  have  been  much 
thinned  by  slaughter,  since,  in  that  circum- 
scribed ground  there  was  room  for  the  re- 
serve to  fall  into  the  line.  But  the  advance 
of  the  Scottish  cavalry  must  have  contributed 


a  good  deal  to  form  the  vacancy  occupied  by 
the  reserve. 

Note  52. 
To  arms  they  flew,  —  axe,  club,  or  spear,  — 
And  mimic  ensigns  high  they  rear.  — 

P-  339- 

The  followers  of  the  Scottish  camp  ob- 
served, from  the  Gillies'  Hill  in  the  rear,  the 
impression  produced  upon  the  English  army 
by  the  bringing  up  of  the  Scottish  reserve, 
and  prompted  by  the  enthusiasm  of  the  mo- 
ment, or  the  desire  of  plunder,  assumed,  in 
a  tumultuary  manner,  such  arms  as  they 
found  nearest,  fastened  sheets  to  tent-poles 
and  lances,  and  showed  themselves  like  a 
new  army  advancing  to  battle. 

The  unexpected  apparition,  of  what  seemed 
a  new  army,  completed  the  confusion  which 
already  prevailed  among  the  English,  who 
fled  in  every  direction,  and  were  pursued 
with  immense  slaughter. 


THE   FIELD   OF  WATERLOO. 


Note  i. 
The  peasant,  at  his  labor  blithe, 
Plies  the  hook'd  staff  and  shorten''d  scythe. 
—  P-  343- 

The  reaper  in  Flanders  carries  in  his  left 
hand  a  stick  with  an  iron  hook,  with  which 
he  collects  as  much  grain  as  he  can  cut  at 
one  sweep  with  a  short  scythe,  which  he 
holds  in  his  right  hand.  They  carry  on  this 
double  process  with  great  spirit  and  dex- 
terity. 

Note  2. 
Pale  Brussels.'    then  what   thoughts  were 

thine.  — V.  345. 

It  was  affirmed  by  the  prisoners  of  war, 
that  Bonaparte  had  promised  his  army,  in 
case  of  victory^  twenty-four  hours'  plunder 
of  the  city  of  Brussels. 

Note  3. 
"  On  .'  On  .'  "  was  still  his  stern  exclaim. — 

P.345- 
The  characteristic  obstinacy  of  Napoleon 
was  never  more  fully  displayed  than  in  what 
we  may  be  permitted  to  hope  will  prove  the 
last  of  his  fields.  He  would  listen  to  no  ad- 
vice, and  allow  of  no  obstacles.     An  eye-wit- 


ness has  given  the  following  account  of  his 
demeanor  towards  the  end  of  the  action  :  — 

'•It  was  near  seven  o'clock;  Bonaparte, 
who  till  then  had  remained  upon  the  ridge 
of  the  hill  whence  he  could  best  behold  what 
passed,  contemplated  with  a  stern  counte- 
nance the  scene  of  this  horrible  slaughter. 
The  more  that  obstacles  seemed  to  multiply, 
the  more  his  obstinacy  seemed  to  increase. 
He  became  indignant  at  these  unforeseen 
difficulties  ;  and,  far  from  fearing  to  push  to 
extremities  an  army  whose  confidence  in  him 
was  boundless,  he  ceased  not  to  pour  down 
fresh  troops,  and  to  give  orders  to  march 
forward  —  to  charge  with  the  bayonet — to 
carry  by  storm.  He  was  repeatedly  informed 
from  different  points,  that  the  day  went 
against  him,  and  that  the  troops  seemed  to 
be  disordered  ;  to  which  he  only  replied,  — 
'  En  avant !  En  avant ! ' 

"  One  general  sent  to  inform  the  Emperor 
that  he  was  in  a  position  which  he  could  not 
maintain,  because  it  was  commanded  by  a 
battery,  and  requested  to  know,  at  the  same 
time,  in  what  way  he  should  protect  his 
division  from  the  murderous  fire  of  the  Eng- 
lish artillery.  'Let  him  storm  the  battery,' 
replied  Bonaparte,  and  turned  his  back  on 
the  aide-de-camp  who  brought  the  message." 


756 


APPENDIX. 


— •Relation  de  la  Bataille  de  Mont- St. -J can. 
Par  uti  Tcmoin  Oculaire.  Paris,  1S15, 
8vo,  p.  51. 

Note  4. 
The  fate  their  leader  shunned  to  share. — 

P-  345- 
It  has  been  reported  that  Bonaparte 
charged  at  the  head  of  his  guards,  at  the  last 
period  of  this  dreadful  conriict.  This,  how- 
ever, is  not  accurate.  He  came  down  indeed 
to  a  hollow  part  of  the  high  road,  leading  to 
Charleroi,  within  less  than  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  of  the  farm  of  La  Haye  Sainte,  one  of 
the  points  most  fiercely  disputed.  Here 
he  harangued  the  guards,  and  informed  them 
that  his  preceding  opxirations  had  destroyed 
the  British  infantry  and  cavalry,  and  that 
they  had  only  to  support  the  fire  of  the  ar- 
tillery, which  they  were  to  attack  with  the 
bayonet.  This  exhortation  was  received 
with  shouts  of  Vive  I Empciciir,  which  were 
heard  over  all  our  line,  and  led  to  an  idea 
that  Napoleon  was  charging  in  person.  But 
the  guards  were  led  on  by  Ney ;  nor  did 
Bonaparte  approach  nearer  the  scene  of 
action  than  the  spot  already  mentioned, 
which  the  rising  banks  on  each  side  rendered 
secure  from  all  such  balls  as  did  not  come  in 
a  straight  line.  He  witnessed  the  earlier 
part  of  the  battle  from  places  yet  more  re- 
mote, particularly  from  an  observatory  which 
had  been  placed  there  by  the  King  of  the 
Netherlands,  some  weeks  before,  for  the  pur- 
pose of  surveying  the  country.*  It  is  not 
meant  to  infer  from  these  particulars  that 
Napoleon  showed,  on  that  memorable  occa- 
sion, the  least  deficiency  in  personal  courage  ; 
on  the  contrary,  he  evinced  the  greatest  com- 
posure and  presence  of  mind  during  the 
whole  action.  But  it  is  no  less  true  that 
report  has  erred  in  ascribing  to  him  any 
desperate  efforts  of  valor  for  recovery  of  the 
battle ;  and  it  is  remarkable,  that  during 
the  whole  carnage,  none  of  his  suite  were 
either  killed  or  wounded,  whereas  scarcely 
one  of  the  Duke  of  Wellington's  personal 
attendants  escaped  unhurt. 

Note  5. 
England  shall  tell  the/ighf.  —  P.  345. 
In  riding  up  to  a  regiment  which  was  hard 
pressed,!  the  Duke  called  to  the  men,  "  Sol- 

*  The  mistakes  concerning  this  observatory 
have  been  mutual.  The  English  supposed  it 
was  erected  for  the  use  of  Honaparte :  and  a 
p'rench  writer  affirms  it  was  constructed  by  the 
Duke  of  Wellington. 

t  The  95th.  The  Puke's  words  were,  "  Stand 
fast,  95th  —  wliat  will  they  say  in  England  ?  " 


diers,  we  must  never  be  beat, — what  wni 
they  say  in  England  ? "  It  is  needless  to 
say  how  this  appeal  was  answered. 

Note  6. 
As  flies  the  smith  his  clanging  trade. — 

P.  346. 
A  private  soldier  of  the  95th  regiment 
compared  the  sound  which  took  place  im- 
mediately upon  the  British  cavalry  mingling 
with  those  of  the  enemy,  to  "  a  thousand 
tinkers  at  it'ork  mending  pots  and  kettles:^ 

Note  7. 
The  British  shock  of  ler'eird  steel.  —  P.  346. 

No  persuasion  or  authority  could  prevail 
upon  the  French  troops  to  stand  the  shock 
of  the  bayonet.  The  Imperial  Guards,  in 
particular,  hardly  stood  till  the  British  were 
within  thirty  yards  of  them,  although  the 
French  author,  already  quoted,  has  put  into 
their  mouths  the  magnanimous  sentiment, 
"  The  Guards  never  yield  —  they  die."  The 
same  author  has  covered  the  plateau,  or  emi- 
nence, of  .St.  Jean,  which  formed  the  British 
position,  with  redoubts  and  retrenchments 
which  never  had  an  existence.  As  the  nar- 
rative, which  is  in  many  respects  curious, 
was  written  by  an  eye-witness,  he  was  prob- 
ably deceived  by  the  appearance  of  a  road 
and  a  ditch  which  run  along  part  of  the  hill. 
It  may  be  also  mentioned,  in  criticising  this 
work,  that  the  writer  mentions  the  Chateau 
of  Hougomont  to  have  been  carried  by  the 
French,  although  it  was  resolutely  and  suc- 
cessfully defended  during  the  whole  action. 
'I'he  enemy,  indeed,  possessed  themselves  of 
the  wood  by  which  it  is  surrounded,  and  at 
length  set  hre  to  the  house  itself  ;  but  the 
British  (a  detachment  of  the  Guards,  under 
the  command  of  Colonel  Macdonnell,  and 
afterwards  of  Colonel  Home)  made  good  the 
garden,  and  thus  preserved,  by  their  desper- 
ate resistance,  the  post  which  covered  the 
return  of  the  Duke  of  Wellington's  right 
Hank. 

Note  S. 
What  bright  careers  'twas  thine  to  close.  — 

P.  348. 

Sir  Thomas  Picton,  Sir  William  Ponsonby, 
Sir  William  de  Lancy,  and  numberless  gal- 
lant oflicers. 

Note  9. 
Laurels  from  the  hand  of  Death.  —  P.  34S 

Colonel  .Sir  William  de  Lancey  had  mar- 
ried the  beautiful  Miss  Hall,  daughter  of  Sir 
James  Hall,  Bart.,  only  two  months  before 
the  Battle  of  Waterloo. 


GLENFINLAS. 


757 


Note  io. 
Gallant  Miller' s  failing  eye. — 

P.  348. 
Colonel  Miller  of  the  Guards,  son  of  Sir 
William  iMiller,  Lord  Glenlee,  when  lying 
mortally  wounded  in  ttie  attack  on  the  Bois 
de  Bossu,  desired  to  see  once  more  the  colors 
of  his  regiment.  They  were  waved  about 
his  head,  and  he  died  declaring  that  he  was 
satisfied. 

Note  ii. 
And  Cameron,  in  the  shock  of  steel.  — 

P.  348. 
Colonel   Cameron  of    Fassiefcrn,   fell   at 


Quatre  Bras,  June  16,  1815,  heading  a  charge 
of  the  92d  Highlanders. 

Note  12. 

And  generous  Gordon.  —  P.  34S. 

"Colonel   the   Honorable   .Sir  Alexander 

Gordon  "—brother  to  the  Earl  of  Aberdeen 

—who  fell  by  the  side  of  the  Duke  in  the 

heat  of  the  action. 

Note  13. 
Fair  Hougomont.  —  P.  348. 
"  Hougomont  " — a  chateau  with  a  garden 
and  woixl  round  it.     A  post  of  great  impor- 
tance, valiantly  held  by  the  Guards  durine 
the  battle. 


GLENFINLAS. 


Note  i. 
How  blazed  Lord  Ronald^ s  beltaiu-trce. — 

P.  3SS. 
The  fires  lighted  by  the  Highlanders  on 
the  1st  of  May,  in  compliance  with  the  cus- 
tom derived  from  the  Pagan  times,  are 
termed  The  Beltane-tree.  It  is  a  festival 
celebrated  with  various  superstitious  rites, 
both  in  the  north  of  Scotland  and  in  Wales. 

Note  2. 
The  seer's  prophetic  spirit  found.  —  P.  388. 
I  can  only  describe  the  second  sight,  by 
adopting  Dr.  Johnson's  definition,  who  calls 
it  "  An  impression,  either  by  the  mind  upon 
the  eye,  or  by  the  eye  upon  the  mind,  by 
which  things  distant  and  future  are  perceived 
and  seen  as  if  they  were  present.'"  To 
which  I  would  only  add,  that  the  spectral 
appearances,  thus  presented,  usually  presage 
misfortune  ;  that  the  faculty  is  painful  to 
tliose  who  suppose  they  possess  it ;  and  that 
they  usually  acquire  it  while  tliemselves 
under  tlie  pressure  of  melancholy. 

Note  3. 
Will  good  St.  Oran's  rule  prevail.  —  P.  3S9. 
St.  Oran  was  a  friend  and  follower  of  St. 
Columba,  and  was  buried  at  Icolmkill.  His 
pretensions  to  be  a  saint  were  rather  dubious. 
According  to  the  legend,  he  consented  to  be 
buried  alive,  in  order  to  propitiate  certain 
demons  of  the  soil,  who  obstructed  the  at- 
tempts of  Columba  to  build  a  chapel.  Co- 
lumba caused  the  body  of  his  friend  to  be 
dug  up,  after  three  days  had  elapsed ;  when 


Oran,  to  the  horror  and  scandal  of  the  assist- 
ants, declared  that  there  was  neither  a  God, 
a  judgment,  nor  a  future  state  I  He  had  no 
time  to  make  further  discoveries,  for  Co- 
lumba caused  the  earth  once  more  to  be 
shovelled  over  him  with  the  utmost  despatch. 
The  chapel,  however,  and  the  cemetery,  was 
called  Relig  Ouran  ;  and,  in  memory  of  his 
rigid  celibacy,  no  female  was  admitted  to 
pay  her  devotions,  or  be  buried  in  that  place. 
This  is  the  rule  alluded  to  in  the  poem. 

Note  4. 
Attd  thrice  St.  F  Ulan' s  powerful  prayer. — 

P.  391. 
St.  Fillan  has  given  his  name  to  many 
chapels,  holy  fountains,  etc.,  in  Scotland. 
He  was,  according  to  Camerarius.  an  Abbot 
of  Pittenween,  in  Fife ;  from  which  situa- 
tion he  retired,  and  died  a  hermit  in  the 
wilds  of  (ilenurchy,  a.d.  649.  While  en- 
gaged in  transcribing  the  Scriptures,  his  left 
hand  was  observed  to  send  forth  such  a 
splendor,  as  to  afford  light  to  that  with 
which  he  wrote  ;  a  miracle  which  saved  many 
candles  to  the  convent,  as  St.  Fillan  used  to 
spend  whole  nights  in  that  exercise.  The 
9th  of  January  was  dedicated  to  this  saint, 
who  gave  his  name  to  KilfiUan,  in  Renfrew, 
and  St.  Phileans,  or  Forgend,  in  Fife.  L.es- 
ley,  lib.  7,  tells  us.  that  Robert  the  Bruce 
was  possessed  of  Fillan's  miraculous  and 
luminous  arm,  which  he  enclosed  in  a  silver 
shrine,  and  had  it  carried  at  the  head  of  his 
army.  Previous  to  the  battle  of  Bannock- 
burn,  the  king's  chaplain,  a  man  of  little 
faith,  abstracted  the  relic,  aud  deposited  it 


758 


APPENDIX. 


in  a  place  of  security,  lest  it  should  fall  into 
the  hands  of  the  English.  But,  lo !  while 
Robert  was  addressing  his  prayers  to  the 
empty  casket,  it  was  observed  to  open  and 
shut  suddenly  ;  and,  on  inspection,  the  saint 
was  found  to  have  himself  deposited  his  arm 
in  the  shrine  as  an  assurance  of  victory. 
Such  is  the  tale  of  Lesley.  Hut  though 
Bruce  little  needed  that  the  arm  of  St. 
Fillan  should  assist  his  own,  he  dedicated  to 
him,  in  gratitude,  a  priory  at  Killin,  upon 
Loch  Tay. 

In  the  Scots  Magazine  for  July,  1802,  there 
is  a  copy  of  a  very  curious  crown  grant,  dated 
nth  July,  1487,  by  which  James  III.  confirms, 


to  Malice  Doire,  an  inhabitant  of  Strath- 
fillan,  in  Perthshire,  the  peaceable  exercise 
and  enjoyment  of  a  relic  of  St.  Fillan,  being 
apparently  the  head  of  a  pastoral  staff  called 
the  Quegrich,  which  he  and  his  predecessors 
are  said  to  have  possessed  since  the  days  of 
Robert  Bruce.  As  the  Quegrich  was  used  to 
cure  diseases,  this  document  is  probably  the 
most  ancient  patent  ever  granted  for  a  quack 
medicine.  The  ingenious  correspondent,  by 
whom  it  is  furnished,  farther  observes,  that 
additional  particulars,  concerning  .St.  Fillan, 
are  to  be  found  in  Bellenden'.s  Boece,  Book 
4,  folio  ccxiii.,  and  in  Pennant's  Tour  in 
Scotland,  1772,  pp.  n,  15.  < 


THE    EVE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 


Note  i. 
battle  of  ancram  moor. —  p.  392. 
Lord  Evers,  and  Sir  Brian  Latoun,  dur- 
ing the  year  1 544,  committed  the  most 
dreadful  ravages  upon  the  .Scottish  frontiers, 
compelling  most  of  the  inhabitants,  and  es- 
]5ecially  the  men  of  Liddesdale,  to  take  assur- 
ance under  the  King  of  England.  Upon  the 
17th  November,  in  that  year,  the  sum  total  of 
their  depredations  stood  thus,  in  the  bloody 
ledger  of  Lord  Evers  :  — 

Towns,  towers,   barnekynes,  paryshe   churches, 
bastill  houses,  burned  and  destroyed  192 

Scots  slain 403 

Prisoners  taken 816 

Nolt  (cattle) 10,386 

Shape 12,492 

Nags  and  geldings  ....       121/) 

Gayt        .......        200 

Boils  of  com 850 

Insight  gear,  etc.  (furniture),  an  incalculable 
quantity. 

MuRDiNS  State  Papers,  vol.  i.,  p.  51. 
For  these  services  Sir  Ralph  Evers  was 
made  a  Lord  of  Parliament.  .See  a  strain  of 
exulting  congratulation  upon  his  promotion 
poured  forth  by  .some  contemporary  minstrel, 
in  vol.  I.,  p.  417,  Scottish  Minstrelsy. 

The  King  of  England  had  promised  to 
these  two  barons  a  feudal  grant  of  the  coun- 
try, which  they  had  thus  reduced  to  a  desert  ; 
upon  hearing  which,  .Archibald  Douglas,  the 
seventh  earl  of  .Angus,  is  said  to  have  sworn 
to  write  the  deed  of  investiture  upon  their 
skins,  with  sharp  pens  and  bloody  ink,  in 
resentment  for  their  having  defaced  the  tombs 
of  his  ancestors  at  Melrose.  —  Gouscrokt. 
In  1545,  Lord  Evers  and  Latoun  again  en- 


tered Scotland,  with  an  army  consisting  of 
3,000  mercenaries,  1,500  English  Borderers, 
and  700  a.ssured  Scottish  men,  chiefly  Arm- 
strongs, Turnbulls,  and  other  broken  clans. 
In  this  second  incursion,  the  English  gener- 
als even  exceeded  their  former  cruelty.  Evers 
burned  the  tower  of  Broomhouse,  with  its 
lady  (a  noble  and  aged  woman,  says  Lesley), 
and  her  whole  family.  The  English  pene- 
trated as  far  as  Melrose,  which  they  had 
destroyed  last  year,  and  which  they  now 
again  pillaged.  As  they  returned  towards 
Jedburgh,  they  were  followed  by  .Angus  at 
the  head  of  1,000  horse,  who  was  shortly  after 
joined  by  tlie  famous  Norman  Lesley,  with  a 
body  of  Fife  men.  The  English  being  prob- 
ably unwilling  to  cross  the  Teviot  while  the 
Scots  hung  upon  their  rear,  halted  upon 
Ancram  Moor,  above  the  village  of  that 
name;  and  the  .'Scottish  general  was  delib- 
erating whether  to  advance  or  retire,  when 
Sir  Walter  .Scott  *  of  Buccleuch  came  up  at 

*  The  Editor  has  found  no  instance  upon  rec- 
ord of  this  family  having  taken  assiimnce  with 
England.  Hence,  they  usually  suffered  dread- 
fully from  the  English  forays.  In  August,  1544 
(the  year  preceding  the  battle),  the  whole  lands 
belonging  to  Huccleuch,  in  West  Teviotdale, 
were  harried  by  Evers  ;  the  outworks,  or  barm- 
kin,  of  the  Tower  of  Branxholm  burned,  eight 
Scots  slain,  thirty  made  prisoners,  and  an  im- 
mense prey  of  horses,  cattle,  and  sheep  carried 
off.  The  lands  upon  Kale  Water,  belonging  to 
the  same  chieftain,  were  also  plundered,  and 
much  siioil  obtained  ;  thirty  .Scots  slain,  and  the 
Moss  Tower  (a.  fortress  near  Eskford)  smoked 
Tery  sore.  Thus  Buccleuch  had  a  long  account 
to  settle  at  Ancram  Moor.  —  Mukdin's  State 
Papers,  pp.  45,  46. 


THE  EVE    OF  ST.    JOHN. 


759 


full  speed  with  a  small  but  chosen  body  of 
his  retainers,  the  rest  of  whom  were  near  at 
hand.  By  the  advice  of  this  experienced 
warrior  (to  whose  conduct  Pitscottie  and 
Buchanan  ascrilse  the  success  of  the  engage- 
ment), Angus  withdrew  from  the  height  which 
he  occupied,  and  drew  up  his  forces  behind 
it,  upon  a  piece  of  low,  flat  ground  called  Pan- 
ier-heugh  or,  Paniel-heugh.  The  spare  horses 
being  sent  to  an  eminence  in  their  rear,  ap 
peared  to  the  English  to  be  the  main  body  of 
the  .'^cots  in  the  act  of  flight.  Under  this 
persuasion,  Evers  and  Latoun  hurried  pre- 
cipitately forward,  and  having  ascended  the 
hill,  which  their  foes  had  abandoned,  were  no 
less  dismayed  than  astonished  to  find  tlie 
phalanx  of  Scottish  sijearmen  drawn  up  in 
firm  array  upon  the  flat  ground  below.  The 
Scots,  in  their  turn,  became  the  assailants. 
A  heron,  roused  from  the  marshes  by  the 
tumult,  soared  away  betwixt  the  encountering 
armies.  "O!"  exclaimed  Angus,  "that  1 
had  here  my  wliite  goss-hawk,  that  we  migiit 
all  yoke  at  once!" — Godscroft.  The 
English,  breathless  and  fatigued,  having  the 
setting  sun  and  wind  full  in  their  faces,  were 
unable  to  withstand  tlie  resolute  and  des- 
perate charge  of  the  Scottish  lances.  No 
sooner  had  they  begun  to  waver,  than  their 
own  allies,  the  assured  Borderers,  who  had 
been  waiting  tlie  event,  threw  aside  their 
red  crosses,  and  joining  their  countrymen, 
made  a  most  merciless  slaughter  among  the 
English  fugitives,  the  pursuers  calling  upon 
each  other  to  "  remember  Broomliouse  !  "  — 
Lesley,  p.  478. 

In  tiie  battle  fell  Lord  Evers,  and  his  son, 
together  with  -Sir  Brian  Latoun,  and  800 
Englishmen,  many  of  whom  were  persons  of 
rank.  A  thousand  prisoners  were  taken. 
Among  these  was  a  patriotic  alderman  of 
London,  Read  by  name,  wlio,  having  con- 
tumaciously refused  to  pay  his  portion  of 
a  benevolence,  demanded  from  the  city  by 
Henry  V'lII.,  was  sent  by  royal  authority  to 
serve  against  the  Scots.  These,  at  settling 
his  ransom,  he  found  still  more  exorbitant 
in  their  exactions  than  the  monarch.  —  Red- 
path's  Border  History,  p.  --^(1%. 

Evers  was  much  regretted  by  King  Henry, 
who  swore  to  avenge  his  death  upon  Angus, 
against  wliom  he  conceived  himself  to  have 
particular  grounds  of  resentment,  on  account 
of  favors  received  by  the  earl  at  his  hands. 
The  answer  of  Angus  was  worthy  of  a  Doug- 
las, "  Is  our  brother-in-law  offended,"  *  said 
he,  "  that  1,  as  a  good  Scotsman,  have 
avenged  my  ravaged  country,  and  the  de- 
faced tombs  of  my  ancestors,  upon   Ralph 

*  Angus  had  married  the  widow  of  James  IV., 
sister  to  King  Henry  Vlil. 


Evers  ?  They  were  better  men  than  he,  and 
I  was  bound  to  do  no  less.  And  will  he  take 
my  life  for  that  ?  Little  knows  King  Henry 
the  skirts  of  Kirnetable  t  1  can  keep  my- 
self there  against  all  his  English  host." — 
Godscroft. 

Such  was  the  noted  battle  of  Ancram 
Moor.  Tlie  spot  on  which  it  was  fought  is 
called  Lilyard's  Edge,  from  an  Amazonian 
Scottish  woman  of  that  name,  who  is  re- 
ported, by  tradition,  to  have  distinguished 
herself  in  the  same  manner  as  Squire  Wither- 
ington.  \  The  old  people  point  out  her 
monument,  now  broken  and  defaced.  The 
inscription  is  said  to  have  been  legible  with- 
in this  century,  and  to  liave  run  thus :  — 

"  Fair  maiden  Lylliard  lies  under  this  stane, 
Little  was  her  stature,  but  great  was  her  fame : 
Upon  the  English  loans  .she  laid  mony  thumps, 
And,  when  her  legs  were  cutted  off,  she  fought 
upon  her  stumps." 

Vide  Account  0/  the  Parish  cf  Melrose. 
It  appears,  from  a  passage  in  Stowe,  that 
an  ancestor  of  Lord  Evers  held  also  a  grant 
of  Scottish  lands  from  an  English  monarch. 
'•  I  have  seen,"  says  the  historian,  "  under  the 
broad-seale  of  the  said  King  Edward  I.,  a 
manor  called  Ketnes,  in  the  county  of  For- 
fare,  in  Scotland,  and  neere  the  furthest  part 
of  the  same  nation  northward,  given  to  John 
Ure  and  his  heires,  ancestor  to  the  Lord  Ure 
tliat  now  is,  for  his  service  done  in  these 
partes,  with  market,  etc.,  dated  at  Lanercost, 
the  2oth  day  of  October,  anno  regis  34." 
Stowe's  Annals,  p.  210.  This  grant,  like 
that  of  Henry,  must  have  been  dangerous  to 
the  receiver. 

Note  2. 

A  coi'ering  on  her  wrist. —  P.  395. 
There  is  an  old  and  well-known  Irish  tra- 
dition that  the  Ixidies  of  certain  spirits  and 
devils  are  scorchingly  hot,  so  that  they  leave 
upon  anything  Ihey  touch  an  impress  as  if 
of  red-hot  iron.  It  is  related  of  one  of  Me- 
lancthon's  relations,  that  a  devil  seized  hold 
of  her  hand,  which  bore  the  mark  of  a  burn 
to  her  dying  day.  The  incident  in  the  poem 
is  of  a  similar  nature  —  the  ghost's  hands 
"  scorch'd  like  a  fiery  brand,"  leaving  a  burn, 
ing  impress  on  the  table  and  the  ladys  wrist. 
.Another  class  of  fiends  are  reported  to  be 
icy  cold,  and  to  freeze  the  skin  of  any  one 
with  whom  they  come  in  contact. 

Note  3. 
That  nun  who  ne'er  beholdstheday.—'?.  395. 
The  circumstances  of  the  nun,  "  who  never 

t  Kirnetable,    now   called    Oinitable,   is    a 
mountainous  tract  at  the  head  of  Douglasdale. 
J  See  Cheiy  Chase. 


•jbo 


APPENDIX. 


saw  the  day,"  is  not  entirely  imaginary. 
About  fifty  years  ago,  an  unfortunate  female 
wanderer  took  up  her  residence  in  a  dark 
vault,  among  the  ruins  of  Dryburgh  Abh)ey, 
which,  during  the  day,  she  never  quitted. 
When  night  fell,  she  issued  from  this  mis- 
erable habitation,  and  went  to  the  house  of 
Mr.  Haliburton  of  Newmains.  tlie  Editor's 
great-grandfather,  or  to  that  of  Mr.  Erskine 
of  Sheilfield,  two  gentlemen  of  the  neighbor- 
hood. From  their  charity  she  obtained  such 
necessaries  as  she  could  be  prevailed  upon 
to  accept.  At  twelve,  each  night,  she  lighted 
her  candle,  and  returned  to  her  vault,  assur- 
ing her  friendly  neighl)ors,  that,  during  her 
absence,  her  habitation  was  arranged  by  a 
spirit,  to  whom  sl»e  gave  tiie  uncontli  name 
of  Fat  li/>s :  describing  him  as  a  little  man. 
Wearing  heavy  iron  shoes,  with  which  he 
trampled  the  clay  floor  of  the  vault,  to  dis- 


pel the  damps.  This  circumstance  caused 
lier  to  be  regarded,  by  the  well-informed,  with 
compassion,  as  deranged  in  her  understand- 
ing ;  and,  by  tlie  vulgar,  with  some  degree 
of  terror.  The  cause  of  her  adopting  this 
extraordinary  mode  of  life  she  would  never 
ex])lain.  It  was,  however,  lielieved  to  have 
been  occasioned  by  a  vow,  that,  during  the 
absence  of  a  man  to  wiiom  she  was  attached, 
she  would  never  look  upon  the  sun.  Her 
lover  never  returned.  He  fell  during  the 
civil  war  of  1745-6,  and  she  never  more 
would  tehold  the  light  of  day. 

'i"he  vault,  or  rather  dungeon,  in  which 
this  unfortunate  woman  lived  and  died,  passes 
still  by  the  name  of  tlic  supernatural  Ix-ing. 
with  which  its  gloom  was  tenanted  hy  her 
disturted  imagination,  and  few  of  the 
neighboring  jieasants  dare  enter  it  by  night. 
—  Note  of  180-!. 


CADYOW    CASTLE. 


Note 


sound  the  prysc .'  —  P.  397. 

Pryse.  —  The  note  blown  at  the  death  of 
the  game.  —  In  Caledonia  olim  frcqucns  erat 
sylvestris  quidani  bos,  nunc  vera  rarior,  qui, 
colore  candidissimo,jubain  dcnsam  ct  dcmis- 
sam,  instar  leonis  j^estat,  irticulentus  ac  ferns 
all  liu}na)io  f^encre  ahltorrens,iit  quircunque 
homines  vclmanihus  contrcctarint,  -'cl  Italiltt 
pcrflavcrint,  ah  its  multos  post  dies  otmiino 
abstiniicrunt.  Ad  hoc  tanta  audacia  huic 
bovi  indita  erat,  nl  non  solum  irritatus  equi- 
tes  furenicr  prosterneret,  sed  ne  tantillum 
laccssitus  onines  froniiscue  homines  corni- 
hus  ac  ungulis  peicret ;  ac  canum,  qui  afud 
nos  fcrocissinii  sunt,  impetus  plane  con- 
temncret.  Ejus  carnes  cartilaginosfc,  sed 
saporis  suavissimi.  Erat  is  olini  per  illam 
vastissimam  CaledonicB  sylvani  frcqucns,  sed 
huniana  int^luvie j am  assumptus  tribus  tan- 
tum  locis  est  reliquus,  Strivilingii,  Cutnbcr- 
naldice,  et  KincarnicB.  —  Leslie  us  Scotiai 
Descriptio,  p.  13. 

Note  2. 
Stern  Claud  replied.  —  P.  398. 
Lord  Claud  Hamilton,  second  son  of  the 
Duke  of  Chatelherault,  and  commendator 
of  the  .Abbey  of  Paisley,  acted  a  distinguished 
part  during  the  troubles  of  Queen  Mary's 
reign,  and  remained  unalterably  attached 
to  the  cause  of  that  unfortunate  princess. 


He  led  the  van  of  her  army  at  the  fatal 
battle  of  Langside,  and  was  one  of  the  com- 
manders at  the  Raid  of  Stirling,  which  had 
so  nearly  given  complete  success  to  the 
Queen's  faction.  He  was  ancestor  Af  the 
present  Marquis  of  Abercorn. 

Note  3. 
Woodhousclee.  —  P.  39S. 
This  barony,  stretching  along  the  banks 
of  the  Esk,  near  Auchendinny,  belonged  to 
Botlnvellhaugh,  in  right  of  his  wife.  The 
ruins  of  the  mansion,  from  which  she  was 
expelled  in  the  brutal  manner  which  occa- 
sioned her  death,  are  still  to  be  seen  in  a 
hollow  glen  teside  the  river.  Popular  re- 
port tenants  them  with  the  restless  ghost 
of  the  Lady  Botlnvellhaugh  :  whom,  however, 
it  confounds  with  L.'idy  .Xnne  Bothwell. 
whose  Lament  is  so  popular.  This  spectre 
is  so  tenacious  of  her  rights,  that,  a  part  of 
the  stones  of  the  ancient  edifice  having  teen 
employed  in  building  or  repairing  the  pres- 
ent Woodhouselee,  slie  has  deemed  it  a  part 
of  her  privilege  to  haunt  that  house  also; 
and,  even  of  very  late  years,  has  excited 
considerable  disturbance  and  terror  among 
the  domestics.  This  is  a  more  remarkable 
vindication  of  the  rights  of  ghosts  as  the 
present  Woodhouselee.  which  gives  his  title 
to  the  Honorable  .Alexander  P'raser  Tytler, 
a  senator  of  the  College  of  Justice,  is  situated 


CADYOW  CASTLE. 


761 


on  the  slope  of  the  Pentland  hills,  distant  at 
least  four  miles  from  her  projx;r  abode.  She 
always  apjxiars  in  white,  and  with  iier  child 
in  her  arms. 

Note  4. 
Drives  to  the  leap  his  jaded  steed.  —  P.  39S. 
Birrel  informs  us,  that  Holhwellhaugh, 
being  closely  pursued,  "  alter  that  spur  and 
wand  had  failed  him,  he  drew  forth  his  dag- 
ger, and  strocke  his  horse  behind,  whilk 
caused  the  horse  to  leaj)  a  very  brode  stanke 
[i.e.,  ditch],  by  whilk  means  he  escapit,  and 
gat  away  from  all  the  rest  of  the  horses." 
—  Bikkel's  Diary,  p.  18. 

Note  5. 
From  the  wild  Border's  humbled  side.  — 

P.  398. 

Murray's   death  took   place  shortly  after 

an  e.xjXKlition  to  the  Borders  ;  which  is  thus 

commemorated  by  the  author  of  the  Elegy :  — 

"  So  having  stabhscht  all  things  in  this  sort, 
'I'liLiddisdaill  again  hu  did  resort, 
Throw   Kwisdail,    Eskdail,  and   all  the  daills 

rode  he. 
And  also  lay  three  nights  in  Cannabic, 
Wliair    na     prince    lay    thir    hundred    yeiris 

before, 
Nae  thief  durst  stir,  they  did  him  feir  sa  sair; 
And,  that  they  suUl  na  mair  thair  tliift  allege, 
Threescore  and   tweU  he  bn^ht  of  thame  in 

pledge. 
Syne  wardit  thame,  whilk  maid  the  rest  keep 

ordour; 
Then   mycht   the   rasch-bus  keep   ky  on   the 

Border." 

Scottish  Poems,  ibth  century,  p.  232. 

Note  6. 
With  hackbut  bent.  —  P.  398. 

Hackbuck  bent — Gun  cock'd.  The  car- 
bine, with  which  the  Regent  was  shot,  is  pre- 
served at  Hamilton  Palace.  It  is  a  brass 
piece,  of  a  middling  length,  very  small  in  the 
bore,  and,  what  is  rather  e.xtraordinary,  ap- 
pears to  have  Ix^n  rifled  or  indented  in  the 
barrel.  It  had  a  matchlock,  for  which  a 
modern  firelock  has  been  injudiciously  sub- 
stituted. 

Note  7. 

The  wild  Macfarlane' s  plaided  clan.  — 
P.  398. 

This  clan  of  I^nnox  Highlanders  were  at- 
tached to  the  Regent  Murray.     Holinshed,   | 
speaking  of  the  battle  of  I.angside.  says,  "  In    j 
this  batyle  the  vallancie  of  an   Heiland  gen- 
tleman,   named    Macfarlane,   stood  the  Re-   I 
gent's  part  in  great  steede  :  for,  in  the  hottest   I 
brunte  of  the  fighte,  he  came  up  with  two    ! 
hundred  of  his  f riendes  and  countrymen,  and 
so  manfully  gave  in  upon  the  tlankes  of  the   1 


Queen's  people,  that  he  was  a  great  cause  of 
the  disordering  of  them.  This  Macfarlane 
had  been  lately  before,  as  I  have  heard,  con- 
demned to  die,  for  some  outrage  by  him 
committed,  and  obtayning  pardon  through 
suyte  of  the  Countess  of  Murray,  he  recom- 
pensed that  clemencie  by  this  jiiece  of  ser- 
vice now  at  this  batayle."  Calderwood's  ac- 
count is  less  favorable  to  the  Macfarlanes. 
He  states  that  "  Macfarlane,  with  his  High- 
landmen,  Hed  from  the  wing  where  they  were 
set.  The  Lord  Lindsay,  who  stood  nearest 
to  them  in  the  Regent's  battle,  said,  '  Let 
them  go  I  1  shall  till  their  place  better ; '  and 
so,  stei)ping  forward,  with  a  company  of  fresh 
men,  charged  the  enemy,  whose  spears  were 
now  spent,  with  long  weapons,  so  that  they 
were  driven  back  by  force,  being  before 
almost  overthrown  by  the  avaunt-guard  and 
harquebusiers,  and  so  were  turned  to  flight." 
—  C.\ldi-;k\v<><ji)'s  MS.  a/ud  Keith,  p. 
4S0.  Melville  mentions  the  flight  of  the  van- 
guard, but  states  it  to  have  been  commanded 
by  Morton,  and  conijHJsed  chiefly  of  com- 
moners of  the  barony  of  Renfrew. 

Note  S. 
Glcncairn  and  stout  Parkhead  were  nigh. 
-P.  398. 
The  Earl  of  Glencairn  was  a  steady  ad- 
herent of  the  Regent.  George  Douglas  of 
Parkhead  was  a  natural  brother  of  the  Earl 
of  Morton,  whose  horse  was  killed  by  the 
same  ball  by  which  Murray  fell. 

Note  9. 

haggard  Lindcsa^s  iron  eye, 

That  saw  fair  Mary  weep  in  vain.  —  P.  398. 
Lord  Lindsay  of  the  Byres  was  the  most 
ferocious  and  brutal  of  the  Regent's  faction, 
and,  as  such,  was  employed  to  extort  Mary's 
signature  to  the  deed  of  resignation  pre- 
sented to  her  in  l.ochleven  castle.  He  dis- 
charged his  commission  with  the  most  savage 
rigor  ;  and  it  is  even  said,  that  when  the 
weeping  captive,  in  the  act  of  signing,  averted 
her  eyes  from  the  fatal  deed,  he  pinched  her 
arm  with  the  grasp  of  his  iron  glove. 

Note  10. 
So  close  the  minions  crowded  nigh.  —  P.  399. 
Not  only  had  the  Regent  notice  of  the  in- 
tended attempt  upon  his  life,  but  even  of  tlie 
very  house  from  which  it  was  threatened. 
With  that  infatuation  at  which  men  wonder, 
after  such  events  have  happened,  he  deemed 
it  would  be  a  sufficient  precaution  to  ride 
briskly  past  the  dangerous  spot.  But  even 
this  was  prevented  by  the  crowd ;  so  that 
Bothwellhaugh  had  time  to  take  deliberate 
aim. — Si'OTTiswooDEjp. 233.    Buchanan. 


762 


APPENDIX. 


THE   GRAY   BROTHER. 


Note  i. 
By  blast  of  bugle  free. —  P.  401. 
The  barony  of  Pennycuik,  the  property 
of  Sir  George  Clerk,  Bart.,  is  held  by  a  sin- 
gular tenure  ;  the  proprietor  being  bound  to 
sit  upon  a  large  rocky  fragment  called  tlie 
IJuckstane,  and  wind  tliree  blasts  of  a  horn, 
when  the  King  shall  come  to  hunt  on  the 
Borough  Muir,  near  Edinburgh.  Hence 
tile  family  have  adopted  as  their  crest  a 
demi-forester  proper,  winding  a  horn,  with 
tiie  motto,  Free  for  a  Blast.  The  beautiful 
mansion-house  of  Pennycuik  is  much  ad- 
mired, both  on  account  of  the  architecture 
and  surrounding  scenery. 

Note  2. 

To  Atichendinny' s  hazel  shade. —  P.  401. 

Auchendinny,  situated  upon  the  Eskc  be- 
low Pennycuik,  the  present  residence  of  the 
ingenious  H.  Mackenzie,  Esq.,  author  of  the 
Man  of  Feeling,  etc.     Edition  1803. 

Note  3. 
Melville'' s  beechy  grove. —  P.  401. 
Melville   Castle,   the    seat   of    the    Right 
Honorable  Lord  Melville,  to  whom  it  gives 
the  title  of  Viscount,  is  delightfully  situated 
upon  the  Eske,  near  Lasswade. 

Note  4. 
Roslin's  rocky  glen.  —  P.  401. 
The  ruins  of  Roslin  Castle,  the  baronial 
residence  of  the  ancient  family  of  St.  Clair. 
The  Gothic  chapel,  wliich  is  still  in  teau- 
tiful  preservation,  with  the  romantic  and 
woody  dell  in  which  they  are  situated,  belong 
to  the  Right  Honorable  the  Earl  of  Rosslyn, 


the  representative  of   the  former  Lords  of 
Roslin. 

Note  5. 
Dalkeith,  ivhick  all  the  Virtues  love.  — 

P.  401. 
Tlie  village  and  Castle  of  Dalkeith  be- 
longed of  old  to  the  famous  Earl  of  Morton, 
but  is  now  the  residence  of  ti\e  noble  family 
of  Buccleuch.  The  park  extends  along  the 
Eske,  which  is  there  joined  by  its  sister 
stream  of  the  same  name. 

Note  6. 
Classic  Haivthornden.  — 401. 

Hawthornden,  the  residence  of  the  poet 
Drunimond.  ,-\  house  of  more  modern  date 
is  enclosed,  as  it  were,  by  the  ruins  of  the 
ancient  castle,  and  overhangs  a  tremendous 
precipice  upon  the  banks  of  the  Eske,  per- 
forated by  winding  caves,  which  in  former 
times  were  a  refuge  to  the  oppressed  patriots 
of  Scotland.  Here  Drummond  received  Ben 
Jonson,  who  journeyed  from  London  on  foot 
in  order  to  visit  him.  The  beauty  of  this 
striking  scene  has  been  much  injured  of 
late  years  by  the  indiscriminate  use  of  the 
axe.  The  traveller  now  looks  in  vain  for  the 
leafy  bower, 

"  Where    Jonson    sat    in    Drummond's    social 
shade." 

Upon  the  whole,  tracing  the  Eske  from 
its  source  till  it  joins  the  sea  at  Mussel- 
burgh, no  stream  in  Scotland  can  boast  such 
a  varied  succession  of  the  most  beautiful 
scenery  —  1S03.  .  .  .  The  beautiful  scenery 
of  Hawthornden  has,  since  the  above  note 
was  written,  recovered  all  its  former  orna- 
ment of  wood — 1S33. 


Note:  P.  459. 
Sir  Walter  Scott,  while  engaged  in  writing 
"  Woodstock,"  noted  in  his  journal,  under 
date  of  March  24,  1826,  that  John  Ballan- 
tyne  was  "clamorous  for  a  motto."  He 
adds  :  "  It  is  foolish  to  encourage  people  to 
expect  mottoes  and  such  like  decoraments. 
You  have  no  success  in  finding  them,  and 
there  is  a  disgrace  in  wanting  them.  It  is 
like  being  in  the  habit  of  showing  feats  of 
strength,  which  you  at  length  gain  praise  by 
accomplishing,  while  sowe  shame  occurs  in 
failure," 


It  was  while  correcting  the  proof-sheets  c*. 
"  The  Antiquary,"  that  he  was  first  led  to 
adorn  the  chapters  of  his  works  with  original 
verse.  Lockhart  thus  described  the  occasion 
of  it  :  — 

"  On  one  occasion  he  happened  to  ask 
John  Ballantyne,  who  was  sitting  by  him,  to 
hunt  for  a  particular  passage  in  Beaumont 
and  Fletcher.  John  did  as  he  was  bid,  but 
did  not  succeed  in  discovering  the  lines. 
'  Hang  it,  Johnnie ! '  cried  .'-^cott,  '  I  i)elieve  I 
can  make  a  motto  sooner  than  you  will  find 
one.'     He  did  so  accordingly,  and  from  tb-jV 


APPENDIX. 


763 


hour,  whenever  memory  failed  to  suggest  an 
appropriate  epigraph,  he  had  recourse  to  the 
inexhaustible  mines  of  '  Old  Play  '  or  '  Old 
Ballad,'  to  which  we  owe  some  of  the  most 
exquisite  verses  that  ever  flowed  from  his 
pen." 

"  Each  blank  in  faithless  memory  void 
The  poet's  glowing  thought  supplied." 

When,  in  1822,  Constable  was  compiling 
a  volume  of  the  poetry  contained  in  Scott's 
Novels,  Tales,  and  Romances  the  author 
wrote  him  :  — 

"  It  is  odd  to  say,  but  nevertheless  quite 
certain,  that  I  do  not  know  whether  some  of 
the  things  are  original  or  not,  and  I  wish 
you  would  devise  some  way  of  stating  this 
in  the  title." 

Constable  finally  adopted  an  explanatory 
note  or  advertisement  written  by  Scott  him- 
self, which  ran  :  — 

''  We  believe  by  far  the  greater  part  of  the 
poetry  interspersed  through  these  novels  to 
be  original  compositions  by  the  author.  At 
the  same  time,  the  reader  will  find  passages 
which  are  quoted  from  other  authors,  and 
very  probably  detect  more  of  these  than  our 
more   limited   reading    has  enabled    us  tr> 


ascertain.  Indeed,  it  is  our  opinion  that 
some  of  the  following  poetry  is  neither  en 
tirely  original  nor  altogether  borrowed  ;  but 
consists,  in  some  instances,  of  passages  from 
other  writers,  which  the  author  has  not  hesi- 
tated to  alter  considerably,  or  to  adapt  the 
quotation  more  explicitly  and  aptly  to  the 
matter  in  hand." 

A  glimpse  of  Scott  in  the  very  act  of  fur- 
nishing one  of  these  extemporized  mottoes 
is  given  in  Lockhart's  Life.  It  was  one  day 
in  December,  1831,  while  visiting  Mr.  Cadell 
in  Edinburgh,  and  saddening  his  friends  by 
his  strange  apathy  and  unwonted  silence, 
the  effects  of  his  malady,  Ballantyne  re- 
minded him  that  a  motto  was  wanted  for 
one  of  the  chapters  of  "  Count  Robert  of 
Paris."  ''  He  looked  out  for  a  moment  at 
the  gloomy  weather,"  says  Lockhart,  and 
penned  the  lines  beginning,  "  The  storm 
increases,  'tis  no  sunny  shower,"  which  he 
entitled,  "  The  Deluge."     (See  p.  536). 

Many  of  Scott's  quotations  have  been  lo- 
cated, and  those  that  are  undoubtedly  the 
work  of  another  author  are  omitted  from 
this  edition.  Whenever  there  is  room  for 
doubt,  quotations  are  inserted. 


INDEX   OF   FIRST   LINES. 


A  CAT  of  yore  (or  else  nid  il^lson  lied),  472. 

Admire  not  that  I  gain'd  the  prize,  5S0. 

Ah!  county  Guy,  the  hour  is  nigh,  515. 

A  grain  of  dust,  526. 

A  Hawick  gill  of  mountain  dew,  506. 

Ah,  poor  L(>uise  !   the  livelong  day,  531. 

Alas!  Alas!  4S5. 

Allen-a-Oale  has  no  fagot  for  burning,  227. 

All  is  prepared  —  the  chambers  of  the  mine,  5J7. 

All  joy  was  bereft  me  the  day  that  you  left  me, 

430. 
All  your  ancient  customs,  50J. 
Amid    these    aisles,   where    once    his    precepts 

show'd,  433. 
A  mightier  wizard  far  than  I,  485. 
A  mirthful  man  he  was  —  the  snows  of  age,  534. 
And  be  he  safe  restored  ere  evening  set,  472. 
And  did  you  not  hear  of  a  mirth  befell,  444. 
And  long  ere  dinner-time  I  have,  529. 
And  ne'er  but  once,  my  son,  he  says,  539. 
And  some  for  safety  took  the  dreadful  leap,  515. 
And  so  'twill  be  when  I  am  gone,  529. 
And  what  tho'  winter  will  pinch  severe,  461. 
And  when    Love's   torch   hath  set  the  heart  in 

flame,  491. 
"And  whither  would  you  lead  me  then?"  244. 
And  you  shall  deal  the  funeral  dole,  499. 
An  hour  with  thee !  —  When  earliest  day,  527. 
Anna-Marie,  love,  up  is  the  sun,  4S0. 
Approach  the  chamber,  look  upon  his  bed,  4S2. 
A  priest,  ye  cry,  a  priest !   Lame  shepherds  they, 

488. 
Arouse  the  tiger  of  Hyrcanian  deserts,  482. 
Arthur's  Seat  shall  be  my  bed,  475. 
Ask  thy  heart,  whose  secret  cell,  485. 
As  lords  their  laborers'  hire  delay,  519. 
Assist  me,  ye  friends  of  Old  Books  and  Old  Wine, 

512. 
As  the  worn  war-horse,  at  the  trumpet's  sound, 

468. 
As,  to  the  Autumn  breeze's  bugle-sound,  476. 
A  tale  of  sorrow,  for  vour  eyes  may  weep,  538. 
At  school   1  knew  him — a  sharp-witted   youth, 

489. 
Ave  Maria'.   Maiden  mild!    150. 
"A  weary  lot  is  thine,  fair  maid,"  226. 
A  weary  month  has  wander'd  o'er,  449. 
Av !  and  I  taught  thee  the  word  and  the  spell, 

484. 
Ay  !  mark  the  matron  well ;  and  laugh  not,  Harry, 

509. 
Ay,  sir,  the  clouted  shoe  hath  ofttimes  craft  in't, 

509. 
Ay,  this  is  he  who  wears  the  wreath  of  bays,  53S> 

"Be  brave,"  she  cried,  "you  yet  may  be  our 
guest,  459. 


"Behold  the  Tiber!"   the  vain  Roman  cried, 

53I- 
Be  patient,  be  patient  ;  for  Patience  hath  power, 

501. 
Between  the  foaming  jaws  of  the  white  torrent, 

537- 
Bilb<w;'s  the  word,  51 1. 
Bingo,  why,  Bingo!  hey,  boy,    -  here,  sir,  here, 

510. 
Birds  of  omen  dark  and  foul,  477. 
Bold  knights  and  fair  dames,  to  ray  harp  give  an 

ear,  411. 
Bring  the  bowl  which  you  boast,  527 
But  follow,  follow  me,  44S. 
By  pathless  march,  by  greenwood  tree,  527. 
By  spigot  and  barrel,  508. 

By  this  good  light,  a  wench  of  matchless  mettle  I 
„     5". 
By  ties  mysterious  link'd,  our  fated  race,  4S6. 

Can  she  not  spoak  ?  514. 

C^auld  is  my  bed,  lx>rd  Arcliibald,  475. 

Champion,  famed  for  warlike  toil,  500. 

Chance  will  not  do  the  work.  —  Chance  sends  the 

breeze,  511. 
Changeful  in  shape,  yet  mightiest  still,  4S5. 
Cockledemoy  !  fxVi. 

Come  forth,  old  man  —  Thy  daughter's  side,  528. 
Come  hither,  young  one  —  Mark  me !     Thou  art 

now,  510. 
Come,  let  me  have  thy  counsel,  for  I  need  it, 

5'7- 
Complain  not  of  me,  child  of  clay,  486. 
Credit  me,  friend,  it  hath  been  ever  thus,  511. 
Cry  the  wild  war-note,  let  the  cliampions  pass, 

538. 

Daring  youth !  for  thee  it  is  well,  485. 

L~)ark  Ahriman,  whom  Irak  still,  523. 

Dark  and  eerie  was  the  night,  475. 

"  Dear  John  —  I  some  time  ago  wrote  to  inform 

his,"  519. 
Death  finds  us  mid  our  playthings  —  snatches  us, 

511. 
Deeds  are  done  on  earth,  528. 
"  Devorgoil,  thy  bright  moon  waneth,"  602. 
Dinas  Emlinn,  lament ;  for  the  moment  is  nigh, 

427- 
Dire  was  his  thought  who  first  in  poison  steep  d, 

471. 
Donald  Caird  can  lilt  and  sing,  473. 
Dust  unto  dust,  481. 
Dwellers  of  the  mountain,  rise,  496. 

Embi-km  of  England's  ancient  faith,  447. 
Enchantress,  farewell,  who  so  oft  liast  decoy'd 
me,  505. 


76s 


766 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


Fair  is  the  damsel,  passing  fair,  531. 
False  love,  and  hast  thou  play'd  nie  this,  445. 
Far  as  the  eye  could  reach  no  tree  was  seen,  471. 
Fare  thee  well,  thou  Holly  green  !  487. 
Farewell!  farewell !  the  voice  you  hear,  499. 
Farewell,  merry  maidens,  to  song  and  to  laugh, 

498. 
Farewell    to    Mackenneth,  great    Earl    of    the 

North,  448. 
Farewell  to  Northmaven,  495. 
Farewell    to  the  land  where  the  clouds  love  to 

rest,  472. 
Far  in  the  bosom  of  the  deep,  441. 
Father  never  started  hair,  608. 
Fathoms  deep  beneath  the  wave,  495. 
For  all  our  men  were  very  very  merry,  519. 
For  leagues  along  the  watery  way,  496. 
"  For  O  my  sweet  William  was  forester  true," 

'57- 
For  the  Colne,  533. 
Fortune,  you  say,  flies  from  us  —  She  but  circles, 

461. 
Frederick  leaves  the  land  of  France,  414. 
From  heavy  dreams  fair  Helen  rose,  403. 
From  Ross,  where  the  clouds  on  Benlomond  are 

sleeping,  470. 
From  the  brown  crest  of  Newark  its  summons 

extending,  453. 
From  the  touch  of  the  tip,  508. 
"  From  thy  Pomeranian  throne,"  360. 
Full  in  the  midst  a  mighty  pile  arose,  515. 

(JAZE  not  upon  the  stars,  fond  sage,  477. 

f 'lentle  sir,  523. 

Give  me  a  morsel  on  the  greensward  rather,  491. 

C'live  me  the  joy  that  sickens  not  the  heart,  535. 

(jive  us  good  voyage,  gentle  stream  —  we  stun 

not,  51 1. 
Give  way  —  give   way  —  I   must   and   will   have 

justice,  510. 
Glowing  with  love,  on  fire  for  fame,  452. 
(jod  protect  brave  Alexander,  458. 
Good  even,  good  fair  moon,  good  even  to  thee, 

474- 
Good  evening.  Sir  Priest,  and  so  late  as  you  ride, 

4S3. 
Go  sit  old  Cheviot's  crest  below,  542. 

Haii.  to  the  Chief  who  in  triumph  advances,  137. 

Jfail  to  thy  cold  and  clouded  beam,  211. 

Hark!   the  bells  summon,  and  the  bugle  calls, 

493- 
Hark  to  the  insult  loud,  the  bitter  sneer,  504. 
"  Hawk  and  osprey  screamed  for  joy,"  362. 
Health  to  the  chieftain  from  his  clansman  true, 

441. 
Hear  what  Highland  Nora  said,  457. 
Heaven  knows  its  time ;  the  bullet  has  its  billet, 

Heighho,  I  can't  say  no,  529. 

He  is  gone  on  the  mountain,  146. 

He  mounted  himself  on  a  coal  black  steed,  491. 

Here  come  we  to  our  close — for  that  which  fol- 
lows, 518. 

Here,  hand  me  down  the  statute  —  read  the  arti- 
cles, 516. 

Here  lies  the  volume  thou  boldly  hast  sought, 
4S5. 

Here's  a  weapon  now,  535. 

Here's  neither  want  of  appetite  nor  mouths,  513. 


Here  is  a  father  now,  476. 

Here  stands  the  victim ;  —  there  the  proud  be- 
trayer, 493. 

Here  we  have  one  head,  528. 

Here,  youth,  thy  foot  unbrace,  536. 

He  strikes  no  coin,  'tis  true,  but  coins  new 
phrases,  489. 

He  walk'd  and  wrought,  poor  soul !    What  then. 

53"- 
He  was  a  fellow  in  a  peasant's  garb,  514. 
He  was  a  man,  492. 

He  was  a  son  of  Egypt,  as  he  told  me,  516. 
Hey  for  cavaliers,  ho  for  cavaliers,  474. 
Hie  away,  hie  away,  445. 
High  deeds  achieved  of  knightly  fame,  478. 
High  feasting  was  there  there  —  the  gilded  roofs, 

5'5- 
High  o'er  the  eastern  steep  the  sun  is  beaming, 

493- 
His  talk  was  of  another  world  —  his  bodements, 

.    53S- 
Hither  we  come,  622. 
Hold    fast    thy    truth,   young    soldier.  —  Gentle 

maiden,  517. 
However,  Madame  Caradori,  535. 
How  fares  the  man  on  whom  good  men  would 

look,  512. 
"  Hurra,  hurra!  our  watch  is  done  !  "  2S2. 

I  AM  as  free  as  Nature  first  made  man,  5  id. 

I   asked   of   my  harp,   "  Who   hath  injured   thy 

chords,"  522. 
I  climb'd  the  dark  brow  of  the  mighty  Helvellyn, 

426. 
I  fear  the  devil  worst  when  gown  and  cassock, 

5'5- 
I  found  them  winding  of  Marcello's  corpse,  482. 
I  glance  like  the  wildfire  thro'  country  and  town, 

474. 
I  grow  vaporish  and  odd,  530. 
I  knew  Anselmo.     He  was  shrewd  and  prudent, 

459- 
"111  fares  the  bark  with  tackle  riven,"  364. 
I'll   give   thee,  good   fellow,  a  twelvemonth   or 

twain,  478. 
I'll  walk  on  tiptoe;  arm  mv  eye  with  caution, 

489. 
I  loll  in  my  chair,  529. 
I'm  Madge  of  the  country,  I'm   Madge  of  the 

town,  475. 
I'm  not  a  King  nor  nae  sic  thing,  529. 
In  awful  ruins  .-Etna  thunders  nigh,  424. 
Indifferent,  but  indifferent  —  pshaw!  he  doth  it 

not,  4S9. 
In  Madoc's  tent  the  clarion  sounds,  522. 
In  respect  that  your  Grace  has  commission'd  a 

Kraken,  443. 
In  some  breasts  passion  lies  conceal'd  and  silent, 

491. 
In  the  bonny  cells  of  Bedlam,  475. 
In  the  wide  pile,  by  others  heeded  not,  471. 
In  the  wild  storm,  490. 

In  yon  lone  vale  his  early  youth  was  bred,  488. 
I  see  thee  yet,  fair  France  —  thou  favor'd  land, 

5,6. 
I  strive  like  the  vessel  in  the  tide-way,  504. 
It  chanced  that  Cupid  on  a  season,  453. 
It  comes  —  it  wrings  me  in  my  parting  hour,  517. 
It  is  and  is  not  —  'tis  the  thing  I  sought  for,  491. 
It  is  not  texts  will  do  it.     Church  artillerj',  490. 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


767 


It  is  the  bonny  butcher  lad,  474. 

It  sticks  like  a  pistol  half  out  of  its  holster,  535. 

It's  useless  to  murmur  and  pout,  529. 

It  was  a  little  naughty  page,  542. 

It  was  an  English  ladye  bright,  42. 

It  was  a  ship,  and  a  ship  of  fame,  502. 

It  was  Dunois,  the  young  and  brave,  was  bound 

for  Palestine,  452. 
I  was  a  wild  and  wayward  boy,  241. 
I  was  one,  534. 

Joy  to  the  victors !  the  sons  of  old  Aspen,  663. 

Kneel  with  me  —  swear  it  —  'tis  not  in  words  I 
:rust,  490. 

Ladies  and  knights,  and  arms,  and  love's  fair 

flame,  471. 
Land  of  the  Gael,  thy  glory  has  flown!  533. 
Late,  when  the  Autumn  evening  fell,  444. 
Let  the  proud  salmon  gorge  the  feathered  hook, 

510. 
I^t  those  go  see  who  will  —  I  like  it  not,  461. 
Life   ebbs   from    such   old    age,   unmark'd    and 

silent,  4'x). 
Life  hath  its  May  ;  and  all  is  mirthful  then,  490. 
Life,  with  you,  460. 
Lochornie  and  Lochornie  moss,  535. 
Look  not  thou  on  beauty's  charming,  476. 
I^ok  on  my  girdle  —  on  this  thread  of  gold,  486. 
Look  round  thee,  young  Astolpho:    Here's   the 

place,  471. 
Lord  William  "was  bom  in  gilded  bower,  357. 
Loud  o'er  my  head  though  awful  thunders  roll, 

424. 
Loughrea  is  a  blackguard  place,  529. 
Love  wakes  and  weeps,  499. 

MacLeod's   wizard   flag   from    the    gray   castle 

sallies,  473. 
Maiden,  whose  sorrows  wail  the  Living  Dead, 

4S6. 
March,  march,  Ettrick  and  Teviotdale,  487. 
Many  a  fathom  dark  and  deep,  4S4. 
Marr\',  come  up,  sir,  with  your  gentle  blood,  512. 
Measurers  of  good  and  evil,  vj3. 
Merrily  swim  we,  the  moon  shines  bright,  482. 
Merry  it  is  in  the  good  greenwood,  154. 
Mid  these  wild  scenes  Enchantment  waves  her 

hand,  526. 
Mortal  warp  and  mortal  woof,  485. 
Mother  darksome.  Mother  dread,  497. 
Must  we  then  sheathe  our  still  victorious  sword, 

526. 
My  banes  are  buried  in  yon  kirk-yard,  475. 
My  dog  and  I  we  have  a  trick,  532. 
My  hawk  is  tired  of  perch  and  hood,  177. 
My  hounds  may  a'  rin  masterless,  462. 
My  tongue  pads  slowly  under  this  new  language, 

528. 
My  wayward  fate  I  needs  must  plain,  433. 

Nay,  dally  not  with  time,  the  wise  man's  treas- 
ure, 488. 

Nay,  hear  me,  brother —  I  am  elder,  wiser,  490. 

Nay,  if  she  love  me  not,  I  care  not  for  her,  461. 

Nay,  I'll  hold  touch :  —  the  game  shall  be  played 
out,  492. 

Nav,  let  me  have  the  friends  who  eat  my  victuals, 
'488. 


Nay,  smile  not,  Lady,  when  I  speak  of  witcfv 

craft,  567. 
Nearest  of  blood  should  still  be  next  in  love,  517. 
Necessity  —  thou  best  of  peacemakers,  514. 
Night  and  morning  were  at  meeting,  450. 
No  after  friendships  e'er  can  raise,  535. 
No  human  quality  is  so  well  wove,  516. 
November's  hail-cloud  drifts  away,  477. 
"  Not  faster  yonder  rowers'  might,"  133. 
Not  serve  two  masters? — Here's  a  youth  will 

try  it,  492. 
No,  sir,  —  I  will  not  pledge ;  —  I'm  one  of  those, 

S'4. 
Now  all  ye  ladies  of  fair  Scotland,  52?. 
Now   bid  the   steeple    rock  —  she    comes,  slic 

comes!  493. 
Now,  Billy  Bewick,  keep  good  lieart,  476. 
Now,  by  Our  Lady,  Sheriff,  'tis  hard  reckoning, 

489. 
Now  change    the  scene  and   let  the  trumpets 

sound,  526. 
Now  choose   thee,  gallant,  betwixt  wealth  and 

honor,  489. 
Now  have  you  reft  me  from  my  staff,  my  guide, 

491. 
Now,  hoist  the  anchor,  mates,  and  let  the  siils, 

5M- 
Now  let  us  sit  in  conclave.    That  these  weeds, 

488. 
Now  on  my  faith  this  gear  is  all  entangled,  ^-ya. 
Now  Scot  and  English  are  agreed,  509. 

O  AY !  the  Monks,  the  Monks,  they  did  the  mis- 
chief, 48S. 

O  Bessy  Bell  and  Mary  Gray,  502. 

O,  Brignall's  banks  arc  wild  and  fair,  223. 

O,  dread  was  the  time,  and  more  dreadful  the 
omen,  440. 

Of  all  the  birds  on  bush  or  tree,  492. 

O  for  a  glance  of  that  gay  Muse's  eye,  462. 

O  for  the  voice  of  tliat  wild  horn,  470. 

Of  yore,  in  old  England,  it  was  not  thought  good, 
520. 

Oh  fear  not,  fear  not,  good  Lord  John,  523. 

O  hone  a  rie' !     O  hone  a  rie' !  388. 

O  hush  thee,  my  baby,  thy  sire  was  a  knight,  454. 

Oh  you  would  be  a  vestal  moid,  I  warrant,  517. 

O,  I  do  know  him,  'tis  the  mouldy  lemon,  Sf>> 

O,  I'm  come  to  the  Low  Country,  530. 

O,  Lady,  twine  no  wreath  for  me,  239. 

O  Land  of  Cakes !  said  the  Northern  bard,  529. 

O  listen,  listen,  ladies  gay!  44. 

O  lovers'  eyes  are  sharp  to  see,  430. 

O,  low  shone  the  sun  on  the  fair  lake  of  Toro, 
429. 

O,  maid  of  isia,  from  the  cliff,  505. 

Once  again,  —  but  how  changed  since  my  waiw 
d'rings  began,  455. 

On  Ettrick  Forest's  mountains  dim,  504. 

On  Hallow-Mass  Eve,  ere  yon  boime  ye  to  rest, 

445- 
On  the  lea-beam  lies  the  land,  boys,  518. 
"  O  open  the  door,  some  pity  to  show,"  429. 
O,  sadly  shines  the  morning  sun,  522. 
O,  say  not,  my  love,  with  that  mortified  air,  437. 
O  sleep  ye  sound.  Sir  James,  she  said,  474. 
O  tell  me.  Harper,  wherefore  flow,  438. 
Our  counsels  waver  like  the  unsteady  bark,  517. 
Our  vicar  still  preaches  that  Peter  and  Poule,  171. 
Our  work  is  over  —  over  now,  475. 


768 


INDEX   Or   FIJiST  LINES. 


Over  the  mountains,  and  under  the  waves,  504. 
O,  who  rides  by  night  thro'  the  woodland  so  wild  .■' 

423- 
O,  will  ye  hear  a  myrthful  bourd  ?  542. 
O,  will  you  hear  a  knightly  tale  of  old  Bohemian 

day?  418. 
O,  young  Lochinvar  is  come  out  of  the  west,  96. 

Paintbrs   show   Cupid    blind  —  Hath    Hymen 

eyes?  516. 
Parental  love,  my  friend,  has  power  o'er  wisdom, 

504. 
"  Patience  waits  the  destined  day,"  380. 
Pibroch  of  Donuil  Dhu,  456. 
Plain,  as  her  native  dignity  of  mind,  476. 
Poor  sinners  whom  the  snake  deceives,  502. 
Proud  Maisie  is  in  the  wood,  475. 

"Quake  to  your  foundations  deep,"  286. 

Rash  adventurer,  bear  thee  back  I  282. 

Rash  thy  deed,  485. 

Red  glows  the  forge  in  Striguil's  bounds,  428. 

Remorse  —  she  ne'er  forsakes  us,  460. 

Rescue  or  none,  Sir  Knight,  I  am  your  captive, 

516. 
Ring  out  the  merry  bell,  the  bride  approaches, 

522. 
Robm  Rover,  502. 
Rove  not  from  pole  to  pole ;  the  man  lives  here, 

511. 

St.  Magnus  control  thee,  that  martyr  of  treason, 

499- 
Say  not  my  art  is  fraud  —  all  live  by  seeming, 

482. 
See  the  treasures  Merlin  piled,  283. 
See  yonder  woman,  whom  our  swains  revere,  503. 
She  comes !     She  comes !  in  all   the  charms  of 

youth,  537. 
She  does  no  work  by  halves,  yon  raving  ocean, 
<      503-  .    „  , 

'  She  may  be  fair,     he  sang,  "  but  yet,"  364. 
She  who  sits  by  haunted  well,  501. 
Since  here  we  are  set  in  array  round  the  table, 

431- 
Soft  spread  the  southern  summer  night,  450. 
So  good  bye,  Mrs.  Brown,  529. 
Soldier,  rest !   thy  warfare  o'er,  131. 
Soldier,  wake  —  the  day  is  peeping,  52 1 . 
Some  better  bard  shall  sing  in  feudal  state,  515. 
Son  of  a  witch,  528. 
"  Son  of  Honor,  theme  of  story,"  285. 
So  sung  the  old  Bard,  in  the  grief  of  his  heart, 

448. 
So  there  ends  the  tale,  535. 
Sound,  sound  the  clarion,  fill  the  fife !  462. 
So,  while  thq   Goose,  of  whom  the  fable   told, 

460. 
"  Speak  not  of  niceness  when  there's  chance  of 

wTeck,''  515. 
Staffa,  sprung  from  high  Macdonald,  440. 
Stem  eagle  of  the  far  north-west,  494. 
Stem  was  the  law  which  bade  its  votaries  leave, 

482. 
Still    in   his    dead    hand    clench'd   remain    the 

strings,  460. 
Strange  ape  of  man  !  who  loathes  thee  while  he 

scorns  thee,  537. 
"  Summer  eve  is  gone  and  past,"  238. 


Sweet  shone  the  sun  on  the  fair  lake  of  Toro, 
664. 

Take  these  flowers  which,  purple  waving,  425. 

Take  thou  no  scorn,  487. 

Tell  me  not  of  it,  friend  —  when  the  young  weep, 

,  459- 
Tell  me  not  of  it  —  I  could  ne'er  abide,  534. 
That  day  of  wrath,  that  dreadful  day,  47. 
That's  right,  friend  —  drive   the  gaitlings  back. 

The  Baron  of  Smaylho'me  rose  with  day,  392. 
The  course  of  human  life  is  changeful  still,  514. 
The   deadliest   snakes   are   those   which   twined 

'mongst  flowers,  528. 
The  Druid  Urien  had  daughters  seven,  369. 
The  elfin  knight  sate  on  the  brae,  474. 
The  forest  of  Glenmore  is  drear,  426. 
The  (jordon  then  his  bugle  blew,  514. 
The  heath  this  night  must  be  my  bed,  148. 
The  hearth  in  hall  was  black  and  dead,  476. 
The  herring  loves  the  mern-  moon-light,  458. 
The  hottest  horse  will  oft  be  co.jl,  481. 
The  hour  is  nigh  :   now  hearts  beat  high,  53  r. 
The  king  call'd  down  his  merry  men  all,  523. 
The  knight's  to  the  mountain,  445. 
The  last  of  our  steers  on  our  board  has  been 

spread,  536. 
The  L/ord  Abbot  had  a  soul,  459. 
The  monk  must  arise  when  the  matins  ring,  476. 
The  moon's  on  the  lake,  and  the  mist's  on  the 

brae,  457. 
The  news  has  flown  frae  mouth  to' mouth,  505. 
Then  in  my  gown  of  sober  gray,  489. 
Then  she  stretch'd  out  her  lily  hand,  475. 
The  parties  met.     The  wily,  wordy  Greek,  537. 
The  Pope   he  was  saying  the  high,  high  mass, 

400. 
There  are  times,  531. 
There  came  tliree  merry  men  from  south,  west, 

and  north,  481. 
There  is  mist  on  the  «nonntain,  and  night  on  the 

vale,  446. 
There  must  be  goveiament  in  all  society,  517. 
There's  a  bloodhound  ranging  Tinwald  Wood, 

'*74- 
There's  something  in  that  ancient  superstition, 

4S8. 
There  was  shaking  of  hands,  and  sorrow  of  heart, 

503- 
The  sacred  tapers'  lights  are  gone,  490. 
These  be  the  adept's  doctrines  —  every  element, 

534- 
These  were  wild  times  —  tlie  antipodes  of  ours, 

537- 
The  sky  is  clouded,  Gaspard,  491. 
The  sound  of  Rokeby's  woods  1  hear,  243. 
The  storm  increases  • —  'tis  no  sunny  shower,  536. 
The  sun  is  rising  dimly  red,  495. 
The  sun  upon  the  lake  is  low,  574. 
The  sun  upon  the  Weirdlaw  hill,  468. 
The  tears  I  shed  must  ever  fall !   527. 
"The  toils  are  pitch'd,  and  the  stakes  are  set," 

.58. 
The  violet  in  her  green-wood  bower,  425. 
The  way  is  long,  my  children,  long  and  rough, 

538. 
The  Wildgrave  winds  his  bugle  horn,  408. 
The  wind  blew  keen  frae  north  and  east,  503. 
The  wisest  sovereigns  err  like  private  men,  493. 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  IINES. 


769 


They  saw  that  city  welcoming  the  Rhine,  534. 
Things   needful  we   have   thought  on ;   but  the 

thing,  509. 
This  is  a  gentle  trader,  and  a  prudent,  503. 
This  is  a  lecturer  so  skill'd  in  policy,  516. 
This  is  a  love-meeting  ?   See  the  maiden  mourns, 
^.  5.14- 
This  is  He,  402. 
This  is  no  pilgrim's  morning  —  yon  gray  mist, 

502. 
This  is  rare  news  thou  tell'st  me,  my  good  fellow, 

493- 
Tlus  is  some  creature  of  the  elements,  514. 
This  is  the  Prince  of   Leeches;   fever,  plague. 

This  is  the  time  — heaven's  maiden-sentinel,  511. 

This  is  the  very  barnyard,  510. 

This,  Sir,  is  one  among  the  Seignory,  509. 

This  superb  successor,  536. 

This  way  lies  safety  and  a  sure  retreat,  512. 

Thou  liast  -each  secret  of  the  household,  Francis, 

490. 
This  is  the  day  when  the  fairy  kind,  485. 
Those  evening  clouds,  that  setting  ray,  424. 
Though  right  be  aft  put  down  by  strength,  439. 
Thou,  so  needful,  vet  so  dread,  500. 
Thou,  that  over  billows  dark,  501. 
Thou  who  seek'st  my  fountain  lone,  487. 
Thrice  to  the  holly  brake,  484. 
Thro'  the  kirkyard,  474. 
Thy  craven  fear  my  truth  accused,  4S4. 
Thy  hue,  dear  pledge,  is  pure  and  bright,  461. 
Thy  time  is  not  yet  out  —  the  devil  thou  servest, 

.,..  5'7-    , 

'lis  a  challenge.  Sir,  is  it  not?  514. 
' Tis  a  weary  life  this,  491. 

'Tis  not  alone  the  scene  —  the'man,  Anselmo,  502. 
Tis  not  her  sense  — for  sure,  in  that,  526. 
'Tis  strange  that,  in  the  dark  sulphureous  mine, 
,    .    S37- 
Tis  the  black  ban-dog  of  our  jail.     Pray  look  on 

him,  515. 
'Tis  when  the  wound  is  stiffening  with  the  cold, 

489. 
'Tis  sweet  to  hear  expiring  Summer's  sigh,  433. 
Toll,  toll  the  bell,  535. 
Too  much  rest  is  rust,  522. 
To  horse  !  to  horse  !  the  standard  flies,  425. 
To   the    Lords   of    Convention  'twas   Claver'se 

who  spoke,  600. 
To  youth,  to  age,  alike,  this  tablet  pale,  535. 
True  Thomas  lay  on  Huntlie  bank,  382. 
Trust  me,  each  state  must  have  its  policies,  482. 
'Twas   All-souls'  eve,  and  Surrey's   heart  beat 

high,  43. 
'Twas  a  Marechal  of  France,  and  he  fain  would 

honor  gain,  437. 
'Twas  near  the  fair  city  of  Benevent,  524. 
'Twas  time  and  griefs,  461. 
"Twas  when  among  our  linden-trees,  416. 
'Twas  when  fleet   Snowball's   head  was  woxen 

gray,  510. 
Twist  ye,  twine  ye !  even  so,  454. 

Up  in  the  air,  474. 

Uprose  the  sun  o'er  moor  and  mead,  530. 

Vain  man,  thou  may'st  esteem  thy  love  as  fair, 

537- 
Viewless  Essence,  thin  and  bare,  532. 


Wakek,  lords  and  ladies  gay,  431. 

Want  you  a  man,  535. 

Wasted,  weary,  wherefore  stay,  454. 

We  are  not  worse  at  once  —  the  course  of  evil, 

512. 
We  do  that  in  our  zeal,  528. 
We  know  not  when  we  sleep  nor  when  we  wake, 

S34. 
Welcome,  grave  Stranger,  to  our  green  retreats, 

434- 
We'll  keep  our  customs; — what  is  law  itself. 


n 


Well,  then,  our  course  is  chosen ;  spread  the  sail, 

49J. 
Well,  well,  at  worst  'tis  neither  theft  nor  coinage, 

460, 
We  love  the  shrill  trumpet,  we  love  the  drum's 

rattle,  577. 
We  meet,  as  men  see  phantoms  in  a  dream,  514. 
We  meet  as  shadows  in  the  land  of  drcims,  517. 
Were  ever  two  such  loving  friends !  530. 
Were  every  hair  upon  his  head  a  life,  526. 
Wert  thou  like  me  in  life's  low  vale,  478. 
What  brave  chief  shall  head  the  forces,  523. 
What  did  ye  wi'  the  bridal  ring — bridal  ring  — 

bridal  ring  ?  474. 
What   ho,   my   jovial    mates !    come  on !    we'll 

frolic  it,  503. 
Wliat  makes  the  troopers'  frozen  courage  muster, 

672. 
What,  man,  ne'er  lack  a  draught,  when  the  full 

can,  493. 
What  sheeted  ghost   is  wandering  through  the 

storm?  518. 
What  stir,  what  turmoil  have  we  for  the  nones? 

492. 
Wheel  the  wild  dance,  451. 
When  beauty  leads  the  lion  in  her  toils,  526. 
"  Whence  the  brooch  of  burning  gold,"  299. 
When  fruitful  Clydesdale's  apple  bowers,  539. 
When  I  hae  a  saxpence  under  my  thumb,  490. 
When  Israel,  of  the  Lord  beloved,  480. 
When  princely  Hamilton's  abode,  396. 
When  Princes  meet,  astrologers  may  mark  it,  517. 
When  seven  years  more  were  come  and  gone,  385. 
When  seven  years  were  come  and  gane,  384. 
When  the  gledd's  in  the  blue  cloud,  474. 
When  the  heathen  trumpet's  clang,  468. 
When  the  lone  pilgrim  views  afar,  469. 
When  the  tempest's  at  the  loudest,  587. 
When  with  Poetry-  dealing,  521. 
Wherefore  come  ye  not  to  court?  5091 
Where  is  he?    Has  the  deep  earth  swallowed 

him?  538. 
Where  shall  the  lover  rest,  75. 
Whet  the  bright  steel,  479. 
While  the  dawn  on  the  mountain  was  misty  and 

gray,  242. 
Wlio  is  he?  —  One  that  for  the  lack  of  land,  459. 
Why,  now  I  have  Dame  Fortune  by  the  forelock, 

477- 
"  Why  sit'st  thou  bv  that  ruin'd  luill,"  458. 
Why,  then,  we  will  have  bellowing  of  beeves, 

5'3- 
"  Why  weep  ye  by  the  tide,  ladie?'    455. 
Will  you  hear  of  a  Spanish  I  jdy,  53S. 
Within  that  awful  volume  lies,  4S4. 
Within  the  bounds  of  Annandale,  531. 
Without   a    ruin,    broken,    tangled,   cumbrous, 

537- 


770 


INDEX   OF  FIRST  LINES. 


"  Woe  to  the  vanquish'd  !  "  was  stern  Brenno's 

word,  472. 
Woman's  faith,  and  woman's  trust,  521. 

Ves,  it  is  she  whose  eyes  looked  on  thy  child- 
hood, 491. 

Ves!  I  love  Justice  well  —  as  well  as  you  do, 
460. 

Yes,  life  hath  left  him  —  every  busy  thought,  489. 

Yes,  thou  mayst  sigh,  532. 

Von  patch  of  greensward,  528. 


You  call  it  an  ill  angel  —  it  may  be  so,  489.  ] 

You  call  this  education,  do  you  not?  488. 
Young  men  will  love  thee  more  fair  and  more 

fast,  445.  ] 

Your  suppliant,  by  name,  508.  ] 

Youth  of  tlie  dark  eye,  wherefore  didst  thou  caH'< 

me?  484.  \ 

You  shall  have  no  worse  prison  than  my  chamx 

ber,  514.  1 

You  talk  of  Gayety  and  Innocence,  526.  1 

Youth !  thou  wear  St  to  manhood  now,  490-  ' 


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